Chapter Twelve: The Gold Dunes

The Legion plunges into the desert, and the Five Companions aren't far behind.

Ragh jumped out of the horse’s saddle. It still unsteadied him to be near the strange things, but he felt he was making leeway with them. It didn’t help that the damned thing seemed to be mocking him with its droll, disinterested stare every time he walked by. He took the offered lists from the scribe’s hands, breaking the seal and unfurling the scroll. He grimaced as he read the total casualty count. Over two hundred, with one-hundred thirty seven wounded- mostly burns, somehow- and the remaining eighty-three dead. A terrible waste. As much as he knew this was a part of war, it hurt a little to know that so many had died for him.

No, not just for him. For the cause. For the War. He thanked the scribe and walked back into the main clearing. The Legion had made camp a few days outside of the city, and they were making the final preparations to set forth once more. Men were carting food, arms and armor about, bringing them to the caravans. The caravans worked much better when driven by horse, rather than by the soldiers. Still, the mighty beasts were temperamental, but the caravan drivers had adapted well, learning how to use them far better than Ragh had.
“How goes the riding?” Otral said with a grin. Ragh scowled and shot his friend a sarcastic smile. The lieutenant laughed to himself as Ragh took a seat next to him. The commanders’ tent had already been taken down, but the servants had left the stools for them to sit on. Or at least enough stools for the survivors to sit on. The other two- Ondrich’s and Irra’s- had been burned. No need to remind the remaining three commanders of their losses unnecessarily, and no need to take up caravan space with comforts for dead men.
At least, Ragh hoped they were dead. They had gone into that base with him, but they, unlike Otral and Galas, had never come out. The prince hoped the mazak had been merciful, but he doubted it. They would need prisoners and information, two things Ondrich and Irra could do for them. It wasn’t so much for the protection of the army that Ragh hoped they were dead. He just knew it was better than the alternative.
Galas was directing the workflow. As idiotic as Otral claimed he was, the men seemed to like him, and he was a good tactician. His size and strength belied a wisdom that Ragh had only noticed since the assault on the city, the one whose name Ragh had since learned was Arkaius.
Things were very different than what Ragh had expected them to be. The strangest thing was the suns, or rather, their count. Everything he’d ever heard claimed there were three, but when he gazed up into the sky- another strange thing, looking up and seeing something bright that hurt his eyes rather than darkness- he could see two shining orbs. And another was the flora. In the Deep, everything was stony and cold. Here, with the changing weather and the soil that felt alive, there was vegetation other than moss and the occasional herb or flower. There were entire fields of grass, stretching further than Ragh could see. It had looked to him, at first, like it went on forever. But now they were reaching the end of the grasslands, and the area the Legion would be plunging into by the end of the day was in sight, and it was a much more familiar sight to Ragh than the one he’d gotten when he’d mounted Arkaius’ tall, stone walls. This was a barren land, where nothing grew. Before they’d stopped, the grasses had become more and more patchy, appearing less frequently. Now they were on the border of a great wasteland, and the suns felt hotter now. Not only that, but it really looked like a border, like something on a map. There was a straight line whether the plants stopped and the wastes began, and not far after that, the sand. Sand was something Ragh could understand well enough. From the way it felt, it was like tiny, ground up rocks, like smaller gravel. The wasteland in front of him might even feel like home. He scowled and stood.
“You all right?” Otral asked. Ragh nodded.
“I’m just going to see if the scouts have gotten back.” They’d likely report to the main war tent, which would also be the last thing to be pulled down. As he walked through the camp, he heard people cheer as he passed, some people yelling his name and others just chanting Rising sun, rising sun, again and again. His sigil was all over the camp, just as it had been all over the army. Banners showing the red half-sun had been erected everywhere, and just like their armor, the soldiers’ uniforms, which each had been outfitted with, were embroidered with it. The men had taken to it, Ragh could see.
The war tent was large. It was twice if not thrice Ragh’s height, and as wide as a small house. Ragh had been right. The scouts who had returned had come here first. Only three were in the tent of the fifteen Ragh had sent out, but others could still be out in the wastes. When he approached, they saluted quickly and knelt.
“My lord,” one said with reverence. Ragh gestured for them to stand.
“What did you find?”
“It goes on for miles, my lord. I rode for three days and I never saw the end of it, and it’s blazing hot. Worse than home, my lord.” Ragh nodded and took a seat in one of the nearby chairs. He told the scouts to sit, too, and they did.
“Rest as long as much as you can. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them I gave you express permission. We’re leaving in three hours.”

As usual, Ragh led the march with Otral and Galas. They entered the wasteland right on schedule, and they quickly discovered that the scouts hadn’t exaggerated its heat. Hours before night had fallen, Ragh gave the men permission to take off their uniforms and use them as head coverings, their horns poking out from the folds of the dyed-black material. Even that wasn’t enough to relieve them of the heat, and they took many breaks. Ragh’s goal had been to get to the next Gate by the end of the week, but it seemed that at the pace they were moving, they wouldn’t find it before three weeks at least had passed. But as the days passed, they slowly made their way, seeing nothing more than sand dunes for days on end. Occasionally, they would pass small camps of mazak. It hadn’t taken much to subdue even the largest groups of them. The biggest pack had numbered twenty-three, and Ragh and Otral, as well as ten of their best fighters, had taken them down without much trouble. Whenever they ran across the mazak, they executed them at sunset.

Ragh stood behind the kneeling men. Their arms and legs were bound, their weapons stripped of them. He had released one of them to spread the word of their arrival. He had no worries about the state of their enemies’ readiness, because he knew the Legion’s men- the best of the best, handpicked by himself- could defeat them, based on what Otral had dragged out of them. Kyre, the name of their destination, it seemed, was significantly smaller than Arkaius, but with a good number more Stormfires.

Ragh had the released prisoner branded with the rising sun, leaving a painful red mark, and the man had staggered off quickly. The rest, however, would receive no mercy. Ragh drew Slepkava slowly. “Do you have any last words?” he asked them. Most shook their heads, but one spoke up, asking a simple question.

“What are you?” he whimpered. Ragh walked around the kneeling man, moving low and balancing on the balls of the feet. His grey eyes looked into the man’s own brown ones.

“What?” he asked, voice icy cold. The man closed his eyes tightly.

“Please don’t kill me. I have a son,” he said. Ragh laughed and stood. He turned to the gathered soldiers, raising Slepkava as a dagger and extending it in a flash.

“He’s asked me not to kill him. He says he’s got a son.” The men were quiet, but their faces betrayed their disgust. Ragh glanced over his shoulder at the man. “I never knew mazak were so lacking in honor. I hope the selae and the daronu still cling to their false pride, because it seems the rylial have given up on it!” He turned back to the prisoner. The bound man was crying now, but he was trying to bite back the tears.

“Do you know what mazak means, you b*****d?” he growled. A shake of the head told him no. “It means liar. Because you’re all a bunch of liars. Liars, and pretenders, and hypocrites. When I was a boy, I might have trusted you, but I know the world far more than you’d expect. I know what my people deserve. We deserve all this.” In one quick motion, he stood and swung his sword, cleaving down through the prisoner’s neck. With a hearty thump, the body and head fell to the hard-packed sand as one. Ragh could feel the head roll onto his heel, and he raised it into the air, along with Slepkava’s bloodied blade.

“We will take it all,” he promised them.

Within minutes of his first steps into the wide Brymian Desert, Leogun could feel the true heat of the suns. It was nothing like Northern summer, which was often dry- at least in comparison to the suffocating humidity he found sucking the life out of him. Alaire and Pychi shared his trouble with the climate, but Taisa and Falyn fared perfectly well. In truth, they seemed more at home there than they had in Arkaius.

Taisa led the small group with the map in her hand, charting her way across the desert like a sailor maps the sea, weaving across dunes and through the small valley-like depressions that were scattered about. There were ruins everywhere, perhaps relics of the Old Days or even simply old Brymian homes and cities. Whichever one didn’t matter to Taisa, as she calmly used them to direct them on the proper course to the temple. When she looked at them, her face was devoid of awe, unlike Leogun’s. They were strange, so classically Brymian and so different from the North’s old constructs. These were made of thick stone, or even alabaster in some of the more recent ones. Many shared the pillar structure, with a triangular roof, that the embassy had had, before the Fell had torn them down. Not many of the ruins were in any better shape. For the most part, they lacked complete roofs or walls or pillars. A good number had collapsed in on themselves in years past.

They made camp early in the day. With winter approaching, the suns were setting quickly, providing the less heat-adjusted travellers with an excuse to set up camp earlier than they might have in more temperate climates. They had brought no tents, something Taisa had assured them was a good choice. Leogun was inclined to agree. The tents would be absolutely stifling. Instead, they set up their bedrolls in a circle around the fire. Leogun personally made sure it was Taisa who set it. Pychi had convinced them that with a Stormfire and a Flameweaver on hand, there was no need to use his own matches and fire kits, despite Leogun’s arguments otherwise.

Since the battle in Arkaius, he had managed to avoid using the fire. The voices had been getting worse after the battle, rising up at a moment’s notice and without the slightest provocation, but they had settled down again quickly. Now they mostly commented on the occasional interesting views of the desert. What unnerved Leogun most was how content they seemed. Unlike him, who found every moment uncomfortable and irritating, they seemed just as much at home as the Brymian woman and the selae who lay asleep across the quickly-dug fire pit from Leogun. He remembered more of the visions he’d had when he’d first found the man in the cellar, ones of armies marching across the dunes that Leogun lay on at that moment. It shook him a little to have memories of something he’d never seen.

He rose from the campsite after the fire burned out. It was unexpectedly cold there at night, much colder than it was in Arkaius and much of Sempet and Deharl. His heart swelled as he emerged over the edge of the sand dune, the vision of the moon grabbing his eyes.

The voices faded away, the din dissipating as he stood there.

“There!” Taisa said as they mounted the crest of yet another sand dune. She pointed across the sands to the looming stone temple about a half a mile away. It was tall, and made of light beige sandstone. The emblem of the Stormfires marked its walls, an artist’s representation of the Stormfire itself, a great ball of fire wrapped in mist and with a bolt of white lightning jutting from its tip. Taisa skidded down the dune and began to run towards it.
“Wait up!” Pychi yelled angrily, his short legs straining to keep up as the others followed behind her. “It’s been there for hundreds of damnable years, it’s not going to go away now!” Finally, the five arrived at the heavy granite doors. They, too, had the Stormfire painted on them, and stood around fifty feet tall. Leogun marveled at them, confused as to why anyone had bothered to build something so big. The Sanctuary atop Mount Aghi had doors about the same height, yes, but it was said that Ivar had built it himself, using the great strength the High One had given him.
“How exactly are we supposed to get in?” Alaire asked after a moment of quiet wonder. Taisa blinked a few times, looking around for something to push it open with. She returned within a minute, a frustrated look on her face.
“That may be a problem,” she grumbled. She handed Leogun her pack, shrugging it off her shoulders and pushing it into his arms, sending his staff falling into the sand. “I’ve got an idea.” Slipping her blue ring onto the ring finger of her right hand, she cracked her knuckles and took a stance that reminded Leogun of the ones Asmund would teach his students to use. “You might want to step back, I’m not very good at this.” She exhaled and pushed out with her hands. White mist swirled through the air like sand on the wind, gathering around her fists and then spreading out again, covering more and more of the doors with each second.
“By the High One...” Leogun whispered as she leaned in. The doors began to rumble, moving inward slightly under the weight of the strange fog. Taisa gritted her teeth with exertion as she dug her feet in further, Pychi quickly rushing to her side to keep her standing as they began to move in faster. When they finally slammed into position, the magi swooned, stumbling but not falling.
“What was that?” Alaire asked in awe. Taisa sat down in the sand, pushing up a small cloud as she breathed heavily. Falyn and Pychi moved into the table while she recovered.
“The Stormfires, Alaire,” she said, “have access to small quantities of the gods’ power. Amahdin, He Who Covers All, allows us to use his control over mist to create. What we create is our choice.” She stopped, looking for a second like she was about to vomit. “It, even more than the other two, is our greatest tool outside of battle.” She gurgled and spat on the ground as she rose. “For which reason I’ve never really bothered to learn how to use it properly.” Leogun whistled.
“If that wasn’t using it properly, I’m not sure I’d even want to see what would be.” As Taisa leaned on his staff, which she’d pulled from his grip, she smirked.
“Neither do your brethren, Northerner. I’m sure they got enough of a taste in the Wars.” Leogun chuckled.
There was little light in the temple, most of it from the doorway, but even in the dim light Leogun could see that it had at least two levels. The air smelled stale, and it felt moist, like an old book. Taisa quickly ignited her own fire, giving Leogun the cue to start his own. As it burst to life above his head, he faltered. He hadn’t even thought about using it. Shivering at the thought, he moved further in. Falyn and Pychi stood just at the edge of the wide ring of light he’d created, walking slowly to keep up with him.
“Asmundvard, would you mind moving a little faster?” Pychi asked pointedly. “There’s something at the back here. Picking up his pace, Leogun walked briskly, catching up with them and meeting Taisa and Alaire at the stone tablet that formed the temple’s wall. Something had been carved into it, so tall and wide Leogun couldn’t make it out, even in the combined light of his and Taisa’s fires.
“I think this is what we need,” Taisa whispered. “I think I can see something.” She squinted, and Leogun could see Falyn glance around in the corner of his eyes as he, too, examined it. The swordsman quickly spun away from the tablet, reaching for his swords.
“Get down!” he howled, slamming into Taisa and Alaire and pushing them to the ground. Leogun turned, every instant feeling like an entire minute, as he saw a shape illuminated in the darkness for no more than a second. There was a flash, revealing a tall man-shaped figure, and it quickly turned to a thin streak of red as it shot towards them. Leogun pushed Pychi to the ground, falling over the short man and rolling onto the ground as there was a deafening boom. Another one echoed it an instant later, a fiery explosion destroying the stone wall and blasting the five away from it.
All Leogun could hear was ringing, and dust filled the air as he got to his feet. He felt woozy, and his head pounded as the voices sprang to life again, screaming in his ears. Running his hand over his face and fumbling on the ground for his staff, he tried to get his bearings. Everything was chaos, nothing seeming sensible until Pychi stumbled out of the fog towards him. The daronu held his greatsword in his hand, and his face was pale. His dark hair was ruffled, the tip of his well-cut beard fraying and his hair standing up. He mouthed something, but Leogun still couldn’t hear it, the ringing reigning over all his senses. He couldn’t concentrate, instead forcing his eyes shut and trying to banish the voices. Slowly, the buzz of both faded, and his head had stopped hurting enough to let him hear what Pychi was saying.
“... ou all right, Asmundvard?” he asked, care evident in his voice. Leogun nodded, and Pychi turned away from him. Leogun staggered after him, and they emerged from the dust cloud to see Taisa slinging white bolts again and again at the upper level, thunder filling the room.
“Where is he?” Leogun asked as he approached. Pychi dashed away from the two, mounting the stairs quickly. Taisa’s dark eyes scanned the upper level as she kept punching the air, the blasts erupting from her hands as she did.
“No idea. I’m just hoping I hit him and not Aenda.” Leogun strained, looking for the man himself. Falyn was definitely up there, his shape different from the man’s own, thinner and shorter, Leogun guessed, and wielding a pair of curved swords. Even with that certainty, it was hard for him to say for sure what was going on. Another red blast appeared, a burst of crimson fire spreading down one of the balcony hallways as Falyn leaped back quickly, taking care to stay away from the heat. The inferno nipped at his tunic and trousers, catching for a second before vanishing. Behind the fire, a man stood, only perhaps an inch or two shorter than Leogun. He wore a long black coat, open to reveal his gaunt, shirtless chest, falling just past his knees, and a long sword hanging from a strap on his back, looking Deharlean. The man seemed mad, his hair dishevelled and his skin pale like a ghost. Falyn wove around the shots of fire the man- likely a mageborn- was sending his way. When the fires stopped coming for a second, Falyn braced his legs on the wall, dashing along it quickly and leaping off it towards his attacker, blades swinging wildly. The man, staggering away from Falyn’s swirling swords, ducked away and pulled his own sword free. He began to parry the selae’s assault, moving the steel wildly to keep himself alive and un-dismembered.
“You wanted to see real Stormfire prowess, Asmundvard?” Taisa said. “Watch this. Aenda, get back!” Falyn obliged, jumping back and bringing his arm up to cover his eyes. The magi reeled back for a second and, with all her strength, thrust her fist forwards. A great concussive wave pushed Leogun off his feet as a white bolt of true lightning split the air and tore through the balcony’s rail, missing the mageborn but sending him sprawling.
It took Leogun a moment to get back to his feet. The voices in his head rallied, crying for more, congratulating Taisa. It irritated him, thinking of them interacting with the outside world, even if the outside world wasn’t interacting with them. Taisa was already standing, her white tunic ruffled and her hood pushed back. “He’s gone,” she said ruefully. Leogun nodded.
“Ignore what I said earlier,” the monk told her. “I want to see that again.”