Sun and sand, sand and sun. There was little else to be seen, at least when one faced the eastern horizon. A few hawks, floating silently on the hot winds, but even they were rare. Mandal stared into the rising sun from his position on the parapet. It was weak still, barely even lighting the sky, but its rays blinded him as they glinted off the sands. He looked away, staring down the length of the rampart. It ran away south, farther than he could see, but to the north it stopped, barely a dozen feet from his post.
There, men labored, straining to stack cloth bags filled with sand. Much of the wall was made of such bags, woven in faraway Tarasas and carted with the supply wagons. On the front lines, they were filled with earth and stacked, forming the wall. Mandal shook his head. Even the enemies of the Terasasians did not deny that they were a persistent people. It was a hundred leagues to Terasas, fifty of them empty desert. Few nations would have attempted such a campaign, but five years of fighting and marching had brought the Terasasian legions within a few miles of the goal their king had set them.
A great oasis lay ahead, several miles across, its greenery bordering a river. It was to be a Terasasian outpost, a stronghold on the eastern borders. Ever highest in the concerns of Terasas was the war upon the western border, but the barbarians who came out of the desert upon raids had become troublesome. War could not be easily waged upon two fronts and the raiders destroyed farms and cities that supplied the western front.
The Terasasian king, Linados, had sent five legions into the desert with orders to root out the nomadic barbarians. Mandal had marched, an officer commanding a hundred men, to the eastern wars. Five years ago he had marched. He wondered, at times, why they had been sent to take the oasis, but he did not question the orders. He was a good man, loyal and tough, a warrior by nature and a soldier by trade. War was a way of life for the Terasasians and peace would have disgusted Mandal.
But he did want to know what his men were dying for. There was no glory in the desert battles, for they were fleeting ambushes by the barbarians, or overwhelming Terasasian attacks upon villages. The barbarians slaughtered the legions in the ambush, as the legions slaughtered them in the villages.
It was rare that there was a good fight, but the ceaseless months of combat had worn away the strength of the Terasasians. They were barely five miles from their goal, but there was hardly a full legion upon the wall.
There were many laborers, building the rampart of sand, but few soldiers. The strategy had changed, upon the advice of Mandal. In the third year of the campaign, he had been given the rank of Second, commander of half a legion. The general listened to him, warily, but listening all the same. Mandal was a veteran of fifteen years upon the western borders and five upon the eastern. When his men had begun building the desert walls, the general had followed his example. The ramparts formed a defense against the surprise attacks and the Terasasian losses had slowed.
The barbarians were becoming desperate, Mandal could feel it. The scouts reported that nearly two thousand of the nomads were gathered in the oasis, readying some last defense. He smiled grimly.
“The barbarians should have known better than to attack Terasas. We’ve more than paid them back, but we’re not done with them!”
There was cheer from behind him and he turned to look at the ranks of the legionaries who were arrayed behind the wall. Five hundred men were under his command and he had been ordered to make the first assault upon the oasis. Five hundred men against two thousands. Mandal shook his head. The barbarians didn’t have a hope.
The Terasasians would wait until dark, then they would move out.
* * * * *
“How many?”
