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?”
“Perhaps five hundred, Censi. They are not a threat, not against our thousands. We can draw them into the trees and cut them down.”
“Quiet, fool! These Terasasians, they come from a land far fairer than this oasis, a land of vast forests and many hills. I have seen it myself. They do not know how to fight in the desert, but the trees they know. They will be expecting us to attack them by stealth. No, we will not try such a thing. We have seen few true battles with these Terasasians, but those few have taught me that they are far better warriors than we.”
“Blasphemy! Nowhere are there better fighters than the Cenregor! We have no equals; the gods proclaimed it so!”
“Must I take your head from your shoulders to gain silence? If we have no equals, why do we now sit in the last strong place of our people? In man to man combat, we will lose. Send word to the Ligenses to draw their commands back into the temple. It is a place that we can hold against the Terasasians with ease. Their blood will be a fitting sacrifice to the gods.”
“The Ligenses will not obey that order, though you are the Censi. The temple must not be entered, so the gods have proclaimed!”
There was a ring of metal on leather and a gurgling gasp.
“It seems that taking your head was indeed neccessary. I shall order the Ligenses myself.”
* * * * *
The call went down the line, quiet in the dusk. No horns sounded, for the Terasasians did not wish to alert their enemies to the coming assault.
“Move, lads, move. If we can reach the trees before they know we are here, we will have won half the battle. Do you want to be out in the empty sand when the barbarian archers begin to fire? Move!”
Mandal ran, swift over the sand, his sandals padding quietly. It had taken him a long time to learn to run on the shifting dunes, but the years had taught him well. Sure footing was the difference between victory and a bloody death. The cursed barbarians were more at home upon the sands than he had been upon the grassy meadows of Terasas. He wondered how the nomads fought upon decent ground. The oasis was a battlefield much to his liking and he was eager to fight upon good, honest grass again.
Minutes passed, the sound of running men surrounding him. The few miles between them and the oasis seemed far shorter than was usual, at least to Mandal. The trees loomed ahead, starkly outlined against the moon. For an instant, he stared up at the clear sky.
If a man couldn’t die in the crash of battle under a Terasasian sun, this oasis wasn’t a bad place for it. The stars were brilliant and their myriad constellations made fantastic designs across the sky. The grass and trees were green and beautiful, lit by the desert moon, hiding the enemies he sought. It wasn’t a bad place at all.
The Terasasian van-guard entered the trees, shields raised and spears ready. Mandal strode warily through the glades, eyes shifting, watching the shadows for the enemy. It had been years since he had fought in a forest, but he remembered it well. It had been an assault upon a hidden fortress in a great wood in Terasas. That battle had been much like the attack upon the oasis, attackers awaiting ambush made from the shelter of the forest.
But there was no sound, no whisper to give evidence that their enemy even existed. The oasis seemed to be as empty as the desert beyond, quiet and still, save for the Terasasian soldiers. Mandal continued his advance, signaling his men to follow him deeper into the trees. Already, the messengers were returning to the Terasasian wall, taking news of the attack to the general.
Mandal had been given orders, orders to make a foothold in the oasis, no matter the cost. He had entered the trees, un-opposed, and swiftly reached the river-bank, but he was uneasy. A battle won so easily was not to his liking, nor did he feel any relief at the absence of battle. He had expected a vicious fight in the oasis and the calm of the empty glades disturbed him.
He stood at the edge of the river, speaking softly to his officers. Not a single man of the Terasasian force had come upon an enemy. There were many empty tents and abandoned campfires, but no living thing lurked within the camp of the nomads. Scouts were moving ahead, crossing the river and searching the glades beyond. The messengers from the wall had yet to return with orders from the general, so Mandal settled beside a smoldering fire to wait.
Orders were orders and he had carried his out. The oasis was taken, the western half, at least, and he would not move any further without new commands. His five hundred men were more than a match for the entire barbarian force in honest battle, but he could lose half of his command in an ambush if he moved rashly.
Twenty years of war had taught him that the glory-hunters died young and badly. The men who made names for themselves were the men who won by surviving. Mandal intended to do just that.
He started up, eyes wide and hand on his sword. Across the river, hidden from sight in the trees, men were screaming. The sound was horrific, a mixture of terror and pain. In twenty years of bloody, brutal war, Mandal had never heard such a sound come from a man. He was a tough man, braver than most, but he had to admit that it was all he could to hold his position.
All around him, Tarasasians were retreating, halting steps taking them back towards the desert. The men were gripping spears tightly, still facing the river, but Mandal could see that their spirits were rapidly weakening. He cursed and turned to them.
“Hold your positions, you cowards! If there is something in this oasis besides men, we had best find it. What will you tell the general, eh? That you ran when you heard screams? Cowards!”
The Terasasian soldiers halteds, their eyes wild and their hands trembling. Spurred on by Mandal’s shouts, the officers began to call orders, encouraging the soldiers. The legionaries were terrified, brave men though they were. The oasis was empty and there was no sign of the enemies they had expected. The screaming, bursting from the quiet night, had broken their resolve.
Only Mandal held them. At the bank of the river, he stood, shouting to his men, defying whatever horror lay in the glades beyond. For a few moments more, the Terasasians wavered, then moved forward once again, ranks tight and shields locked. Mandal watched them, pride faint in his eyes. It was a rare man that would not have fled at the sound of the screams and scarcely a dozen of his men had continued their retreat.
“We’ve no orders, lads, but let’s cross this stream and see if we can’t hunt us down a good fight!”
A ragged cheer went up as Mandal stamped into the water. He tested it with his sword and found that it was shallow. In moments, he was on the other side, gesturing for his men to cross.
* * * * *
“What have we done, Censi? What have we done? It is the fury of the gods that we face, Censi, for our trespass! The temple is not an abode of men, but of gods, and we have stepped beneath the doors.”
There was a scream, echoing from deeper within the stone corridors. It lasted far longer than was natural, longer than any living man should have been able to sustain.
There was a cruel smile on the face of the Censi.
“Aye, we have blasphemed and trespassed in the halls of the gods and they have sent their warriors. We die, Ligensi, we die for our sins, but comfort yourself. Our foes will die with us. This oasis is called the Garden of Heaven and we Cenregor were allowed to enjoy its pleasures. Now, we have trampled the hospitality of the gods and they will cleanse the whole of their Garden.”
Another scream echoed, far closer, and the Ligensi shuddered. He turned and fled, hastening towards the entrance of the temple.
“Ligensi, halt! The Terasasians will see you and be warned of their doom! Halt!”
The officer did not falter, his steps speeding him down the corridor. With a sneer, the Censi tore a javelin from the hand of a nearby warrior and flung it. The weapon sped true, cutting the Ligensi down, and he fell to the flagstones with a crash.
“Does anyone else wish to flee the punishment which we have so justly earned?”
* * * * *
Mandal stood, sword in hand, staring up at the temple. It was a strange building, made of sandstone and carved with designs that made the Terasasian shudder. They were indistinct, swirling together like ripples in water, but something about them gave him a feeling of indiscribable horror.
The entrance that was built into the face of the temple had no door and in the dim light, Mandal could see a short distance within. Just beyond the entrance, he could see a body, huddled upon the stones, a javelin thrust into the back.
By the build and coloring of the dead man, the Terasasian could see that he was one of the barbarians. The javelin was also of barbarian design, for it was colored and decorated, striped in the manner that the nomad warriors displayed their victories.
Mandal frowned up at the temple once more, then stepped within and knelt beside the body. It was still warm and, from the way that the javelin had entered, the dead man had been running when he was struck down. Mandal stood, looking down the corridor.
“Well, lads? This corridor goes down into the earth and, from the look of it, most of this temple is underground. Let’s go see what kind of deviltry this temple holds. If it frightens the barbarians, I like it already!”
The was a shout and laughter from the men behind him. Mandal took a torch from one of the officers who waited nearby and strode into the temple.