Gharkan was not convinced. The Gadalians had decayed into a weakly bunch. Although their training and skill were excellent, their customs and traditions had gotten the best of them. And yet, he could not deny the call for battle. He had been promoted as the leader of the Heavenly Serpent Archer Battalion due to his superior fighting skills. It was time to prove his abilities and lead his men into victory.
Their great army was mobilized, expecting the return of the young woman the Gadalian called leader. Was she really the leader of the Gadalian nation, or a self appointed ruler? To Gharkan it seemed like the latter. From what he had heard, her tribe consisted of eleven people.
Anyway, he was a warrior, he did not care much for reasons. Chieftain Mundzuch stayed back, an old man as he was. But they rode on.
Gharkan’s division moved ahead, and the other three mounted groups advanced close to the sides in their journey south. They camped early every night, he stopped his moving yurt amid his warriors. He was proud of them, most of them were seventeen and eighteen, and eager to go to battle, with no fear even for the first battle of their lives. He sparred with them, led training drills on how to defeat Itruschian phalanxes, practised archery and his favourite: catch-wrestling, at which he had never been beaten.
Gharkan was shorter than average, but since his childhood, he had dreamed of being a soldier like his late father. And a wrestler. Now, it had to be the first of many victories.
He was used to hard work, and was determined to make his goal come through. One day, he would be Supreme Commander of all Hunatian divisions. A Commander General for the whole tribe.
The hordes advanced for a few days, stopping near the river, until the day on which they were supposed to reach the Varalkian camp. Instead, they saw burnt grass in the distance, mounds of earth and a few half charred yurts and tipis made of hides and animal skin. The other three mounted hordes had stopped around the place. He followed.
“Halt!” he ordered, raising his hand, his eyes trying to understand what he was seeing. For an instant, he thought those were the remains of a merchant group sacked by bandits, but the area they covered was too vast, and the number of their tents, or their remains, was big enough to call them a tribe. From afar, he saw human figures timidly standing up, very few, like survivors of a carnage, and hungry vultures circling above and feasting below.
On the side, a portable wooden fence extended for many yards, shielding only corpses of cattle and again, feasting scavengers.
The other generals signalled for a gathering, and Gharkan guided the bridle of his horse to face them.
“What is that?” one of Gharkan’s soldiers asked behind his back. The brother had dismounted and taken off his helmet, narrowing his eyes and glancing at the vast killing field while the wind shook his long black hair.
“I hope it’s not what I think it is,” Gharkan said. “I’ll be back soon, my brothers,” he said, looking at his troops, some on their horses, some dismounting to rest.
Gharkan spurred, riding fast on his Eastern stallion, coming close to the other generals. But he knew. They, the noble Varalkians part of the race that had made the Empire shake to its core, had once again been massacred. He felt strangely disappointed, that famous general they were supposed to meet had surely fallen by the sword. Another woman. The horror before his eyes meant only one thing, the state of warrior tribes after years of decay, after lending their leadership to women.
“You look excited, my brother,” said Arman from afar, the other young general, as Gharkan approached.
“What is going on, comrade?” Gharkan asked, with a frown facing the camp.
Uncle Rackhsa greeted them with a nod, up on his horse, with the long red crest of his helmet fluttering in one direction. He trotted to approach them. His horse was as big as an ox, of a Hunatian breed long forgotten. Gharkan would have liked one of those. It would make him look taller. If the loot of that battle was good, it would be the first thing he would buy.
“Their camp was attacked,” Rackhsa said, reaching them, along with Changkai the Elder on a dark horse. “Remain attentive. The people there may be the perpetrator.”
“Uncle, there’s no need to be that wary. I think they’re just survivors,” Gharkan said.
“Gharkan boy, you are a great fighter, but you haven’t seen much. Traps and ambushes are the most treacherous things, now go and bring some men, and let’s explore this place.”
Gharkan rolled his eyes. “Aye,” he muttered.
Gharkan threw a glance at the charred camp. Trap? Impossible. There was no danger, even if the camp was full of hidden archers, there was no way more than a thousand armed men could hide in that pile of rubble. He went back to his men and told them to remain in position, he selected five men and rode with them into the camp. The other generals also had their own group, and advanced, closing in from different angles. What the shapes revealed shocked him for an instant. A woman lay with her intestines split open, a little child with his head against the grass on her side, at the foot of a huge yurt that had been consumed in flames, partly charred. Luckily, the vision was interrupted by the hungry vultures that crowded around them.
As Gharkan approached, he was struck by the salty, pungent smell of death. That horrid stench. The thing he hated the most about it was that it stuck to everything that drew near, it would linger in his throat and hair.
Behind him, one of his elected scouts, a very proficient archer, leaned to the side on his horse and vomited. The reaction was as expected. Someone had to do it every single time. Gharkan himself shielded his nostrils with his leather gauntlet.
They advanced through the yurts with their eyes open and ears attentive. The crackling of vultures and a few consuming fires were the only noises.
“There!” one of the soldiers said, extending his gauntleted fingers. A figure sneaked in and out of a yurt. Gharkan spurred, his horse trotted gallantly and stopped in front of the yellow yurt. He held his spear, just in case, and dismounted.
“Come out, we come in peace.”
A grey haired face peeked.
“Thank the Red Sun!” said the man, crawling out of his yurt and kneeling in front of him. “Thank the gods that you came!”
“Thank them later,” Gharkan said. “What happened here?”
“The Itruschians came and slaughtered, they came and killed, young, old, they did not have mercy,” the man sobbed.
“How many survivors are there, old man?”
The man looked up, the sun reflected in his eye, reflecting joy and thankfulness.
“Praise the gods! There are about a dozen. See that pole?” He pointed at a tall totem that stuck out. “That’s where they are. Follow me, I shall take you.”
Gharkan signaled the other generals and their scouting sections, and they followed the man through the camp littered with half-rotten bodies. Inevitably, some of the comrades vomited, trying to aim away from their saddles, then leaned weakly against their horses’ neck. Luckily, the more they moved toward the centre, the lesser the smell. Soon, they found out that the survivors were gathering bodies and burying them in the ground, trying to gather the belongings of the fallen. From what they had seen, it would take them a long time.
As they passed, they glanced at the bewildered survivors doing the job, some covering their noses and mouths with scarves and shirts. The area around the menhir was different. A tall cauldron rested on metal bars, over reddened ashes and whitened coal. Six people sat around it, two women, one of them with a crying baby in arms, and four men of different ages. One of them wore the plain clothes of an Itruschian slave. The group stood in awe as soon as they saw the approaching horsemen.
“Who is in charge?” Rackhsa asked, pulling the reins to brace his horse.
“Blessed be the gods!” One of the old men stepped forward and fell to his knees.
“We have no leaders nor masters,” said the woman with the crying baby.
“Please, take us!” said
the man who had fallen to his knees, he was so thin that his ribs were visible. “Take us with us, as we have lost our land and people. Take us with us, we shall serve you, but please.”
Gharkan and the generals exchanged a glance.
“These people lost everything,” he said.
“You have a leader who waits for you in the West,” Rackhsa said. “Now, gather your people, we can share some of our rations with you.”
“We were foolish, if only we had marched with the woman!” the man on his knees said.
“You old fool,” another said, fat as a whale, and accompanied his words with a spat. “If we were cursed and abandoned it was because of those bastard traitors.”
“What happened to the Adachians,” Gharkan said.
“They were taken captives,” answered the fat man.
“And, that famous leader abandoned them, see?” Gharkan asked.
“Gharkan, Changkai, Rackhsa,” Arman said to them. “Tell your people we will set camp here, let’s listen to them and gather information.”
“Aye, sire,” they said.
Gharkan turned around on his horse and rode toward his horde, his men waited attentively, unmolested by the blazing sun.
“What is going on?” asked one of his frontline soldiers.
“The Itruschians did this. The famous commanders that were going to advise us were taken captive and are probably hanging from a cross right now.”
“Oh.” The soldier stared at the dreary horizon. “Well. What can we do.”
“Come on, people, get moving, start assembling the tents, we’ll pitch them here.”
“Aye,” they replied, dismounting from their tired steeds.
***
A great bonfire burned at the centre of the new camp, away from the putrid stench of death and the disgusting birds that enjoyed it, and the sun slowly set. The yellow flags of the Sons of Hunaz stood proudly under the crescent. Gharkan joined the other generals, they sat on the ground, surrounding the survivors, who were dressed with clean clothes, gleefully feasting on dried meat and yogurt.
The survivors related the account of their suffering. One of the men beneath the idol, the one who was dressed in Itruschian clothes related a most unlikely tale. He was not Gadalian, nor belonging to that specific tribe, but a man from the West.
“That girl saved our lives,” he said.
“So you’re saying that those three women and a young boy killed twenty-five soldiers?” Gharkan asked with a chuckle, and drank a sip of liquor from a wineskin. “Brothers, the battle will be easy!” he announced, turning his face toward the crowd. “Itruschians are so feeble three women killed twenty-five.”
Arman also chuckled beside him. His long eyes blinked twice, then he silenced himself not to offend his superiors.
The Varalkians in attendance, however, clenched their teeth in annoyance. They had not liked his jokes. But he did not care.
“Now, don’t be such wimps, how can you deny it? Women? Is that the army that conquered the West? By Tengri, it’s going to be easy.”
“Shut up,” Rackhsa silenced him. “Now, you, what’s your name, slave? What was your name?”
“Kavros, sire.” He cleared his throat. “The borders are not particularly well guarded as of now, they concentrated most of the forces in the village itself. They won’t be able to summon enough troops to defend the border against your powerful army.”
“That sounds favourable,” Arman muttered. “Good for us. What are the resources in Adachia?”
“That I know not, aside from soil for pastures and fields. Mistress Alana told me that the Itruschians burnt the forest, and there’s pastures the Adachians used for cattle, that’s it.”
“Please!” cried the old man who had spent most of the day on his knees. “Please avenge our people, we will serve you, but please avenge them.”
“We shall not take slaves from our allies,” Arman said, then turned toward the other generals. “What shall we do? Should we return to our elders?”
“We cannot waste any more time,” Rackhsa said.
“My friend was taken captive by them, we were both serving the Empire.”
Rackhsa caressed his long beard. “Changkai?” he asked, tapping on the knee of the oldest general.
“Let us ride.”
Gharkan narrowed his eyes. It was a rash decision on their part, but he agreed. It was the reason why he had decided to take his hordes, even in a foolish cause. He wished to prove himself in battle. He felt a surge of energy, like a thunderbolt in his veins.
As soon as the sun soon rose, they picked their belongings, mounted and marched behind the yellow banner of Tengri.
Chapter XXV - Children of Stone
The border wall extended for miles, grey and grim, across mountains, forests, rivers, and lakes. Alana kept riding, following the tracks of their masters. Wandering through Suevian towns, she heard of the place where the giants had landed, and rode toward it.
“We’re almost there, big boy,” she said to the horse. “Easy. Missing Ira? Me too. She’s going to be fine, if I survived, she will survive too.”
She felt guilty for leaving her, but also terrified of going back. She pushed those feelings away, thinking she would be better equipped to save Ira after having the Legionaries join her cause.
Following the path, to the north, she came across the place. It seemed as if a star had fallen from heaven and opened the ground, pushing toward its core. She kept riding upward, through a thick forest with fallen trees. There, she found the border wall, part of it broken in pieces as if an enormous battering ram had penetrated it.
She took a deep breath and advanced to the side. For a moment, she felt an intense dizziness, almost as bad as looking down from the hill in Adachia. She rested against the wall and took a deep breath. It took her a few minutes, but she was determined to continue. For a moment, she feared she had contracted the pest that scourged the Varalkians.
She climbed the watchtower but found it empty. Weary and attentive to her surroundings, Alana crossed the border walls, once again, into barbarian lands. She kept riding for an hour, where the forest grew darker with every step, where she saw the constant footprints of the ancient giant, so deep that she could sink into them up to the waist.
The trees were crushed, the same way she had seen it before, and she continued, attentive at any noise. The horse also showed signs of nervousness. But Alana kept going forward, into the ever darker woods.
Then, she heard the trill in the woods. She looked up, the tune was not the same she had heard before, but something in it told her all she needed to know. Those were no birds.
She took a deep breath and kept trotting deeper into the woods. She had tied the sword to her waist, ready to draw at any moment, and yet, she knew it was better to avoid conflict at all costs. She heard another whistle behind her head. Another man was answering. She took a deep breath, wondering what she should do. She decided to keep going, as she had already advanced for miles of thick forest, and it was hard for her horse to go faster in that terrain, instead, she decided to deviate to the right. She kept looking around, as bandits were experts in camouflage and hiding.
She advanced lightly and quickly, moving to the East, when suddenly, she encountered a man with a horned helmet, thick chain mail and gold ornaments on his clothes. From the corner of her eyes, she caught figures descending from atop the trees, their torsos naked and camouflaged, holding iron spears in hand.
Alana raised her hands.
“I am just passing through,” she said.
“Who you?” the one with the helmet asked.
“Just a traveller. I come from the south, from Adachia.”
They looked at each other and discussed in their language. Alana glanced around her, wondering what they would do to her. If those were all bandits, she would have to fight for her life, and maybe die. Or was her life more precious than that? Captivity was hell, she did not want
to go through that.
“I am coming in peace, I do not carry more than my weapons.”
One of them stepped forward and spoke to her in Itruschian.
“Where you come from?”
“Tharcia, a southern province. I am a Gadalian by birth.”
He turned back and spoke to his leader, the one in the horned helmet.
“What you looking for in these lands?”
“My friends and family. They are legionaries for the Itruschian Empire, I have heard they went in search of the giants.”
The conversation continued, some of the warriors looked distressed, none seemed welcoming.
“Follow us, we will not hurt you,” said the translator. Alana nodded, lowering her hands.
“Let’s go,” the leader ordered. Alana was still uneasy, glancing at her newfound escorts, they were too many, and looked tougher than the bandits she had encountered before. Were they even bandits?
“Where are we going?” she asked. The warriors called on their translator.
“Home,” he responded.
“Fine, I guess,” Alana muttered, a little more relaxed. Passing through the woods she glanced at a great city, covered with wooden walls, surrounded by a great ditch and a river. The group turned around, marching toward it. It was more populous than most Suevian villages within the Empire, and it was just a few miles north of the frontier. A rocky road led them toward it.
They crossed, people stared at her like they usually did in the southern villages, bewildered at the strange vision of an armoured woman with a long and shiny blade. Their dress was identical, to the Suevians within the wall, just with a little less Itruschian influence.
And then, Alana blinked in surprise. She came across a face she had seen before. In the town market, leaning on a stall, she saw a muscular man wearing a red toga. His hair was short, but he looked too familiar. Pale face, almond-shaped eyes, he glanced at her for an instant, pausing his bargaining efforts, and smiled at her.
“Wait, wait!” Alana yelled. Her escorts glanced, surprised, she turned around, climbing down from her horse, and ran into the town market, pushing the people around. The man interrupted his conversation and advanced through the crowd, ran to her and wrapped her in his arms.
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