“Why you hold on to that beast is a mystery, brother,” Dentos observed, his voice slightly muffled by the muslin scarf covering the lower half of his face.
“He’s a fighter,” Vaelin replied. “It makes up for the bruises.” He scanned the assembled scout troop, each man similarly garbed in the white muslin robes typical of the traders who tracked spice and other valuables across the desert to the northern ports. Every mount was laden with packs, each bulging with the round red clay pots used for carriage of spices, although tonight they were filled with a different cargo. He knew they were unlikely to fool an experienced eye, their mounts too tall and their garb showing too many unfamiliar details, not to mention the odd bulge of a concealed weapon. But, for a few vital moments they should be convincing enough in the dark. He hoped it would be enough.
He glanced to the north, marking the winding trail of the caravan route through the dunes to the oasis. The desert was a strange sight under the moon, the sand painted silver by the light. Taken with the chill of the night-time desert it was almost like looking upon a snow field, once more calling forth the half-forgotten dream, Nersus sil Nin’s cruel mockery, a body cooling in the snow…
“Brother?” Frentis asked, breaking the reverie.
Vaelin shook his head to clear the vision, turning to the scout troop and raising his voice. “You all know the importance of our mission tonight. Once it’s done ride for Linesh and don’t look back. They’ll be on our heels like starved wolves so don’t tarry, not for anything.”
He turned back to the north and tugged on Spit’s reins. “Come on you bloody nag.”
They lit torches and approached at a steady pace, calling greetings in memorised Alpiran to the tribesmen guarding the southern perimeter. They were all tall, lean men with pointed beards and skin like polished mahogany, their garb a mixture of red-dyed cloth and loose armour fashioned from ivory. Each carried one of the long spears with serrated blades Vaelin had noted when they surveyed the camp earlier. They were clearly suspicious but not overly alarmed and Vaelin was relieved when no tumult erupted at the appearance of a small but unknown party. Five of them gathered to obstruct their path as they approached the camp, spears levelled but their manner not overly threatening.
“Ni-rehl ahn!” Dentos greeted the tribesmen. Next to Caenis he had the best ear for Alpiran, although could hardly be said to be fluent. Despite having been extensively coached by Caenis in the few hours before their departure from Linesh he was unlikely to fool a native of the northern empire. It was their fortune that the tribesmen hailed from the southern provinces and probably knew less of the local dialect than they did.
One of the tribesmen shook his head in confusion, saying something in his own language to his fellows who replied with shrugs of bafflement.
“Unterah,” Dentos gave the word for trader, patting his chest, then gestured broadly at their makeshift caravan. “Onterish.” Spice.
The tribesman who had spoken stepped past Dentos, eyes scanning their company with careful scrutiny. He approached Vaelin, ignoring the affable nod he offered and giving Spit a long look of examination, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the many scars covering the warhorse’s legs and flanks.
A shout came from one of the other tribesman and the man confronting Vaelin stepped back quickly, hands tight on his spear, crouching into a fighting stance. Vaelin held up his hands in placation, pointing to the west. The tribesman risked a glance over his shoulder, straightening in confusion at the sight of a large number of torches appearing out of the desert, about three hundred teardrops of light flickering in the gloom, accompanied by the growing tell-tale rumble of a cavalry charge in full tilt and the peel of multiple trumpets.
The tribesman turned to his fellows, mouth opening to voice a command, and died as Vaelin’s throwing knife sank into the base of his skull. The snap of bowstrings and the whistle of thrown blades filled the air as the scout troop freed their weapons to dispatch the remaining sentries.
“Douse the torches! Get to the engines!” Vaelin barked, tugging Spit into a run.
The cacophony of battle erupted as they entered the camp, the thunderclap crash of Baron Banders’ knights striking the hastily formed line of defending tribesmen soon replaced by the familiar din of shrieking horses and clashing metal. Everywhere tribesmen were gathering weapons and rushing to join the battle, war cries and the harsh, grating peel of their own horns calling them forth. By the time Vaelin’s party were among the tents, most had gone to join the fray and the few who lingered to trouble them were quickly cut down.
They found the engines bare of defenders save for the artisans who tended them, mostly middle-aged men in leather smocks with few weapons save for carpentry tools. Vaelin was sorry they didn’t have the good sense to run, killing one who swung at him with a mallet and leaving another clutching a partly severed hand.
“Get out of here!” he commanded the man, sheathing his sword and unhitching the pack of clay pots from Spit’s back. The man just looked up at him in dumb shock before the loss of blood made him collapse limply into the sand. Vaelin cursed and left him there, opening the pack and heaving the pots at the nearest engine as fast as he could. They broke against the sturdy wooden frames and spilled their clear viscous liquid over every surface. Vaelin quickly exhausted the contents of one pack and hauled another to a second engine, already partly doused by Frentis who grinned wolfishly.
“Going to make quite a sight, brother.”
“That it will.” He emptied the second pack and surveyed the progress of the rest of the party, noting with satisfaction the shattered remains of numerous pots on all ten engines. “Right, that’s enough!” he shouted. “Get them lit!”
They retreated twenty yards or so, Vaelin dragging the wounded artisan behind him, unwilling to let him burn. Dentos and Frentis unlimbered their bows, lit fire arrows and sent them arching towards the engines, the flames catching the lamp oil instantly and soon ten great fires were raging in the midst of the camp, flames engulfing the tall engines in a few moments, ropes and bindings disintegrating in the heat, the great arms of the engines tumbling like pine caught in a forest fire.
The flames were bright enough to illuminate the battle raging on the western perimeter where Baron Banders was now rallying his men for the withdrawal, although the battle-maddened tribesmen were in no mood to let them go. Vaelin saw several knights pulled from their horses and speared to death in quick succession as they vainly sought to extricate themselves from the struggle.
Vaelin mounted Spit and drew his sword. “Ride for the city!” he called to the scout troop.
“And you brother?” Frentis asked.
Vaelin nodded at the battle. “The baron needs some help. I’ll be along presently.”
“Let me -”
He fixed Frentis with a look that brooked no argument. “Take your men home, brother.”
Frentis bit down on no doubt bitter words and nodded. “If you’re not back in two days…”
“Then I’m not coming back and you will look to Brother Caenis for command.” Vaelin spurred Spit into a gallop and hurtled towards the battle, feeling the warhorse tense beneath him in anticipation of combat. He skirted the edge of the throng, lashing out to strike down unwary tribesmen, wheeling away as they swarmed at him, galloping on then repeating the process, seeking to divert their fury enough to allow the knights some relief. “Eruhin Mahktar!” he shouted repeatedly, hoping they knew what it meant. “I am the Eruhin Mahktar! Come and kill me!”