Chapter 13: Chapter 17: Tempo

Vanian Year 1105

 

Her horse skittered beneath her as Marianne uselessly craned her neck, trying to find the slow marching demon army just over the horizon.

 

They have been shadowing the mass of moving demons ever since they had left turned tail on the battlefield, yet never closing in. Their small host of less than a hundred score men were overseeing the progress of the fleeing horde, as if herding them along Ailuros’ Lock like so many sheep. If that were the case, then the jaish al-zahf were herding hounds, constantly snapping at the demons’ heels to continue pushing them forward.

 

It was a most ingenious strategy spawned of al-Menfir’s cunning mind. Instead of slaughtering the demons or letting them go, they would thread a thin line between both choices. By stalking the enemy at a distance, they could apply a constant pressure on the demons - forcing them into sleepless nights and general anxiety of a potential attack. And yet, by never actually carrying out that impending attack, the demons would not feel threatened enough to believe that their only option was to fight back.

 

It was a masterfully devious design that exploited the enemy’s mental state, one that could only be executed with complete knowledge of how their foe thinks. 

 

Through the twisting canyons of red earth, exhaustion inevitably began to take its toll. Every morning, the demons would march - and leave behind those who had died in their sleep, or were too exhausted to wake. Marianne ordered her men to capture those who were still alive, and axe the heads of those who were dead - to add to their growing collection of piked skulls. If their corpses weren’t already eaten through by carrion birds, that was.

 

Then the absconders came, bold deserters who decided to take their chances with begging for mercy - prostrating at their feet and blabbering in broken Quraysh tongue. Abbas as-Saffah demanded their heads, but Marianne convinced both him and al-Menfir that accepting their surrender would be much more beneficial.

 

The deserters came to them with spindly arms and visible ribs, and Marianne ordered her men to feed them well and dress them in cleaner clothes - clean as they get out here, in any case. Then, with the help of an interpreter, she told them kindly that she would accept any one of them who decides to surrender.

 

Needless to say, their ranks began swelling with defectors soon after - even until they came to the brink of crisis itself. There was simply not enough food left to feed the growing hundreds and thousands of deserting plague-bearers. In the tight-spaced canyon, their small, manageable numbers had been their greatest strength - a strength that was fading at an alarming rate as they accepted more prisoners.

 

“Each man brought just enough to feed himself, my lady,” Sir Eitel told her with an edge, “Beyond that, the Lock provided just enough to forage and hunt. How are we supposed to support all these demons?”

 

Marianne pursed her lips, furrowing her brows in thought.

 

“The men are already grumbling that you care more for the demons than them!” Eitel hissed, “Last night, three men were found guilty of killing a dozen demons in their sleep!”

 

It was a problem, undeniably. Marianne’s goal was to keep bleeding the enemy host of men until they could no longer pose a threat - but if their own army collapsed before that could be accomplished, what was the point? She could always order the demons executed - which would relieve the burden - but that would destroy all their credibility, no matter how false it was.

 

“Send another group of demons to their army,” she ordered, “Once they leave, execute most of the deserters - enough so that the strain would be lifted. May I leave this to your personal discretion?”

 

“...With your permission, I would send some to the desertfolk so that they could execute them ritually,” Eitel finally said, “It should appease them some, even if just by a little.”

 

“Do so,” she nodded.

 

Marianne urged her horse around and rode back to the camp. Their strategy was simple; they would rest during the day, while the demon army marches. And when the day ends, they would march throughout the night until they caught up to the enemy. For half a sennight they had played this game of cat and mouse - an incredibly long time considering it only took two days to traverse Ailuros’ Lock, according to their guides.

 

But the demon army was slow, and sluggish. 

 

What was supposed to be a boon for them had swiftly turned into a curse. Only a few days ago, Marianne prayed for them to be slowed down - and they were by the storm - and now, she was praying that they clear the foothills as quickly as possible. Because trapped behind them, their small force was suffocating alive.

 

It was humorous, she felt, in an ironic sense.

 

Marianne rode up to a Quraysh woman leaning against the canyon wall with her eyes closed, like a lazy cat lounging in the shade. The entire army has been lethargic ever since they won their battle - borne from an queer mix of reprieve and exhaustion. With hunger setting in, there weren’t many eager to be active.

 

“Dame Aliyah,” she called down, “Appears you are terribly unoccupied. Something, then?”

 

Aliyah groaned, stretching out her limbs, “Ah…? The lady…”

 

Marianne patiently waited for the lady to rub the sleep from her eyes, taking the time to dismount.

 

“Most of them do not know anything useful,” Aliyah mumbled, “Well, if they can even speak right at all.”

 

“Nothing about their guides?” Marianne brushed her horse’s neck.

 

“At the front,” the translator said, “The demons are packed like dates, lady. When come time to sleep, they just drop where they stand. Apparently, there’s no communication between the front and the back of the column, which is why no one is stopping the damn demons from deserting.”

 

“So the reason their Quraysh guides haven’t attempted to escape is because they are trapped at the front?”

 

“I imagine so,” she nodded, “The actual reason they are all deserting is because their supply train is at the front of the column - and so is all the food and tents. If they are going to die from hunger and elements anyway, might as well come to us. Even if we kill them, it’ll still be a quicker death.”

 

No communication between front and rear, Marianne mused, they could exploit that. 

 

“And about the demons…” Aliyah continued.

 

“It’s being handled,” Marianne finished, “They shouldn’t pose an issue any longer.”

 

“Understood, Fariq,” the soldier sloppily saluted in the southern style, “I’ll go save those with even a modicum of usefulness.”

 

With no other matter to attend to, Marianne allowed herself to aimlessly wander around the camp, leading her horse by the reins. Their encampment - if it could even be called that - stewed in an air of slothfulness. There weren’t any defences to speak of, and most soldiers were languishing in the shade of the cliffs or in their hastily erected tents. Some had laid out rugs to waste their time with playing cards, while those standing guard seemed to be asleep on their feet.

 

The demon army could simply turn on their heel and overrun them with little resistance, but Marianne imagined they hadn’t the mind to do so. She should be reprimanding the soldiers - she knew that this carelessness would lead to no due favours in the future - but she hadn’t the heart to blame them. The summer heat bore down upon them like a thick quilt, fatiguing their limbs vastly. 

 

Marianne yawned, struggling to keep her eyes open. She should probably close her eyes and sleep, considering they would restart their march in the evening - but the truth was, the demon army crawled along so slowly that it wouldn’t take more than a few hours to catch their tails again. And considering the night came with a cool breeze - to the point of freezing, even - their so-called chase was more akin to a leisurely night stroll.

 

It made what was supposed to be a harrowing, songworthy chase incredibly bland, truly.

 

She tied the reins of her horse to a post outside the pavilion, before entering the tent - brushing the canvas flap over her head.

 

“My lord,” she greeted, “We will begin culling the defectors, by your order.”

 

Maslama al-Menfir glanced up from the table, “We are a mule with an overladen back. Ridding ourselves of some strain is welcome.”

 

Marianne sat down on a rug, slumping tiredly. She was not the only one - the pavilion was the largest tent in their camp - its interior turned into a shelter from the sun. Officers languished inside upon vast woollen rugs, and light snores filled the dark space. Marianne slowly peeled off her armour, cradling a pauldron in her hands - fingers idly tracing the gilded silver lions on it.

 

“I fear this manner of trick works only once,” she leaned back.

 

“It isn’t necessary for it to work again,” he dismissed her concerns, “Even at the snail’s pace the demons march at, their head should clear the foothills by tomorrow. With the prospect of escape before them, we no longer have to fear any sudden attack.”

 

“...Their sentiments are mine, in that regard,” Marianne smiled dryly, “Should I inform the men of a possible battle? There is a chance that the demons may force a pitched battle.”

 

“It would do well to be cautious,” al-Menfir agreed, “And it would do better for the men to get some action.”

 

Marianne inhaled the stale air inside the pavilion, which smelled of sweat and heat.

 

The desert had a strange habit of being incredibly capricious - so much so that sometimes, Marianne couldn’t decide if the Divine Sitri was truly the Lady of the Red Land, or whether the Divine Bifrons was. One day, the sky would be as clear - only to be engulfed in an earth-rending sandstorm in the next hour. In the day, the land would bake as if the world was an oven - and at night, it would be as if winter came early.

 

Marianne shivered, feeling the dry chill slither through the gaps in her armour.

 

Whereas in the day the men preferred to sleep out the heat, the same men were more than eager to march throughout the night. It kept them warm, anyhow. Torches lit up the gloomy canyon, blossoms of fiery apricot blanketing the valley floor. Skull-laden pikes rose above their heads - higher than even their banners. Some rather impish men had the creative idea to replace the tops of their pikes with small torches, transforming the skulls into rather devilish glowing totems.

 

High above them, the heavens seemed to align perfectly with the Ailuros’ Lock - warding away the blackness of night and replacing it with vast swathes of gold and green stretching across the sky. It was a well omen, the Lord of the Sombre Sky was not so sombre this fine night, and were guiding them to their deliverance.

 

Behind them, the raging fires of great funeral pyres as they burned away the corpses of the demon absconders. Building the pyres was a good exercise to wake up her men, Marianne felt, and since it was done during the twilight, the effort was not as tiring as it could’ve been. 

 

Marching through the darkness, from time to time more demon deserters would approach them - pointed the way by those she had dispatched earlier - only to be mercilessly cut down by as-Saffah’s roving cavalry. Like sharks, Marianne thought, constantly circling around for their next bout of bloodshed. 

 

The usefulness of prisoners had run its course, now the Blood-Shedder had free reign to live up to his name. 

 

Shouts burst out of the front lines of men, and Marianne spurred her horse forward in alarm. Sharpened eyes combing the darkened land, she suddenly spotted a shadowy figure straddling the canyon wall. 

 

“Lend me a torch!” she called, and within moments a soldier had run up to her offering.

 

She gratefully snatched it out of his hands, spouting a word of gratitude before riding forward - two bodyguards close behind her. As broke ranks with the marching column and began closing in on the suspicious character, she noticed that the figure made no move to run away.

 

They neither acted as a deserter would, nor as a spy. 

 

“Fariq,” Marianne jumped in her saddle at Aliyah’s voice, “Other riders are coming.”

 

Marianne hastily glanced back to see the desertfolk riding behind her, the darkness having shrouded her features until now. Swivelling the other way, her heart swiftly eased upon seeing a familiar Reicher face. The man noticed her gaze, and dipped his chin shallowly. She bowed her head in return.

 

“I wasn’t of the assumption that you were a rider, Dame Aliyah,” she said.

 

“Did you think al-Menfir would send you a mere footsoldier, Fariq?” Aliyah scoffed, “And do not call me dame, we northerners do not have knights. We have mubarizun, and I am not one of them.”

 

“As you say, Dame.”

 

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Marianne ignored the woman’s indignant sigh as she drew her gaze to another group of horsemen approaching the figure from the front. Abbas as-Saffah’s men, she surmised. Starlight glinted off a drawn blade, and Marianne narrowed her eyes. 

 

She cursed beneath her breath, urging her mount into a swift gallop. Aliyah shouted at the horsemen in the Quraysh tongue from behind her, likely noticing the same thing as she did. Thankfully, as-Saffah’s men slowed down just as Marianne reached the figure. 

 

Marianne lowered her torch as her bodyguard rode up beside her with his kriegsmesser drawn. She could hear Aliyah’s breath hitch as the figure’s face was revealed by the firelight to be that of a weary-faced Quraysh man. He looked like a hare caught down a huntsman’s range, eyes wide and terrified - though a sliver of relief could be seen within them.

 

“Alihat ma’ak,” the riders hailed as they approached, “What is this?”

 

“M-Masha’alihat!” the man fell to his knees, heaving, “I’ve made it!”

 

The orderly’s eyes widened when he saw the man, “By the divines… we must take him to our master at once!”

 

“I’ll bring him to al-Menfir,” Marianne said firmly, “You, go inform as-Saffah.”

 

“By your order, Fariq!”

 

Marianne felt tempted to just pull the man up unto her mount and ride with all haste for the Exiled Prince, but decided she hadn't the strength of arms. 

 

"Sir," she turned to the Reicher man, "If you would."

 

"Understood, my lady," he gruffly replied.

 

With a broad arm, the man grabbed the Quraysh and heaved him onto the back of his horse with incredible ease. Upon closer inspection, she found the Quraysh’s cheeks to be sunken and gaunt, and his limbs more bone than flesh. 

 

Marianne wondered if she could’ve lifted him herself.

 

The man groaned something in the Quraysh tongue, and Marianne felt troubled as she was not able to understand him. Inwardly, she resolved to learn as many languages as she could - for the combined army was formed of many peoples, and being able to understand them all was paramount for effective coordination. 

 

“He says…” Aliyah furrowed her brows, “Sahel…ians? Something about a trap.”

 

“Tell him to save his breath for al-Menfir,” Marianne said, “It’s a miracle that he was able to escape, let’s not waste it on us.”

 

The front lines of the marching column smoothly parted before them, recognising their urgency.

 

“Food and water!” Marianne shouted, “Bring us food and water, summon all the officers!”

 

“Lady Edelhardt!” the Exiled Prince hailed, “What do you have for us?”

 

“A man you must attend to,” she replied, “A brave man had escaped from the demon army to warn us of a trap!”

 

Harsh whispers erupted of the officer corps. For the past few days, they had all worried about the chance that the demon army would attempt to use the northern gate of Ailuros’ Lock to trap them inside the valley. Their small force would undoubtedly be unable to force their way through, and so too would they be unable to trace their steps backwards - for the Lock was left barren from their foraging. 

 

The unspoken conclusion they came to was to face the demon army - holding them in place for as long as possible so that the combined army could take Weißentreu. They would starve, they did not doubt, and if the demons attacked, they would die. But their original goal was to stall the enemy anyways, and they were honourbound to carry that order out to the best of their ability.

 

“Good man,” al-Menfir narrowed his eyes, “I am Maslama al-Taghlib, and you are?”

 

Maslama of Taghlib, she recognised. Instead of using his epithet, he used a name the man would be more familiar with.

 

“B-Bashar al-Tihamah,” the man gasped, “You… you are-!”

 

The Exiled Prince nodded shallowly, clearly deciding to humour the man. Even as they talked, the army did not stop marching - and it was a testament to the Reicher man’s mastery of his mount that he was able to match al-Menfir’s ride perfectly. Marianne decided to familiarise herself with the man at a later time.

 

Even then, the entire army was silent - the only sounds being the whistle of the night breeze as the rhythmic pounding of footsteps. All ears were on the conversation. If al-Menfir noticed, he did not show it. Marianne was no different, straining her limited understanding of their words to the best of her ability.

 

“I was there, fifteen years ago,” the man rasped, “At Tihamah. We held on as long as we could- I swear I never stopped believing in your return!”

 

“Of course,” al-Menfir agreed, “We all celebrate your survival - and all those who have never given up hope even under the yoke of the Crescent- under the demon armies. Believe me, we now march on Tihamah, and soon Taghlib. We will need your help to defeat the demons.”

 

“Y-Yes!” Bashar al-Tihamah rasped, “I am at your disposal!”

 

Maslama paused, silently urging the man to continue.

 

“There were a dozen of us- them,” Aliyah murmured, translating the man’s words , “...Seven now. They overheard the general planning to block the northern gate of the Lock. So with the help of the others, he managed to slip away and begin pushing his way through to the rear. It took an entire day without rest for him to break out.”

 

Marianne swallowed. 

 

The Exiled Prince stewed in silence, unbothered by all those looking up to him in expectation. Marianne did not envy his position - the decision he would make here would decide whether they would all live or die. Perhaps it would be shameful to admit - which was why she would never admit it - but she would never enjoy such grievous responsibility.

 

“...Send two riders back to Nordenstein,” al-Menfir ordered, “The rest of us will continue northwards. Spread the word among the soldiers; if there are any who wish to leave, they shall face no harm for deciding so.”

 

A useless sentiment, Marianne thought, for not a single man would take him on the offer. Not unless they wished to die lost and alone at the hollow mercy of the Red Lady. 

 

“My prince,” Bashar al-Tihamah said, “You have a plan?”

 

Through the darkness of night, Marianne saw the Exiled Prince smile thinly.

 

“Fight,” he answered, “Die. And pray our allies succeed in our place.”

 

Daybreak came with a washed-out sky. There was not a spot of white on the clear blue canvas above their heads, and as the sun rose over the peaks of the mountains, it glared down upon them with vehemence. The northern gates of Ailuros’ Lock was just in sight, and the clamour of tens of thousands of demons were unmistakable.

 

Perhaps it was a stroke of fortune - or a blessing from a sympathetic divine - but the valley was dotted with many trees and running rivulets. The River Sirhan, like most rivers in the north, found its headwaters from melting icecaps which poured into these wadis, and from there merged into the Sirhan.

 

They had spent the night ‘til dawn constructing their new encampment - one with all the fortifications and defences that the local trees allowed. 

 

As expected, not a single man decided to desert the army. Mayhaps it was to avoid being shamed by their peers, but Marianne preferred to think it was out of pride. From the very beginning, these men and women knew they were marching to their likely deaths after all. It wouldn’t do for them to leave a task unfinished.

 

Indeed, for in a display of grisly defiance, they had planted their skull-skewered pikes and defaced banners of the demons in a long row spanning from cliff to cliff. Some odd, twisted stockade, the act created, for the array of stakes was so dense it might as well be opaque.  

 

Marianne spurred her horse onwards, past the wall of stakes and climbing atop a small hillock that overlooked the northern gate. Countless demons scurried about before her, somewhat a single league away, their numbers obscured by the foothills flanking her vision.

 

Abbas as-Saffah was already at the zenith of the hill, having been relieved of his duty of harrying the demons. It was considered too dangerous now, and the reward too little, considering that they were now in the line of sight of the enemy. 

 

“Are you afraid of dying here, girl?” the man asked suddenly.

 

Marianne did not answer.

 

“You should’ve obeyed the Old Lion,” he continued, “Unlike the rest of us, you have not yet given your life to this war.”

 

“Do not belittle me, sir,” Marianne muttered, “I am well aware of my own actions.”

 

“You,” as-Saffah grunted, “Are a liar. And yet you do not know it.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I imagine every man here knows it, except you,” the man ignored her, “We recognise who you are, but no one dares to say it.”

 

“I did not imagine you to be one who spoke in riddles,” she mildly replied, somewhat irked.

 

“The Old Lion recognised it first,” as-Saffah murmured, no longer listening, “I only did so after the Battle of the Lock. I must wonder what Montargis was thinking.”

 

Marianne huffed in displeasure, what a nuisance. The piercing cry of a raptor caught her attention, and she glanced at the canyon walls looking for the source - idly wondering if they would have an avian audience again. She knew the carrion birds feasted well after the previous battle. 

 

The walls were barren of all but red earth, however.

 

A phantom bird, mayhaps. Some odd divine or the other looking upon them. 

 

Marianne glanced upwards in exasperation, and caught the sight of two eagles circling each other high above them. Dawn sunlight glanced off their feathers, and their plumage shone gold.

 

“Are there golden eagles in the north?” she asked curiously.

 

“...In Sarawat?” he mused, “No, our eagles bear the colours of sand and earth, and are much smaller. Golden eagles do not come so far north.”

 

Marianne’s lips drew into a smile, “Then it appears this battle will not be lost.”

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