“Has word come from either Ferer or Alux?” Lukar asked the tall man beside him, looking down at where tents were being pitched. Tension ran through his army, noticeable by the constant looking over their shoulders and their stiff-legged motions. The men’s hands never strayed far from their weapons. None of the scouts had found any trace of eyes on them, yet the feeling persisted. Only the second day in Kureto and its desert, and his men’s nerves were stretched far too thin.
Duxon massaged the back of his neck with a grim frown. “One of my lieutenants sent a messenger late afternoon, My King.” He glanced up at the night sky. “I expected confirmation before now, but no word has been sent requesting another regiment.”
Where he stood at the top of a sand dune, Lukar turned to regard the faint light a short distance away from the main army. Tilting his chin at the campfire where the guards waited at the trapdoor, he said, “The guards show no concern. I trust both Ferer and Alux. The maps we found of the tunnels were vague, more hints than hard truths.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The distance to the city of Luthis might have been farther than we anticipated.”
“I can order a troop under one of my lieutenants to check the tunnel,” Duxon offered.
Lukar considered issuing the order, but he held back. No alarm had been raised by the men guarding the tunnel, and both sides of the trapdoor had experienced sentries. His army already acted spooked by the strangeness pervading the desert. Eyeing the two moons, he stifled his own shiver. It was as if a white shroud covered the sky, encasing them inside an invisible barrier. Instead of answering, he crouched down, grabbing a fistful of sand. The fine grains trickled through his fingers to the ground. Once his hand was empty, he slapped it against the side of his leg. The sand held not a hint of moisture, and Lukar wondered how long it had been since any water had touched the earth here. Perhaps the land was cursed. It’d explain the strangeness of the desert.
Straightening to his full height, Lukar stared at the horizon, aware that Duxon waited with a patience learned from years as a warrior. Cocking his head to the side, Lukar swept his gaze across the empty sky. Unease had taken residence in his bones. Not one of his councilors could determine whether it was from a potential attack or from the cursed land they traveled through. He reconsidered what happened last night when he and his counselors received another surprise. Their hunger for flesh had abated enough to want other foods. Lukar’s servants had scrambled to find another source of sustenance after unstrapping and removing Lukar’s still breathing sacrifice from the rack.
It was as if they had lost their appetite for human meat. At the time, Lukar had thought the change was brought upon by their peculiar surroundings. It had happened in the distant past, when the uncertainty of the coming battle had kept his men patrolling the edge of their camp. As much as he had fought the disturbing atmosphere of the desert, Lukar had been unsettled last night—still was, in fact. Sleep had escaped his grasp last night, leaving him to toss and turn, sitting up at every odd sound he heard. Throughout the day, he had paid attention to his body, taking note of the odd absence of hunger, so tonight’s meal, a repeat from the night before, did not unduly surprise him.
Lukar catalogued his body again. Aside from the distinct lack of hunger, he felt no different physically. Once he crossed into the desert, Semnac’s influence had disappeared. For the moment, his Goddess was apparently satisfied with his plan and destination, giving him back the ability to think without her gnawing rage clawing at him. He knew, though, if his army did not vanquish the Kurites in the manner she intended, Lukar would suffer the consequences.
That shuddering thought decided him. About to order Duxon to send a troop to the trapdoor, Lukar caught movement on the opposite sand dune. With a snarl, he sprinted down the dune and drew his sword. Brandishing his weapon in the direction of the attack, he roared down to his army below, “To arms! Battle formation.”
Duxon bellowed, “Blow the horn. We’re under attack. Form ranks.” The colonels and captains scrambled to do his bidding, and the sound of the battle horn wailing sent the army running to form defensive lines facing the pale-skinned army advancing toward them, buckling their armor as they ran. His silent guardians shoved his men aside when they reached the first row of tents.
In quick succession, horns from the Kurites blew, sending a wave of pale flesh charging down the dunes. Their screams of rage and triumph spread across the sand before them.
Duxon, jogging beside him, said, “We had no warning. How did they take out our sentries?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lukar growled, gnashing his teeth to keep his temper under control. He gauged the enemy in front of them, then said, “They set a trap. They could not have known the strength of our numbers.” With a glance, he estimated the size of the Kurite army. “We have the superior force. Flank the enemy on the right. We can use the sand dunes to our advantage. I will have Rawn do the same on the left.”
“It will be done.” Duxon split off from the small group heading toward the front line.
The first wave of infantrymen hit Lukar’s unprepared front line with a harsh battle cry. As he neared the battle, he took a moment to study the enemy for possible weaknesses in their armor. Their armor fit their lither bodies. Within the charging masses, he picked out the women who fought with the same savagery and discipline as the men beside them. Their shields caught his eye. Foreboding swept down his spine. Each enemy shield had a black feline head painted on it.
Into the chaos, he yelled, “Archers, protect the front line.”
Two captains commanding the archers took up the cry, “Archers! Find your marks.”
Behind the oncoming second wave of infantrymen, Lukar caught sight of a long line of enemy archers and crossbowmen standing along the high dune, only their heads and weapons vulnerable to his own army’s weapons. The screams of the Kurites heralded Malirran arrows finding their marks, and the encroaching second wave faltered. He watched in satisfaction as at least a third of the Kurite oncoming wave fell and rolled down the hill.
The higher ground the Kurites held gave them the advantage, and soon their arrows killed and injured his men. His front line began to fold, and the Kurites pushed forward.
He barked, “Shields up.” Even within the chaos, his order carried forward, and his men rallied, slamming their shields into place despite the weakening front line.
Finding a runner tucked behind the front and second line, Lukar motioned the young man over. “Find Rawn, pass on the order for him to take his men and flank the bastards on the left.”
With a deep bow, the runner streaked away, ducking arrows and short spears.
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Smelling the blood being spilled around him, his body almost spasmed with the need to hear his enemy scream. With a dark chuckle, Lukar waded into the fray, his guards pushing the men aside, allowing him to pass with barely a pause. With a loud snarl, Lukar blocked a spear meant for the man ahead of him, the strength behind his block snapped the shaft. With a backward strike, he slashed the Kurite’s neck, and blood sprayed from the wound.
Startled, the man he’d saved turned his head and his eyes widened. He stuttered, “King Lukar, my thanks.”
Although he recognized the man as one who had traveled on the same ship across the ocean, Lukar didn’t deign to respond and instead focused on killing the men and women that attacked him. Anger boiled within, giving him added strength, and soon he lost count of how many he killed. The Malirrans drew courage from his presence, and they closed the thinning front line. He flowed to the left to dodge an axe while slicing his blade across a woman’s vulnerable armpit. Not waiting to see whether the Kurite woman went down, he was already moving to kill the black-haired man wielding the axe.
Without warning, he was hit from the side. Within the crush of bodies, Lukar didn’t lose his footing, despite the dead littering the ground, instead changing the angle of his arm to sink his sword into the Kurite’s side, right above the hip. At the same time, a loud thunk drew his attention, one of his guardians had taken an arrow meant for him. With an almost silent groan, his man collapsed, blue fletching sticking out of his chest, a look of shock permanently etched onto his face. Lukar growled. How had he not seen the arrow? His abilities allowed his senses to alert him to such attacks.
“Guards, watch the skies,” he yelled. Though he wasn’t too worried. Given fair warning, his speed would save him from injury.
Lukar turned his attention back to the battle around him. He found three regiments of swordsmen waiting to attack, their shields held above their heads. Covered in arrows, most of the shields resembled the sharply bristled pernines from home.
He called out, “Third block, attack!”
Lukar’s cry was repeated until the swordsmen ran forward to protect the first and second line of infantry.
The roar of hundreds of animals cascaded through the small valley, causing Lukar to jerk his head around to face the ferocious sound. The roars came from just beyond the hill on the right, where he’d sent Duxon. He snarled his misgivings but turned his attention back to the fight before him. Lukar trusted the commander to outmaneuver the enemy, even if they did use beasts.
One of the second captains, Kosh, approached him on swift legs, having tossed his shield over his shoulders to protect his vulnerable back. “My King,” he gasped, sucking in air only to blow it back out. “The men are holding the front line. The second line reinforced the line in time before it completely folded.”
Keeping his eyes on the battle, Lukar nodded once. “I sent Duxon and Rawn to flank the Kurites. Although we had no forewarning, we outnumber the Kurites.” As he spoke, he watched a shorter Kurite warrior fight against one of his men in the distance. The shorter, black-haired warrior wielded a slighter sword, fighting off the towering Malirran by dancing around him, striking when an opening presented itself. Hearing a high-pitched battle cry from the Kurite as the blade found a weakness in the other’s armor, Lukar blinked. The fighter had been killed by a woman. With new eyes, he studied the battlefield, the light-colored sands drenched with blood. He repeated, “We outnumber them by more than double, including the beasts the Kurites are using. It should not be long before we have routed the enemy. How did they bypass our sentries without warning?”
“I do not know, My King. I believe our sentries were dispatched.” The man knocked an arrow away with his sword. “Might I ask where they came from, My King?”
“I—” Lukar paused, smirking at the spear arching through the air. Calculating its trajectory, he warned Kosh, “Incoming.”
“Have they no understanding of the strength and agility Semnac gifted us with?” A smug look stamped across his councilor’s face, Kosh waited until the spear was almost to him before he stepped aside, relying on the speed eating flesh gave him.
Except, Kosh did not step aside fast enough, and the steel head drove through his neck, spraying blood behind him. His personal guards tightened their circle around Lukar before Kosh hit the ground.
“Impossible,” he spat out. Any of his men could have easily slipped out of impending danger. Instead, his movement had been as slow as the regular army. The spear had slowed, but the downward angle of the heavy weapon had given it the necessary force. His eyes narrowed at the enemy. All the hints of the past two days ran through his head. The absence of hunger. Semnac’s scarce presence. To test whether this new knowledge was correct, he whipped his weapon up.
His muscles strained to complete the quick move. Slow, human slow.
For the first time in over a decade, fear took root.
Had this mysterious enemy cast a spell? Or had Semnac forsaken them?
The thundering roars of victory reached him, and Lukar turned to face the direction Duxon had gone. In the place of the Malirran regiments stood hundreds of black felines, the slash of gold eyes in the night caused him to swallow hard. The animals were huge, these pakas were something out of myths. These were not mindless, magic-induced animals crouched or standing along the top of the dune. No, these pakas were intelligent and well-trained warriors.
A deep scream boomed out of one of the animals, and as one they leapt down the hill, smashing into Lukar’s unprepared right wing. In an instant, the right infantry formation crumbled under the massive claws and vicious teeth of the pakas.
He strode forward, barking orders, “Interlock shields. Hold the line. Archers, to the right.”
The archers shifted their targets to the right, but it was already too late. If they shot now, they chanced killing their own men. Lukar paced, blocking the stray arrow or spear that was aimed his way with a louder and louder growl. Another eerie scream whipped his head around.
On the left, in the small valley between two tall dunes, another flanking wave of pakas charged the left wing of Lukar’s army. The left wing dissolved as he watched, the vicious attack shattering whatever discipline his men still held.
Sweeping the battlefield, he realized that the Kurites had outflanked his men. They were being hammered from three sides, pinning his army until they fought back to back. The lack of space hampered his men even more. It left only one strategy—the first time he’d ever had to give the order.
“Retreat! Blow the horn for a retreat,” Lukar hissed.
The battle horn blasted three long notes, signaling a full retreat.
He waited until he saw the majority of his men close in on him, keeping their weapons and shields up to block the enemy. Archers retreated, only to turn around and shoot into the enemy line, giving his infantry time to retreat. He had yet to see any of his councilors.
“King Lukar,” a soft voice said.
He turned, bringing his sword up at the same time.
The older man gulped before bowing low. Without looking up, he held out the reins of the koti. “Your mount,” he stated needlessly.
His personal guards were already mounted, protecting him by surrounding him with larger targets. He put his foot in the stirrup and jumped up. Taking one last look of the battlefield, Lukar noticed that the Kurites no longer attacked but merely forced his remaining army to retreat toward the Pyranni border. He guided his koti around the flattened, destroyed tents. His rage grew as he passed his dead. Their ruined faces or broken bodies fed the fire burning within him. The three regiments that marched underground, he knew, had died in battle—probably before this battle had even begun, and he had never known.
He worked his jaw, his teeth grinding, the muscles in his neck flexed. Sitting rigid in his saddle, he kept his pace slow, shepherding his beleaguered army back the way they came. Men carried their fellow warriors over their shoulders, while others cradled injured arms and torsos. Many of his men no longer had their main weapon, dropping them in favor of escaping the stronger force and assisting the wounded. Groans floated to him, though the sound carried oddly in this cursed desert.
Curse his Goddess. She had driven him to ruin. Approximately two thirds of his army lay dead around and behind him, an offering to the desert. His hands held the reins with a white-knuckled grip. For the first time, he experienced defeat at the hands of a people and land that had every advantage.
She had not warned him. She had not warned any of her servants despite the daily sacrifices they provided.
For that alone, he wanted to kill Semnac himself.
After he slaughtered all the Kurites.