Chapter 4 Missing

[frenzied67]

soldiers. Though the lieutenant seemed like he had never had a nice day, his mood visibly soured on seeing the horsemen. His arm swept down giving the order for the Eighth Platoon to march. Gilserand had to perform an about face, then he raised his own spear and began to stomp forward; the sound of forty five booted feet matched the cadence of his step.

After ten paces, he shouldered his weapon and stared at the open maw of the barbican and the rearmost portcullis that would be lowered after the last soldier had sortied out. In the dark, made worse by the miserable weather, Gil felt his marching step come down on something soft and yielding. A second later the barnyard smell reached his nostrils. The cavalry mounts were leaving deposits in their wake, crap that Gilserand and his fellows had to step in and track. Yup, this is the glamorous life I signed up for, he thought, before he broke into a delighted grin. I'm a corporal now! Even stomping in fecal matter was not going to steal this achievement away from him, though a corporal was the most transitory rank in the military. A soldier could be made corporal one day, then the rank taken and given to another for little or no excuse. Still, it meant that officers would now take him seriously, observe him for more possible advancements.

After clearing the barbican, the road turned north for near a hundred yards, before it turned west again to cross the stout little bridge. Two platoons were in the lead, blocking the impatient cavalry from racing ahead. Gilserand thought for sure that the horse troops were contemplating trying to ford Rularic creek near his fishing spot, their unruly formation barely retaining the stone roads surface as the animals pranced from one side to the other. Behind him whispers began to circulate, for the first time since the alarm bells had began to clatter Gilserand's mates could see four black plumes smeared across the north west horizon. This reminder of danger did steal away with Gil's sense of accomplishment.

I'm supposed to be in charge of nine other men, and my first day on the job we might see combat. How is that fair? Even though the concept of fairness had been beaten out of Gilserand when he was six, the idea resurfaced as stress and doubt began to build in his mind. After nearly one hundred infantry men cleared the bridge, the cavalry darted off the mud road and into the fields. They headed directly for the smoke plumes rather than following the arrow straight west bound roadway. When the Eighth Platoon hit the bridge, Gil could feel the whole construction drum, the vibrating wood thrumming through the soles of his boots into his feet. Footfalls so precise that a general would weep with pride.

Leaving the bridge was a different experience. Though the ground was still mostly frozen there was a glaze of slick mud that broke up the platoon's steps. The deep ruts from farmer's wagons made slipping impossible to avoid. Lieutenant Guerlach strode up to Gilserand's position at the fore, his perpetual sour demeanor showing extra spice. He watched the soldiers ahead struggling through the slick muck, then back at his own men who were also falling and sullying their uniforms.

"Sir, permission to lead the men off the road where the footing is better?" The officer looked surprised, his blue eyes digging at Gil as though searching for mockery or sabotage. After a few seconds, he responded in the same low tones as Gilserand's request.

"Show us the way, Rivenheart."

Bringing the spear off his shoulder, Gilserand raised it high with one hand, then swept it down and to the right. This showed the Eighth Platoon the correction to their course and they followed him to the verge of the road on the right. Though the grass had been beaten down by winter it was not muddy, they immediately started gaining on the units ahead of them because of their surer footing. Soon, all the other platoons before them and behind began to imitate the Eighth's maneuver. The nearly three hundred guards that had sortied out of Alren were now moving at a respectable clip, almost as fast as if they were still on the planed stones of a road. Before they reached the first turn off leading to a farm south of the mud road, the clopping of a trotting horse came up on the other side of the marchers.

On a brown horse with a long white patch running from it's forehead nearly to it's nostrils, Captain Kinnert came astride of Lieutenant Guerlach and himself. With a nod of his battered features, the captain pulled Guerlach out of formation. They were whispering to each other before Gil lost sight of them. I guess we are about to find out what we are supposed to do out here, he thought, fresh nervousness roiling in his gut. Before too many minutes had passed, the captain rode by, trotting up to the Second Platoon ahead.

"Goenz, Garr, Tangier, Rivenheart!" Lieutenant Guerlach ordered, summoning his noncoms. Gilserand's voice joined three others issuing the necessary command.

"Keep marching!"

All he saw as he dropped out of line was a batch of masks, young men and women trying to keep fear off their faces, but unable to obfuscate that it was also in their eyes. To Gil, Lieutenant Guerlach's lack of sourness or disdain was very odd. When they were all huddled the officer's eyes flicked to his troops marching passed.

"Just got the word. Our magisters are not coming. They don't want to risk themselves. There is supposed to be reinforcements or something coming from Bolloren," The way the bulbous nosed man let his mouth tighten up spoke of withheld emotion.

"What are we supposed to do? We can't go in those woods and not have the means to get out," Sergeant Goenz muttered, his eyes also flicking to those marching.

Built like a Gachtler, shortish and thick with muscle, Sergeant Garr kept his eyes on the lieutenant. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

"Our boys and girls aren't trained yet. We don't have any of 'em that are specialists, none of them have stage three training." Grimacing at both sergeant's too quick observations, Lieutenant Guerlach held his hand up and gestured for them to stop. Rather than just speaking softly, their superior dropped into a whisper as though they were crafting a conspiracy

"We're not going to engage. The forest is off limits, for now. Our orders are for us to set up along Oldbeard's edges and get a count of the enemy. Whoever they are."

Both the sergeants studied their commanding officer for a moment, but just as they began nodding an acceptance or appreciation of the orders, Corporal Tangiers blurted.

"This feels like bad politics. Who will protect the farmers if we don't?" Garr wore disdain like a shield while the lieutenant shot the corporal a nasty look. Gil felt it necessary to correct his peer before the older men snapped at him.

"Have you ever walked into a strange alley without backup? Not pretty. Until we know who we're up against, the best service we can do the farmers is keep ourselves alive. We need a good plan, one where whoever-they-are do most of the dying; not us."

Gilserand had to do a double take. Lieutenant Guerlach was grinning at him, something like pride on his face. No it was vindication. The two sergeants grinned like Gil had told a joke.

"Since when did you learn history and war theory?" Sergeant Goenz asked looking at Gil like he was a child mimicking grown up talk. Unsettled by his nearby nemesis' happy mien, it took Gil a few seconds before the perfect rejoinder came to him.

"Hey, I liked history. My teacher was hot." No one saw the humor coming. All four of his companions snorted in surprise, then broke into chortles or guffaws; drawing more than one eye from the soldiers still on the move. In that moment, even as he was drawn into the laughter, he saw something that would stick with him for the rest of his life. The private soldiers went from dour and scared, to confident while watching the five of them chuckling and snorting with mirth. Fighting men and women drew a lot of their reaction cues from how their commissioned and non commissioned officers acted.

Moving back to the front of the Eighth required a bit of trotting for Gilserand, but the exertion felt minimal due to his sense of self satisfaction. Not only had he observed and learned his important lesson, but he had also seen a human side to the two sergeants and in the lieutenant he had been certain was seeking his personal destruction. They don't want us to fight whoever is raiding the farms. That feels good. I might get a chance to figure this noncom thing out before there's any real stress. Once installed in his position at the front of the platoon, his elation began to fade in the face of the long trudge before them. Lieutenant Guerlach would come up and march beside him every once in a while, but the man did not converse at those times; he just marched for a bit, then fell back to be with another noncom and their squad.

I wish they would invent a clock that could be carried, Gil thought after what felt like hours. The monotony of the grasslands and passing farms was not relieved by the great forest looming before them and the sun that seemed to race for the horizon. We won't have a lot of daylight left when we get there. That observation brought about reservations. Would the guard have to march back to Alren in the dark? Were they supposed to set up a hasty camp and hope there was no night attack? There was no one willing to share a plan with him, so his imagination, as usual, tried to fill the blank places with ideas that fed his uncertainties.

After his dark daydreams started to repeat themselves he began to make out horse soldiers riding parallel to the hoary forest cantering south. In the waning light, Gilserand could also see great fringes of pale moss dangling off bare branches stirring in the evening breeze. The trees seemed like an army of old robed men, giant in stature. Even the forbidding nature of the forest was beginning to influence Gil's imagination, then a lone cavalry officer rode back from the west and broke his mental games. The individual spent a few moments conferring with Lieutenant Tigraff and Captian Abelaird, the officers in charge of the Seventeenth Platoon. Second Platoon was passing by that trio when they finished, the woman cavalry officer called the Second's officers to her to consult with them.

Lieutenant Guerlach trotted by, moving up to the meeting of officers ahead. Something was going on. I wish I could hear what was being said. I don't like this not knowing, it is like the torments the Burning Spirits deliver on people who disobey. The Seventeenth pivoted to the north making an angle for the black smoke plumes, those emergency beacons were beginning to fade as the sun sank lower and lower. It would be fully dark in another hour, hour and a half. The officers of the Second Platoon began issuing orders to change their direction south, beginning to cross the road before Gils commanding officer parted with the cavalry major. That woman spurred her horse to ride back on the column, evidently directing the infantry into the positions they were supposed to take.

Marching backwards before Gilserand, Lieutenant Guerlach called out loud enough for the whole platoon to hear.

"Corporal Rivenheart, keep them heading on our present course!" Those sharp blue eyes watched Gil bring his spear off his shoulder, adjust to a mid shaft grip, raise the weapon to an attention catching height, then sweep the razor tipped weapon straight ahead. One of those irritating procedures that was meant to keep confusion at bay. I could have kept marching and have had the same effect on the platoon. I wonder if anyone will explain the meaning of this too me, there's got to be a reason for it. Evidently his performance was acceptable, the lieutenant drifted back, spreading his stern looks on every soldier under his command. This was an action that made Gilserand's nervousness return.

The sun's angle made the forest's shadow seem to reach for the Eighth at the mud road's end, as if the trees were eager to block off their light. Every one of the platoons that had marched out of the west barbican seemed to be marching for a different position before Oldbeard, making Gilserand wonder if they would even have support if an enemy did appear from the wilderness. The worlds most massive choir of crickets and frogs sang from hidden pews within the tangled limbs of the trees, and as promised, the sun was completely barricaded off. When they were close to a hundred yards from the outermost formation of trees, Guerlach called a halt. That forest seemed to watch them, expecting the guard to put on a street performer act.

The lieutenant moved to the fore to join Gilserand. Gil never noticed a summons from the officer, but the other three noncoms peeled off from their squads and moved up also. making a gesture that was quite obvious, Lieutenant Guerlach made the whole platoon huddle up around them.

"Alright, we are setting up camp here. No palisade, no ditch, just a couple of big bonfires set up on both flanks," the officer said, looking around to see if he had everyone's attention. "Our tents and cots are coming, so don't fret about that. Our first job is to glean wood from Oldbeard. I want Eighth and Tenth squad in the trees gathering all the dry wood you can find. Ninth and Eleventh, you stay just this side of the trees giving them cover. We are being observed by the Sauri so keep your eyes peeled. Those of you looking for wood, never let the odd squads out of your sights, and if the Sauri come at you fall back immediately."

When their officer mentioned they were being watched, universally every eye tried to pierce the forest's dim lighting. "Goenz, Garr, I want you to detail two men each to lay a bed of rocks or green wood, we need platforms for our two fires," the lieutenant continued. Let's get this done before the sun goes all the way down. Dismissed." Out of ingrained habit, Gilserand cut to the left, the position the Eighth Squad always assumed.

"Eighth Squad form up on me!" he shouted, holding his spear up to be seen, just as his new noncom peers did with their soldiers. Camping had only been briefly covered in boot camp, the lore only slightly built upon during both his stints in weapon's training.

As his guard unit formed around him, Gilserand reviewed what little he had learned as he led them towards the brooding trees. "Ritter, Heidel, I want you two to start lopping off some stout green branches. We're going to need a dry bed to put our wood on, make a platform about ten foot by ten foot. When you two are done with that join the rest of us gathering fire wood. All of you, don't worry about cutting the wood up to size in there, we can do that back at camp. When your arms are full get out and drop your loads off as fast as you can. And always, keep your eyes open in there, we might have lizards as company. Never let the Ninth out your sights, we search north to south never further west. " Lords of Light and Life, help me give the right orders to these guards, they are your children and they are in need. I must keep them alive. Please.

Still praying silently, Gilserand jumped when Jaffe asked a question.

"Why don't we just chop one of these oak trees down. There's enough wood in one of them for both fires." At first Gil wanted to agree with the tall lanky private, but he began to remember facts about green wood not liking to burn when Private Tulauten spoke up.

"Green wood in winter won't catch on fire. That's why we pick up dead fall and chop up trees that have been down for a year or more. They're seasoned and ready to burn." Though he had never received that detailed information in the guards, it made sense to Gil. He turned around and pointed at the often disagreeable soldier while tapping his temple with his other hand. That let the squad know that he agreed with Tulauten, which surprised that soldier to no end. They had clashed more than meshed these last few weeks.

Passing through the outer rank of trees transformed his men immediately. Their movements became slow as if they were fugitives sneaking by searching wardens. Watchful eyes darted to each movement, be it a bird taking flight or a branch being influenced by wind. They spread out in a line with seven or eight feet between each other, picking up branches laying between the twisted moss robed trees; their tightly clutched spears not cooperating with their efforts. Gil realized that despite all the cord wood he had carted growing up, he was still just a city boy outside the walls for the first time. None of the wood he found and cradled were uniform pieces, which made his efforts awkward with each stout chunk he found. Jaffe found a fallen maple laying in his path, he and Hougeman began to shag the prize out immediately. That stout log would feed a big fire for many hours just by itself.

Grinning at the initiative his squad was showing Gilserand froze at a slight movement two dozen yards in front of him. In the dim light his eyes picked out an anomalous dark shape among the shadows. A manlike figure was crouched atop a tall stump observing the Eighth Squad, a long stone tipped spear in one hand. The arm attached to that spear bulged with muscle, the equally muscular neck was too long to Gil's eye. Yellow slit eyes were locked onto him set in a monitor lizard face. The uneven scaled lips had overlapping spikes of teeth protruding either up or down in no logical pattern. Green body scales had uneven striations of brown paint on them helping the figure more easily blend with its surroundings.

The Sauri wore a loin cloth with several sheathed knives positioned around it's waist. An arm band of bronze encased one burly bicep, and ankle bracelets adorned both legs; black bird like talons formed hooks coming out of each toe. The long tail looked like that of an alligator he had once seen in a traveling menagerie when younger.

"Rivenheart!" Though Private Machen had whispered his name, there was still enough alarm to make the voice carry. Awkwardly clutching an almost full armload of branches, Machen was pointing at an area north of the Sauri Gil had discovered. He found another set of yellow eyes from a head that towered over the bushes before it. His men froze in place, as still as the Sauri observing them. Everywhere he looked Gilserand began to make out more and more of the lizard like men watching them.

Being discovered did not instigate any display from the primitive Sauri, the still figures seemed content to observe. That in itself was unnerving. Gilserand felt his eyes narrow as he made certain they were not being advanced upon. He could feel his own people looking at him too, waiting for him to tell them what to do. On a whim, he freed an arm and waved at the figure on the stump. Yellow eyes blinked, but again the Sauri just sat watching. Gil thought about praying yet again as he had no orders on how to cover this strange eventuality.

"Okay, we keep working, but we don't move closer to these Sauri. Head south. Machen, you have a nice load. Let Sergeant Goenz know we have contact in here on your way to drop your haul off," he ordered, glancing back and finding reassurance in the eight human figures just outside the tree line.

After Gil's squad shifted course, still gleaning branches, the Sauri began to move parallel to them. The Ninth Squad moved as well. Triple lines of people in the worlds most bizarre tableau. The number of Sauri that he could see tripled when they began to move in concert with him, nearly a hundred of them, there had been a lot of the savage race that had been extremely well hidden until they stood up. Only the figure on the stump made a sound, a hiss that seemed to come from a titanic set of bellows. Is that supposed to be speech? Gilserand wondered, creeped out by what was transpiring. When it stood up he could see some sort of trident like symbol painted or stained onto the loincloth; the creature joined its fellows in tracking the armored Humans, it towered over all of its reptilian kin.

When Gilserand picked up a nice wrist thick branch to add to his other pickings he realized he had enough of an armful to justify leaving the woods to make a delivery. That idea just did not sit well with him. What am I doing? I ordered these guys to continue gathering wood after we saw these Sauri. I can't leave them now! After a few moments of struggle he thought of just handing his load off onto someone who was just coming back from a delivery. Just as he started casting about for a courier, Schuegler called out.

"Rivenheart.., uh, corporal!" The enlistee was pointing to a hefty log next to himself. A sense of relief filled Gil when he saw that oak log, it was big, much larger than the tree Hougeman and Jaffe had carried out. He did not have to call out to the Eighth to have them gather around, everyone drifted over, even Tulauten who was just returning from a delivery.

Deeper in the hoary trees the Sauri settled down, watching with yellow eyes that blinked sideways when they even blinked at all. Schuegler's tree specimen was much larger closer up, and at first Gilserand had doubts that all ten of them could drag such a log.

"Damn, that 's too big," someone said. Gil looked back at the Sauri, those lizard like faces showed him nothing at all; the eyes displayed no emotion, no matter which lizard man he viewed.

"We are going to try. If we haul this baby out, we might not have to come back in here," he said. That concept was enough to sway the entire squad without him having to argue or debate.

A lot of the boys dropped the loads they had been carrying, but a few seconds later they watched their new noncom settle his armful of wood in the dead oaks branches. The idea of not coming back to face the Sauri was popular enough that everyone picked up their previously gleaned wood and imitated Gil. All the while yellow orbs seemed to glow in the dim light; a lot of eyes. When Gilserand faced backwards into Oldwood, he set himself to grip a branch near the main trunk; a lot of his troop followed suit, showing the Sauri a watchful front as they would be backing out of the trees. Almost every man prepared to back out of the woodlands. Expecting they would have to walk the tree out with many starts and stops, they were surprised when the ten of them together easily lifted the whole log. Only the top branches dragged the ground as they worked their way to the forest's edge.

Sergeant Goenz settled next to Gilserand, his round face steeped with the general issue sourness all sergeants were programmed to display.

"What were you doing in there, kid? Weren't you supposed to bug out if you met the lizards?" the older man whispered with venom. Half of the Ninth Squad folded in with his soldiers, grabbing onto a branch and applying their backs to the work. Five others fanned out as a rearguard, their spears aimed at the trees as if there was a score they wanted to settle with the oaks and maples.

"Our orders were to retreat if the Sauri attacked. They didn't attack." Gil's answer made the training sergeant grunt noncommittally.

Staunze, one of Goenz soldiers made her own contribution to the whisper session.

"The Tenth ran out of the trees like they had met a dragon," she said, grinning as though the event had been funny. The next private to speak was behind Gil, so he could not identify the speaker. They did not whisper.

"They refused to go back into the woods. Lieutenant Guerlach didn't argue with 'em about it. Do you think we might have to go back in there?" Even outside of the forest, the light had become quite dim. Evening had taken hold of the land while they had been in Oldbeard. Please don't order us back into that forest, Gil begged in his mind.

Again Sergeant Goenz grunted, but a few moments later he verbalized Gilserand's feelings.

"Better hope not. Those lizard freaks can see in the dark, we can't." Again it was as though someone was in his brain giving voice to his questions as he thought them.

"They can see in the dark, Sarge? How do you know that?" Tulauten inquired in his terse manner. No one took exception to the private's tone; it had not been that confrontational of a delivery.

"Fought 'em before. They like to sneak attack at night because the dark gives 'em an advantage," the Sergeant admitted, his face still hard and disapproving. "The big ones are really strong, but even the small ones are tough as hell. Watch out for their damn tails. They'll try to sweep your legs out from under you or knock your stupid heads off with 'em. When you block their tails, they'll poke or chop you with their weapons, or vice versa. They're fast and mean, and they have no concept of mercy."

A lot of private's and one corporal turned their eyes back to the forest after that information. They all thought long and hard about what was out there. For the second time in one day Lieutenant Guerlach had a smile on his face.

"Lords of Light and Life be praised! That is a beautiful haul!" the officer proclaimed at the fore of the rest of the platoon streaming out to meet them. "That looks like it will feed both our fires tonight, don't you think, Private Tangiers?" Gilserand did not listen to the quavering reply Tangiers offered Lieutenant Guerlach. What struck him was how tenuous the rank of corporal was. Even a sergeant could bust one back to enlisted status. He glanced over at Sergeant Goenz and wondered how much his fate rested with that man's opinion, the sergeant was in charge of both the Eighth and the Ninth squads.

Gil was just Goenz's assistant who minded the Eighth Squad for the senior noncom. "I want the Tenth and Eleventh to break these trees apart and get the fire started. Eighth and Ninth, you guys take a break, get some rations in you. Our tents are on the way, we will all have to pitch in to get them and the cots up. So get at it." Amid all the groans that issued from the squads sentenced to labor, Gilserand caught a lot of smiles from Eighth and Ninth Squad members that were aimed his way. Even Goenz clapped him on his shoulder. Spreading out around where the southern bonfire would be laid, Sergeant Goenz's two squads began to dig rations from their back packs.

Though the ground was not muddy, it was still saturated with moisture. Like everyone else Gilserand turned his helmet into a seat, sitting on the dome even while the cheek and neck guards sank into the winter trammeled grass. After digging one wooden ration box from his pack, Gil was about to discover what smoked or jerked meat there would be, what shriveled vegetables, and which mystery fruit he had been given when he heard his voice called.

"Rivenheart, front and center!" Lieutenant Guerlach demanded. The officer was in between where both fires would be laid, his eyes on the laboring squads nearby.

"Sir," he announced after running up. His meal, pack, and helmet had been left behind, but Gil still clutched his spear. He was given a quick glance by the officer, a gesture that made Guerlach seem evasive for some reason.

There was a pause before the Eighth Platoon's leader started speaking.

"You did good today, Corporal Rivenheart. Not only back at the barbican, but here in the woods. You kept your nerve and brought us all the wood we would ever need...." Here Lieutenant Guerlach paused, after another guilt laden look Gil's way.

"Sir, it was Private Schuegler who found the last fallen tree," he said, thinking it was right for him to give credit where it was due. Now the lieutenant looked fully at Gil, and for a third time an out of place smile played about the older man's lips.

"Why didn't you retreat when you discovered the Sauri in there?" Gilserand blinked, but gave his honest answer.

"Sir, they were just watching us. They kept their distance and I had my orders to gather wood. You told us to retreat if the Sauri came for us-"

"There! There it is!" Guerlach interrupted poking the air in front of Gil's chest to drive an invisible point home.

The man had self satisfied eyes as he seemed to drink in Gil's features, as proud as a fabricator who had just crafted the next revolutionary machine. "You kept the mission paramount and took the time to see the situation for what it really was. A lot of people told me you had it in you. You'll be happy to know I have sent word of your promotion back to head quarters. With luck we can put your pips on your uniform when the wagon gets here." Suddenly the proprietorial smile vanished and the lieutenants eyes shied off of Gil's. "I want to apologize to you for the treatment I gave you. I was under orders." That last was whispered, hushed and conspiratorial.

"Wh- what? Uh, Sir?"

Instead of an answer, the officer gave him another puzzle.

"Never mind. One day, all this that was done to you will be explained. I hope that on that day, you will find the mercy of The Lords of Light and Life in your soul and you forgive me. Dismissed Corporal." Lieutenant Guerlach donned his usual expression, with his hard unforgiving eyes. Here was a man expecting more fecal matter to be heaped upon his already crappy day. The man's transition did nothing to alleviate Gilserands troubled mind. He was under orders? Orders to do what? Has all this Burning Spirits torment he's given me been on purpose? Forgiveness? No. No way. Gil knew his conclusions had to be wrong, he had not been given enough detail to know what Lieutenant Guerlach had been blathering on about. Is his promoting me what he's talking about? What orders could he have been given to move me up? Why am I supposed to forgive him for that?

Back at his hard metal seat, he cracked the wax around the ration box's rim with his dagger. Gilserand's thoughts still bothered him as he plucked out one of three large chunks of some jerked meat; the large withered carrot and jaw breaking dried banana chips rounded out his meal. Gnawing was the only way to break a piece of the stiff leather like meat off. Flavor leached onto his tongue as he chewed, a very decent savory taste, but his jaw muscles felt the strain after that one bite. He's singled me out every day, and he wants me to forgive him? Though Gil was still mystified from his talk with his leader, a bitterness wanted to step in.

"Hey Corporal," Machen blurted as he and several other soldiers came over. All of them carried a ration box, but seemed in no hurry to eat. "Ritter and Heidel don't believe me when I tell them you waved at the Sauri." The two doubters were in the knot of onlookers, as well as Sergeant Goenz.

Gil shrugged at Private Machen's expectancy, not really wanting to be distracted from puzzling out the lieutenant's words.

"I wanted them to know we saw them. They might have thought they were cleverly hidden. These savage races don't think like we do."

"Ha! See!" Machen stomped his foot while waving a finger at everyone who had doubted him. Ritter looked shocked

"That's mad. The Burning Spirits took your wits- ur, uh, Corporal." Even Private Machen stopped celebrating his I-told-you-so moment when Sergeant Goenz spoke up.

"What else did you notice about 'em?" At that point Gil had crunched off a bite of his large but wizened carrot, he held his finger up as he quickly chewed the tasteless vegetable.

With a mouth dryer after the carrot than before, he began to catalog what he remembered about the Sauri.

"They use paint to camouflage themselves. They have a mix of stone and metal weapons. All of them carried a lot of knives. The ones we saw at first wanted us to see them, two thirds of their whole lot stayed hidden until we moved. We would have gotten a nasty surprise if we had attacked. I think this whole situation today, the attack on the farms, the meeting us guard's in the forest, that was all a set up. I think the Sauri are testing us, testing our reactions, seeing our weapons and our numbers. They are sizing us up to see what they are up against." As he was laying out his observations, he saw the expressions of the enlisted men begin to fall, but the sergeant nodded at each point as if he was affirming each point Gil made.

Another idea struck the new minted corporal after a few initial chomps failed to break meat away from the jerky. "Oh yea, I think there were a lot more of them hidden in the woods that didn't want to be seen. They outnumber our six platoons." This last statement almost made Heidel challenge him, but the sergeant straightened the guard in training out with his confirmation.

"You can bank on that. They have to have large numbers when facing any of the races who can use relics. No matter which way you turn, there's always going to be a batch of 'em trying to flank you." After killing their jovial mood, the knot of guards moved away from Gilserand; leaving him alone with his troubled thoughts.

After two pieces of meat and the carrot, Gil drizzled water from his canteen on the banana chips. Eating the last bit of jerky almost wore his jaw out, but it had taken a lot of time. The water had taken the fruit from a rock like state to something that was almost malleable. He was able to chew the chips without chipping his own pearly whites. Other bonfires also flared up to the left and right of the Eighth Platoon's camp, and even behind them. Gilserand was able to figure out that each platoon was staggered out in chessboard fashion, staged to confront the forest and support each other. After studying the set up, Gilserand began to see the wisdom behind the encampments which eased some of his fears.

Eighth and Ninth Squads were deployed in guard positions when the Tenth and Eleventh were given leave to eat. All Gil and his men had to do was fan out around the fire with their eyes set to watch the woods. A half an hour into this time killing watch someone noticed a number of lights on the road coming from Alren.

"Hey, is that our replacements? Are we going to get to go home?" Jaffe asked, the longing in his voice tugging at Gil's own sentiments. Mutters began to circulate, Gilserand could even hear the other squads making the same assumptions Jaffe had.

"Silence!" Sergeant Garr's deep voice resounded, quieting everyone. Universally, the guards in training acted like rebuked children, refusing to meet each other's eyes, and brooding on their hurt feelings.

"That is most likely our tents and extra supplies. No one ever said anything about relief being sent to us," Gil observed out loud, but not too loud.

The truth he had observed sank in. One trainee after another lost the sulkiness they had been nursing as they began to remember what Lieutenant Guerlach had actually said earlier. Soon discussions began to resume whether the soldiers were chewing food tougher than shoe leather, or watching the black forest edge. Above the clouds began to relent, a few stars began to peep from drifting tatters between shadowed sheets. The nail clipping of a moon was already directly overhead, and the evening was still so young. Gilserand broke from his watch position and drifted to the eastern side of their fire. Though the lanterns were still distant Gil was glad to see more light defying the chill darkness. He did not linger in looking though, he had to return to his post and be an example to the others.


"No! We not search for Tricky Trillam savior woman!" The Gobesh chieftain announced, sweeping his hand through the air to show his unwillingness to continue with this line of negotiation. Chief Juktashuk crossed his greenish brown arms over his amazing display of bead and metal necklaces, his broad mouth set in a titanic frown. Little wisps of gray hair adorned the Gobesh leaders chin, which was thicker than the hairs remaining on his large pumpkin gourd shaped head. Blexi wondered how Chief Juktashuk's large pointed ears would be laying if they were as articulated as his own. Trying not to show his fangs in frustration Blexi attempted to argue.

"We are not asking you to search for this woman, we are just asking if you have seen anyone matching her description in the last twelve or so years. Did she travel through your territories or trade with your people?"

Obstinately the little Gobesh leader let his pendulous lower lip pout out.

"You not tricky like your mad magic man. We Sandulhu not look for savior woman for you. Not our religion, Lords of Light and Life true religion. Not grasp-at-wind falseness of mad magic man, Tricky Trillam religion. We talk of trade or not talk at all." Of course Blexi felt he had to correct the Gobesh's mislabeling of the Trillam Trumage movement.

"We are not a religious movement. We are a movement of unity and peace for all peoples...." Blexi the Gachtler knew his words were useless when the tribe leader turned his head away like a child determined to ignore the person they did not like. His ears wilted in defeat as Blexi abandoned his line of dialogue. "Okay, we will trade with you. My partner, Istilirial has picked out a very nice gift for you, we hope you will let us pass through your lands in peace. Let us have an hour and my people will display the wares we have to show your mighty and just people."

Instantly Chief Juktashuk was all delighted grin and friendly handshakes.

"Yes, we trade. Sandulhu have good tasty food, and nice cloak made for big folk, bigger folk, and biggest folk. We will have peace as you travel, Sandulhu like mad magic man followers." Yea, sure you like us. You just don't like us enough to answer our questions, Blexi complained in his thoughts, careful again not to let his ears lay back or expose his fangs. The Gachtler envoy rolled to his knees so he could crawl out of the chieftain's tent, his eyes locking onto the quilted cloth that made up the A-frame style construction. The outer layers were completely weather proofed somehow, and the inner layer easily trapped heat in the winter and breathed in cool air in the hotter months. His Gachtler instincts made him want to know how this tribe of Gobesh crafted their simple looking tents, the efficiency of the material was just too astounding.

Outside, Gobesh women and children offered Blexi their broad grins as they set out wares. Gobesh pottery and textiles were affixed to sapling wood pack frames. Woven river grass and pottery containers were being filled with smoked meats, grain and berry cakes, as well as round bread, and other food stuff. The few Gobesh men Blexi saw were busy crafting wares that would replace those that would be traded off over the next couple of days, especially baskets and pottery objects. He gave the nearest Sandulhu tribes people a return grin and bow, his action was accepted with delighted smiles and an increased buoyancy in the way they labored. They are a very polite people in their own odd way, most people only know their savage reputation because they don't show the Gobesh respect.

Scores of the little A-frame tents were scattered about, nested in brush and set under all the oak trees. Natural dyed coloring formed splotches and striations on the shelter's fabric so that they blended with their surroundings. If one did not know what to look for, a person could walk through and never realize a camp was there. Now, little brownish green bodies entered and exited those tents producing the trade goods that would be exchanged in a little bit of time. All the Gobesh, men and women, wore loin clothes of treated hide. Only the children did not have bronze or gold arm bands around their left and right arms, and every one wore necklaces; lots of eclectic styles of necklaces. The women all had their black hair pulled back and bound by copper hair bands, the men wore theirs in tight top knots held by leather string; the tassels strung with silver and ceramic beads.

The trail back to Blexi's camp was nothing more than a deer path that meandered through the Ahurinidan Forest. Technically this was territory claimed by the city state Ilegulan, a Faelora nation, however the savage races were actually this land's true residents. The citizens of Ilegulan, and the towns and villages huddled around her, only came out into the wilderness in armed bands for very brief amounts of time. City dwellers had the habit of claiming the territory and showing disrespect to the peoples who actually lived on those lands. If the savage races had the ability to use relics, there would be no pretense of who actually controlled the wilderness.

After a time of walking the trail alone, wood smoke and the scents of a thousand different meals cooking rode the wind down into the trees, bringing a sense of relief to the Gachtler man. In no time the distant sound of metal on metal clanging also permeated the oak and alder forest; the voices of over twenty five thousand diverse people soon joined the industrious racket. A Sauri warrior and fell featured Faelora archer stepped out of the brush next to a fork in the game trail Blexi was on. The lizard man cocked his head as if he were listening for distant sounds, the archer just studied Blexi's back trail seemingly disappointed that a mob of angry Gobesh were not in hot pursuit.

"There will be trade," he announced.

A smile transformed Unanian's sharp features, actually making him seem a decent person; his arrow came off the string and went back into the quiver at his hip, the bow was then slung over his slender shoulders where it blended with his oak bark colored skin.

"Hhow abhout passsage?" Though Aspith the Sauri warrior spoke with labored seeming breaths and hisses, the sounds he produced were very clear for one of his species. He was instrumental in communicating his peoples wants and needs with all of the other races who had embraced the Trumage philosophy.

Blexi had to reach up to clap the Sauri on his shoulder, his broad smile delivering the answer.

"The treaty still holds, but they want two days to fleece us this time. It seems the last few months have been good to the Sandulhu Gobesh and they're eager to trade," Blexi reported.

"Iss coohd. Isstirial waitss you." Aspith swept his head towards the camp, as a human would have used their chin to point. The Sauri peeled its lips back to show more spike like teeth, a practice he had picked up when he began dealing with other races. Most humanoid races had the capacity to smile, and Aspith tried so very hard to bridge the physical and cultural differences between his people and the rest of the sentient world. Blexi had grown accustomed to Aspith's attempts at smiling, though the learned mannerism made him look unhinged and threatening.

Nodding to the odd duo, Blexi broke away and began to climb the path up to the glade above. This narrow path had been used for many generations, yet grass persisted in trying to grow there; a sign of seasonal use rather than constant traffic. The trees and bushes gave way halfway up the forty five degree incline, as if the forest did not have the oomph to make it all the way up. Despite all the noises of civilization the Gachtler did not see anything until he was near the top, where the grassy edge gave up it's secrets. Tents and wagons by the thousands were pitched on the open area in the forest. No one tent seeming to be related to another, and many wagon designs did not match those that were parked nearby. Tepees were erected next to dome tents, next to pavilions, A-frame carts, miniature cottages on wheels, and many other shelters.

A full grown four foot tall Toji chased some Gobesh and Human children, whose squeals and laughter declared delight in the game. The walking stick looking Toji clicked it's mandibles in false animosity, making sudden but slow lunges at the kids. Beyond them was a riot of color in both tenting and clothing, the Trumage camp seemed to be all carnival chaos. Yet the even wide rows between the clusters of living areas showed there was design, even purpose in what all these differing peoples were doing. As Blexi made his way towards the center of the encampment he was hailed or saluted; Gachtler, Gobesh, Sauri, Toji, Human, Faelora, Orag, and even a small group of giants hailed him as he passed.

Every one of those people believed in the dream of one man. Trillam Trumage, a Human man who had traveled the entire continent of Chutarack, warning of a future cataclysm that could only be faced by a united front of all sentient beings. Blexi, himself, had heard this strange Human speak. Many had challenged Trillam, but he had a charisma about him and an intellect that had informed his debate style. Trillam knew that the city states were too weak by themselves, that no one race could stand up to the dangers the future held. His promise of peace caught me and held me from the first, though I fought his allure in the beginning. Unfortunately Faelora, Gachtler and Human leaders had united for the wrong purpose, they had came at Trillam's gathering of people to make war on them.

While the races who did not have warlocks were receptive of Trillam's message, the supposedly civilized races had banded together in declaring the man a freak and heretic. It was the wrong sort of unification. For the first time since the second Osserjuka devastation, huge armies had stalked the continent. For three years the movement maneuvered to avoid these armies, yet battles and skirmishes had happened. Trillam had tried to sue for peace each time, but when these combined armies proved intransigent, he beat them. We trashed five armies and each time our movement grew. Then on the week before his marriage with Anandeeta, the warlock woman, King Lorinlil met us with a combined force and killed Trillam.

Killing the "mutant" seemed to be what the three great races had been after. They left the movement mostly alone after that, ignoring the fact that a core of Trillam's movement did not disband and drift away. Though the Trumage movement was still proscribed in the city states, even to this day, not one nation closed their gates to a few followers who came in to teach and buy goods. Recruitment drives were allowed as long as only a trickle of citizens joined up, recruiters who were too good at spreading the Trumage philosophy were hunted, caught, then hanged. I think the reason why we are tolerated is the black market trade, Blexi thought. The city states needed an escape valve from the tariffs, trade restrictions, and monopolies they created between themselves, and the Trumage movement brought the goods and resources that would have been impossible to find otherwise.

Trillam's death almost ended all that, our group started disintegrating almost immediately, Blexi pondered as he wove around a cooper carrying two kinds of hoops on a pole; wagon wheels on one end and a large number of barrel bands on the other as a counterbalance. Our traveling city was disbanding before our eyes. If Istilirial hadn't of made that speech telling everybody that Anandeeta was Trillam's heir, there would be no movement at all. That had been a magic moment, not the type of magic trapped in a relic, but potent none the less. The remaining Trumage followers stopped asking Why Anandeeta had run away days from her wedding, and began to search for her; a quest that continued to this day.

At the center of the camp was Trillam's old pavillion, which was now Blexi and Istilirial's living quarters. No, it is still the center of the Trumage movement. Everyone brings their reports and complaints here, we spread Trillam's word here, and we even dispense justice here based off his teachings. This is the center of the better world we are trying to build, even if we have to move it every few weeks. The old tourney pavilion had broad red and white perpendicular stripes, the red fading after a decade and a half, while the white picked up dirt and dust like a magnet picked up iron filings. The door flap was flanked by a burly looking Gobesh and a skinny Human male; those two seemed entirely intent on their conversation using hand signals.

Hogram and Thulern were not as engaged as they had seemed, when Blexi drew near, the Gobesh guard and Thulern both blocked Blexi off from the entrance.

"Istilirial meeting people?" he asked. Though Thulern nodded, it took Hogram to give a verbal answer. The tall human's tongue had been cut out by his former Faelora masters.

"Word from Faelora world to the east. Not from our seekers, but theirs." Hogram's voice was so deep that it was incongruous coming out of his short green and brown body. Most Gobesh had higher voices than Hogram, yet there were enough Gobesh who did not sound like children that the high pitched voice was not a stereotype.

"They should almost be done in there," Thulern said using his fingers to speak, using the Toji sign language that Trillam had insisted all his captains learn.

Sign language was used by most Trumage followers now, especially in this mobile city and some of the others. With such a wide variety of peoples, and all the outrageous dialects to be found, sign language had proven itself to be a great communication bridge. Many of the older Trumage followers now spoke the Human tongue with a large dose of sign language thrown in.

"I heard he wanted to see me?" Both men nodded, but Thulern seemed distracted by the act. His fingers began to flash almost faster than Blexi could read.

"Does our treaty still hold with the Sandhulu?" Every camp of Trumage followers seemed to follow the diplomatic relations they had with the indigenous peoples. It was almost as if every individual found successful relationships as an affirmation of their cause. Hogram turned his head to hide a sneer; he came from a different tribe.

Blexi broadened his smile, he almost did not have to say anything after that.

"The Sandhulu wanted two days of trading this time. They have started making cloaks to fit many different sizes of people." That even made Hogram set aside his tribal rivalry, his voice sounded like multiple people were gently finger tapping a big bass drum in a continuous roll.

"I could use one of those. Old cloak is ugly with patches. Drinks rain instead of shedding it." Blexi was about to comment on the amount of food the Sandhulu Gobesh seemed to have, but the tent flap was suddenly flung open from the inside. A haughty Faelora woman with beach bark colored skin hesitated in stepping out after finding the guards and Blexi in the way. Octagon shaped irises of blue flicked from figure to figure but locked on the Gachtler leader.

Most Faelora were hard to read, but it seemed the woman's eyes narrowed slightly on seeing Blexi; the eye contact lasted for the entire time it took Thulern and Hogram to move out of her way. Though there were no facial ticks other than the momentarily narrowed eyes, the contempt the woman exuded for having to rub elbows with lesser beings was a false seeming. She either hated Blexi personally, or just all Gachtler for the sin of existing. I bet this one is a double agent, Blexi reasoned. A lot of the movement's contacts who brought them information also spied upon the Trumage followers for governments or criminal leaders with agendas that might be at cross purposes with their own. "Unity is feared by those who think division and animosity grants them power. They refuse to believe that harmony is a sea that raises all boats."

That was one of Blexi's favorite quotes from Trillam Trumage, he thought of it when he had to quell his own negative responses to less than friendly people. That could be the reason it is indelibly etched into my brain, I have to dredge it up as my most used mantra. After the Faelora woman swept by, Blexi began moving into the pavilion.

"They have a lot of food to trade, guys," he said to the guards, ignoring the spy making her way to the north east end of the camp. He might as well have not spoken at all, Hogram and Thulern watched the swaying walk of the Faelora woman for a few moments before sharing troubled looks with one another. They seemed to have sensed the same thing off the stranger that Blexi had. That in itself was revelatory.

The pavilion had been altered slightly after Trillam's death. To the left and right of the main entrance a pair of large cabin tents had been grafted onto the large shelter; Istilirial and Blexi's respective sleeping quarters. The pavillion itself had five folding desks set up in a semi circle before the entrance flaps. Fifteen of the forty folding chairs were aligned about those desks, the remainder were folded up against the back of the big tent along with a lectern, the parts for a dais, curtain racks, and enough random furnishings to make the space seem half functional and half storage. Istilirial was set up at a rear desk on the right side, the side closest to his personal tent. A feather quill waved too and fro in his grip, dancing to the words being written.

Those orange eyes never left the page at Blexi's entry, the Faelora man didn't do or say anything at all as the Gachtler moved into his own tent. Just inside his sleeping quarters, Blexi reached around and grabbed his war ax and it's harness. The return of the ax to his person brought him a huge sense of relief, Blexi, as with most Gachtler men, never felt comfortable without their weapon near or on their person.

"How did things go with the Sandhulu?" Istilirial's question came the second he turned back into the pavilion holding the ax's harness. After nearly twenty years together, they both knew each others idiosyncrasies and preferences like they were a married couple.

The quill was now still hovering over the page, and the Faelora's mournful face was turned Blexi's way. Feeling his ears shift to face Istilirial, he bared his fangs in a happy smile to presage his news. The quill was dipped in the ink well before returning to scribble even as Blexi started to talk.

"We have passage, but their chief insisted that we set aside two days for trading. They have a large amount of food and goods for trading, which is great timing for this camp. I think this is another tribe that looks forward to our visits, just as Trillam predicted." Though seeming to be engrossed with his work, Istilirial still took the time to nod. Blexi noted the cynicism, as he moved towards his desk near Istilirial's.

"It only took twenty years and our movement to grow into a full five roving bands." Blexi found himself smiling at the incongruity, his friend might be the only impatient Faelora in the world.

Two decades was a small time span for someone who lived fifteen hundred to two thousand years. Even though Gachtler's only lived a quarter of that time, it was still a short span for Blexi's people too.

"I hope you don't mind the extra day of trade. I also promised Chief Juktashuk that we had a gift for him," he reported. Istilirial's grunt was confirmation enough for both points. "What did you find out from that shady person you talked to?" For several moments his partner continued to write. Faelora had a differing sense of time, so these pauses were almost guaranteed to happen.

"I have two nice gifts for our Sandhulu trade negotiator, I'll have them ready to present by tonight. I just received confirmation that King Lorinlil and his supposedly rebel son, Onanonwe, are looking for King Athelian's missing son. Evidently Iriel did not die during Onanonwe's claiming of the city, like everyone had been told. That is the young Faelora from Pernandi's picture this last winter."

Blexi felt the shock of those words as he slowly lowered himself into his chair. Subconsciously Blexi's hand sought the haft of his ax; this was for comfort.

"King Lorinlil has taken Anatheri? That is going to be war.... A big damn war." Though he had wanted to shout that last sentence, he reined himself in.

"Not for a while yet. Estanabrill and Anatheri's animosity for each other is a fake, but both cities are burning farms and settlements to sell their war to the other nations. They even hold funerals for the "war dead". Some of the priests have noticed actors playing dress up as they mourn their supposedly lost loved ones, the same people in different costumes each week."

Shaking his head, the Gachtler pondered Istilirial's news and not liking where his mind wanted to go.

"That charade won't last long. Not long enough for you Faelora. This seems to be sloppy thinking on King Lorinlil's part. His plans usually play out over centuries, not mere years."

Blexi's idea must have mirrored his partner's thoughts, the Faelora stopped writing to meet his eye and nod.

" I would lay wagers that they are hoping this sham war will last long enough for them to figure out a better story."

This fake war up in the north east has choked our markets in that region, legal and not so legal. How much worse would it get if other nations banded together to fight Estanabrill and Anatheri? What would happen if the city states started honoring their treaties with one another and a lot of them got involved? That idea made Blexi shudder. That was before he realized that Istilirial was still watching him, his feather pen still poised over the letter.

"You got more?" he asked.

Istilirial's eyes turned inward as he nodded, indicating that this news could possibly be more important than the imitation Faelora war; or more upsetting. If Istilirial had been a Human, then the time he took plotting out his words would have been a suspicious act.

"Poenche's band sent news right after you left to meet the Sandhulu," the Faelora man said, letting his eyes drift back to Blexi's face. "They have a new Toji recruit who described a relic his tribe is hiding. The description of this item matches Kilinuna, Anandeeta's artifact." A thrill shot through Blexi at those words, just before he deflated his own hopes. Too many times a lead to finding the heir had come along only to be proven as old information or a perpetrated lie.

"Where is Poenche's band currently? South isn't it?"

A sympathetic smile met his question, his Faelora friend had the same hopes and fears regarding Anandeeta's location as he did, they had weathered every dashed hope since Trillam's death. Istilirial's inner voice would also be whispering for caution.

"Well within Human territory. The Toji down there are notorious for their continuous migrations. Poenche asked us for help locating this tribe again, they set themselves to that task immediately. They are having problems down there, many tribal peoples are agitated right now and movement through the wilderness has been curtailed in too many regions." Two thoughts struck the Gachtler one after the other; the second idea was the most upsetting.

Ears wilting from what was on his mind, Blexi grimaced at Istilirial.

"I have people that I can mobilize down south, but most of them are city dwellers. I've always relied on Poenche or Grader to intercede with the indigenous peoples for me. Sending Pernandi down there might be our best bet, he's been asking to be reassigned south. He thinks the arrest warrants have expired on him." Sensing that more was on Blexi's mind, the Faelora man frowned with concern.

"And...?" Istilirial coaxed. Just voicing this thought might make it come true, and it is a dark thought. A torment from the Burning Spirits.
"If this item really is Anandeeta's relic, that means she is without her magical protections." Fear in Istilirial's eyes reflected what Blexi himself felt. A warlock woman in the wilderness, without her relic, had little chance to survive on her own.


Winter's spell had been broken, and spring had rushed in feverish with heat and bursting buds. Summer was many months away though, yet this early spring felt more like the tail end of that season. The trees and animals were trying to catch up with how the season felt, new growth in pale greens and insects by the billions were everywhere. Only four days had passed since Gilserand had been shivering outside Oldbeard Forest, fearful of Sauri assaults that had never manifested. They had spent three days out in the field before being relieved by three hundred other soldiers. From the walls of Alren, they could see those soldiers crafting new staging areas where they could keep watch on the farms while a bit further away from the forest.

Three days in the field, three days behind the walls. No leave time as everyone does double shifts, Gil thought, repeating the new orders as a mantra as he circled Lieutenant Guerlach with his practice spear held at the ready. Guerlach's new form of madness had manifested as a full day of weapon's drills followed by a full shift at guard duty. The extra guard duty Gil understood, not the intensity of this shift, their training period. Half of Alren's guards were beyond the wall, probably as paranoid and twitchy as he had been; yet now he would eagerly trade places with one of them out there. During the heat of this day, they had been drilling or dueling for three hours without a break, in full armor and laden packs. Everyone was suffering, even big goofy Private Jaffe was breaking down under the Burning Spirit conceived madness of their weapon's practice. Gilserand could see the big man crying in the street trying to alleviate cramps in his legs, the rest of the squad cutting and thrusting in full armor nearby.

A sudden thrust from the lieutenant sped at Gil's midriff. While his instinct was to step back, Gil forced himself to parry then lunge in with a counter attack. Their boots thudded and scraped on the wooden parapet of the wall overlooking the platoon below. He of course