Chapter 1
Out of Edum
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(Part III)
Mun'at rose from his tent as the eastern horizon was beginning to blush, glad to see many of his men already roused and preparing to depart. Before the first glint of the sun had touched the earth the rest of their company had woken, made their brief excursions to just outside the camp for their morning necessaries, and hastily returned to gather up their effects. Soon enough they were again in saddle riding south towards the ever-nearer sea.
At first they traveled in shadow, the radiance of the sun hidden behind the eastern mountains which burned from behind. The peaks presented a terrifying aspect so early in the day, for the outcroppings revealed no trace their true shape, rising from the ground like pillars of night, yet they were edged in fire and running blood where the concealed light dared to venture forward. Then, in reverse parody off the evening's events, the sun suddenly and all too harshly burst forth, flooding the valley in heat and a blinding brilliance.
The men continued forward without break or word of complaint, but their brows dripped heavily and each began to pitifully pant in his own private world of fire. Ahead of them the horizon, which before had placidly traced the lines of heaven and earth, began to flow and shimmer, mercurial beads of blue, white, red, and leaden gray mixing randomly until one's vision reeled. Into such unknowable vistas Mun'at rode purposefully, his eyes downcast yet still streaming from the intensity of the reflected sun.
Increasingly exhausted the party pressed on, and already they had traveled far, covering nearly half the remaining distance to Elath. Then, in answer to the countless unspoken prayers for respite, Mun'at called a halt. They had reached a narrowing of the valley where some small shade could still be found among the precipitous and rocky eastern walls, and the ground had given up its reds and whites, deepening to the hues of old rust and dusty streets, colors too dark to reflect light but neither capable of properly holding heat. Truth be told, the difference was slight at most, but to hear the men's sighs of relief it could have been paradise itself. Then, as if to add to this estimation, a small group of tribesmen approached from the gently rising western slopes, bearing between them a dozen sacks filled with melons and dates. The men received the bounty with all good will, paying the tribesmen what was surely twice the goods' worth besides, and for an hour they rested there, eating and making small conversation until the sun had reached its zenith, banishing the last obstinate shadows and any chance for further comfort before they set eyes on the sea.
Refreshed and in good spirits the party remounted, periodically allowing themselves to break into martial song as they marched south over the sands. The way became smoother, more predictable, and before long a gentle but insistent wind could be felt against their faces, traces of salt in its wake and the ghost of seabirds' cries beneath its wings. They continued eagerly, desperate to cast themselves into the cool embrace of breaking waves, and to their satisfaction the haze of sky blue and amber ahead of them began to separate, admitting a widening band of sapphire between. With each step the shapes resolved further, the mirage of midday giving way to the clarity of evening, until the houses and markets of the port town lay open ahead, the ships' tall masts visible just beyond.
Mun'at gathered his companions together, a double-column marching in near unison, and with Rana'in at his side he led the procession to the whitewashed low governor's house where he was sure to find Shullai Ha'Malek, the king's youngest son. The building lay amidts a broad garden of palm and date trees midway between Elath's central square and the ever-busy port, and once arrived Mun'at entered alone, sending his men on to set camp along the shore just south of Elath. There they would have room enough to muster the forces and see to their provisioning and training, and in the interim his men might take pleasure in a moment's well-earned rest.
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It was late in the evening when Mun'at finally approached the camp set by his men. The day's final meal had long before been distributed and the soldiers sat merrily around their fires, enjoying the easy breath of the sea which washed over their new temporary home. As he so often did, Mun'at casually wandered from fire to fire, tent to tent, speaking to the men plainly and without pretension, a comrade in arms and no noble to be blindly obeyed. He walked with his head held high and back straight, but the older warriors, men who had long served as his companions, noticed a certain subtle stoop in his shoulders and weariness in his gait, the marks of a care unspoken. Some portion of the meeting with Shullai had surely done him ill.
Mun'at made no mention of his worries but he retired to his dwelling earlier than was customary, asking a runner to call on his closest captains for a brief assembly. The encampment was still an intimate affair, for as yet no reinforcements had arrived, and all the requested men were seated in his tent long before the strong had been served.
Mun'at sat in silence, his gaze moving from one man to the next, testing their wills. Finally he spoke, his voice low and crisp. "I have asked you each here, you few in particular, that I might speak freely of our campaign and of our noble ward who is to join us, and I would have that these words remain here in this company." he said, after which he paused briefly. "The desert is an ill place to hold secrets or closed councils, we all know, and so I will not ask any among you to hear against your wills words spoken in confidence." He paused again, allowing any unwilling souls to depart, but, as he knew they would, the men all remained still, their eyes intent and assured of their purpose. "Very well." Mun'at continued, and with visible relief he began speaking with more force and honesty and decidedly less politic tact.
"As you all know I spoke with Shullai Ha'Malek earlier this day, and it pains me to say aloud, but the boy is no true son to our illustrious king Malka Qênu. He holds himself in highest esteem, vaunting the pettiest of victories against local banditry as though he alone had bested mighty Iskandar in single combat. In his short life he has said little and done less, but the arrogant fool thinks himself wise as the philosophers and mightier than gods." Mun'at's voice trailed off then, a deep wave of weariness washing over him. He began again slowly, uncertainly, as though he distrusted the words coming from his lips. "Truth to tell, I would leave the noble brat behind were it not for the king's charge."
The men sitting beside him remained silent, but their exchanged glances and unspoken words echoed across the open space at a deafening volume. Each of them had had similar feelings toward Shullai, some having had the displeasure of serving under him before and seeing firsthand the boy's recklessness and greed, but to hear their commander speak such words, a man so loyal to country and king, shook them in a way they had never expected. More than this, Mun'at appeared genuinely troubled, an aspect not at home in his countenance.
With furrowed brow, Mun'at audibly sighed and began again, choosing his word somewhat more cautiously. "For good or ill the boy is with us," he said, "and the best we can but do is to teach him well and hold his ambitions at bay until he has some understanding of what it is to lead and to fight, not just against men armed but against the almighty desert who cares nothing for us. As we move forward on our long quest I would ask that each of you do your part to educate Shullai, but take care that he remains of the opinion that the lessons learned are discoveries of his own, for I fear his headstrong arrogance will prevent him from ever hearing wisdom from any but himself. He will obey me, I have made certain of that, but his blood runs too noble for his own good, and too much for him to take notice of a 'common soldier's' wisdom or thoughts."
Again Mun'at grew quiet. He had provided no proper conclusion to his speech nor their meeting, but he had no more words to say. After the space of a few minutes he thanked the men for having come to him and he adjourned their council, assuring them all that they would speak again soon and, gods willing, under more hopeful circumstances.