“The Sakovans are not to be trusted,” interjected Zatho who had remained silent so far. “The female was StarWind. She is the one who escaped from here after being taken hostage. I was led to believe that the male with her was the one who rescued her. I think they intend to assassinate you in the hopes that the rest of us will flee.”
“A possibility,” nodded General Valatosa. “The fact that the Star of Sakova chose the two people who have already been into this camp as messengers might be significant. StarWind knows what you look like, Doralin. There is danger lurking in this proposed meeting.”
“True,” nodded Doralin, “but their evaluation of our food problem is very accurate. If we don’t get some food into this camp in the next day or two, we must break off the fight. Do you think that the Sakovans might know about the men we sent to Alamar?”
“That is possible,” shrugged Valatosa, “but not certain. The Sakovans are surely to the west of us, and might have missed our men going east, but they also seem to have no trouble finding our camp. It is just as likely that their spies reported the column leaving.”
“Which is why they must strike now,” interjected Zatho. “They know that we will guard the food caravans with a great number of men. We will only be anxious to talk to them while we are hungry. Once the food shipment arrives, there will be no reason to discuss anything with the savages. It is all a trick. I say that we wait them out.”
“Your advice has been noted, Zatho,” frowned the premer. “Valatosa?”
“If it were not for their insistence that you be present,” Valatosa replied, “I would suggest accepting the meeting, but some fears are justified here. I personally would like to hear what they have to say. Such a personal meeting always gives one an insight into the enemy’s state of mind.”
“Well said,” nodded Doralin. “I, too, am curious. Would the Star of Sakova actually expose herself to danger so close to our camp? Do we have any way to verify her identity?”
“Clarvoy reported that she bears a strange mark on one of her fingers,” offered Zatho. “It is a blue star that she normally keeps covered by a ring.”
“A tattoo?” asked the premer.
“Not a tattoo,” Zatho shook his head. “It was described as a blue gem imbedded in her skin. There is a possibility that we can turn the tables on the Sakovans,” the mage added with a grin. “We could accept the meeting and assassinate the Star of Sakova. It would demoralize the enemy and make their destruction that much easier.”
Doralin frowned at the mage and shook his head. “The two of you are dismissed,” he said with finality. “In the future, I will be notified personally before any more such meetings take place. Make sure that the entire camp is informed of my order.”
The general saluted and led Zatho out of the tent. Doralin shook his head and spat towards the door flap.
“I detest such people,” he said with disgust. “Where does Vand find them?”
“The mage ranks are full of them,” replied General Valatosa. “While it may hamper our ability to communicate, I do not miss the mages we lost at the ridge. They were a despicable lot.”
“Well,” sighed Doralin, “the Sakovans missed one of the worst. Zatho is like a rabid dog. He should be put down.”
* * *
It was late afternoon when the wagons appeared. Cheers and shouts of joy started at the eastern edge of the perimeter and soon rippled through the entire encampment. The sentries quickly moved aside as the wagon train galloped into the encampment. Motangan soldiers crawled out of their tents and rushed to form a human corridor for the food shipment. Even Premer Doralin came out of his tent to see what the commotion was about. General Valatosa was at his side. They watched the first wagon race past and smiled broadly. Doralin’s smile faded almost instantly when the second wagon came into view.
“Something is wrong,” Doralin scowled. “There is no escort.”
“And the soldiers driving the teams are too wooden,” added Valatosa.
“Stop those wagons!” shouted the premer, but his words went unheard.
The Motangan camp was roaring with cheers. The jubilation finally died when one of the wagons ran over a tent stake and crashed. The wagon flipped, spewing dead Motangan soldiers over the nearby tents. The encampment grew deadly quiet as word quickly spread. Soldiers leaped out and halted the wagons. Others sprang forward and ripped off the canvas coverings. Howls of protest and revenge spread through the encampment like wildfire. Premer Doralin clenched his fists in rage.
“Get me a count of the bodies,” the premer snapped at General Valatosa. “I want them identified, although I suspect that I already know who they are. Report to me as soon as you are done.”
The premer spun around and marched into his tent. General Valatosa sighed heavily and walked off to do his duty. He already knew whom the bodies belonged to. He recognized more than one of the soldiers who had just recently been sent to Alamar. He also knew that Doralin would now accept the invitation to parley with the Sakovans in the morning. He walked to the nearest wagon and inspected the way that the dead Motangan soldier had been tied to the seat of the wagon. He shook his head and spat on the ground in disgust.
* * *
Thousands of Khadoran archers lined the western side of the second trench, while thousands of Motangan archers opposed them on the eastern side. Arrows flew through the air in numbers uncountable. Bodies on both sides of the trench fell and were immediately replaced by others. Lord Saycher of the Morgar clan watched from a knoll a safe distance behind the front lines. He cursed at the losses his forces were taking and called for an air mage.
“The archers are to move back twenty paces,” Lord Saycher barked at the air mage. “The Motangans are killing too many of our men.”
The air mage nodded and sent the message out to other air mages all along the front lines. Lord Saycher watched as the archers began to move backward. The Motangan archers immediately moved to the brink of the trench, trying to extend the reach of their arrows. Behind the Motangan archers, enemy soldiers started carrying long planks forward. Suddenly, an officer wearing the orange and yellow of the Balomar clan galloped up the knoll. He leaped off his horse and raced over to Lord Saycher.
“What are you doing?” shouted the officer. “Why did you order the archers moved back?”
“Because they were dying too quickly, Marshal Berman,” Lord Saycher replied brusquely. “What would you have me do? Should I let the Motangans kill them all? It was your advice to move back earlier. Now you try to fault me for it.”
“My advice was to withdraw to the third trench,” snapped Marshal Berman, “not to move the archers back and allow the Motangans to cross this trench. They will swarm all over our armies before we can retreat in an orderly fashion. Either defend the trench or retreat to the next. There is only death and defeat in half way measures.”
“The third trench is the last,” retorted Lord Saycher. “We cannot afford to give up ground so quickly. The Emperor has asked us to buy time to assemble the armies of the Imperial Valley. That is exactly what I am doing.”
“That is not what you will accomplish,” scowled Marshal Berman. “Where is your marshal? Ask him for his advice if you do not believe me.”
“He is dead,” scowled Lord Saycher. “Besides, he would have agreed with my orders. I was the marshal of the Morgar clan before I became lord. I think that I can handle the job.”
“I think not,” Marshal Berman retorted emphatically. “You are not waging war against another Khadoran clan, Lord Saycher. There are several hundred thousand Motangans on the other side of that trench. They can afford to fill that trench with the bodies of their dead and march over them if they have to. You must order a retreat to the third trench immediately. This battle is lost.”