He knew where the oases were supposed to be and, in principal at least, knew how to extract water from succulents he might find. But it was very easy to lose your way in the desert and the chances were that he’d be walking to his death. Besides, if you were not a native of the dunes, there was every chance the sand devils would catch you, and Ghassan had no intention, at this pivotal point in his life, of being eaten and left a stripped carcass in the deep sands.
And so the days had dragged on and on. He had begun by keeping a rough track of the time but, towards the end of the first week, he had given up such meaningless ideas and merely settled for whether it was morning, afternoon or night. By the end of the second week he’d given up trying to remember what day it was and had vowed that, when he finally reached his destination, whether he became a soldier or a mercenary, whether he was rich or poor or somewhere in between, he would make sure that he never ate another chunk of baked bream or boiled seaweed again as long as he lived.
And now here he was. With a sigh of relief, Ghassan let his pack fall to the floor beside his leg. His legs ached a little, but the constant daily exercise had built up his muscles enough that he hardly noticed it any more.
And he was finally safe from Pelasian patrols, standing before the great white marble gates of Calphoris. The massive arch rose up above him, to a height of perhaps a hundred feet. The sides of the gatehouse had once been great cylindrical white towers, though in more troubled times some governor had given them a great dark, square, buttressed stone casing that covered the lower half.
The top of the gate, resplendent in its white marble battlements, was surmounted by five great golden figures. As he examined them, it occurred to Ghassan’s jaded mind that the chances of them being anything but highly-burnished bronze was tiny. No amount of guards in the world would stop a good thief from taking pieces off the statues if they were really gold.
The walls of Calphoris made M’Dahz look like a poorly-protected village. Inside, the tips of a multitude of white and bronze towers rose toward the azure heavens. The great gates themselves were clearly bronze-plated, and heavy enough to stop the hardiest of battering rams. Calphoris had money; glory; a past. He smiled. A future.
Approaching, he took careful note of the two men in uniform standing in a bored fashion to either side of the gate, They were not members of the Imperial army, certainly. Ghassan had seen enough of the Empire’s soldiers in his youth in M’Dahz that he knew not only the insignia for the southern Marshal’s army, but also of half a dozen of the specific units based in the south, their rank insignias and their armour standards.
While these two were clearly professional soldiers, their tunics and cloaks clean and pressed, their armour polished and correct, the insignia and some of the equipment was different. Ghassan was immediately impressed. These were obviously the militia as it existed in Calphoris. Certainly a step up on that of M’Dahz. Clearly, then, Imperial support had pulled out of the provincial capital too.
Taking a deep breath, Ghassan straightened and tried to look as adult and serious as possible. The guard to the left of the gateway watched as he approached, his expression carefully neutral. Ghassan swallowed as he came to a halt, his pack over his back and the sheathed sword hanging conspicuously from the bundle.
“Excuse me. I need to know where I would go to sign up?”
The guard blinked, clearly surprised at the question, though his composure never faltered.
“How old are you, lad?”
For a moment, Ghassan wondered about lying. Would it stand him in any better stead? But the only real way forward if he was going to commit to this properly would be honestly.
“I am almost thirteen, sir.” A slight exaggeration, but basically true.
The guard nodded. Ghassan had truly expected the man to laugh and was further impressed by these men as the soldier looked him up and down with a professional eye.
“You might be better coming back in a few years, to be honest, lad. If you sign on now, you’ll have seniority when you hit sixteen and we get the new recruits, but it means you’ll have three years of getting the shitty end of the stick; all the nasty jobs.”
Ghassan shrugged as professionally as he could manage and almost lost control of the heavy pack on his shoulder.
“I’m willing to do whatever comes my way. I just want to sign up.”
The guard nodded again.
“Fair enough, lad. Go through the gate and head up the street until you pass through the arch of the old walls. You can’t miss it. The next street on the right after that leads to the military compound.”
He laughed.
“And the spice market, but I’m guessing you’ll be able to work out which is which.”
Ghassan smiled.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Why so determined?” asked the soldier as Ghassan shouldered his pack once more, preparing to set off.
“I’m from M’Dahz. I’ve watched the place collapse under the Pelasians and I want to protect the Empire and make sure M’Dahz is as far as they get.”
“I heard things in M’Dahz were pretty dire. If you’re hoping for revenge, this isn’t the way though.”
Ghassan frowned and the guard shrugged.
“This isn’t the Imperial army any more, lad. We don’t go conquering enemies now. This is the army of Calphoris and we fight to protect our city, our lord and our territory, whether it be from Pelasians, desert nomads, pirates or even other Imperial cities. You might as well know that before you sign your life away as a scout in the cavalry or a skivvy in the navy.”
Ghassan smiled. There was no humour about his feral look and for a moment it even shook the guard at the gate.
“Sir, I will do whatever is required of me for now, but I can assure you that some day I will march back into M’Dahz and I will kill any Pelasian who gets in my way.”
He gave a small bow, his teeth still clenched in that non-smile.
“Thank you for your assistance.”
Taking a deep breath, Ghassan straightened once more and strode purposefully through the gates of Calphoris toward his future, whatever it may hold.
In which Pelasia opens her arms
Asima was tired of travel by the time the armed caravan arrived at Akkad, but not half as tired as she was of her companions. The journey had taken three weeks, most of which had involved travelling with interminable slowness through a constant, monotonous sea of sandy waves, punctuated by the Pelasian way stations.
Though comfortable, these establishments, mostly built around oases or crossroads, were home to cackling old men who made their living from the government supplying shelter for the military and those who could pay their way. They made a healthy living, so she felt safe, knowing they would do nothing to jeopardise that, but this did not stop them leering and making vaguely suggestive comments.
The seemingly-endless tracts of sand began to show signs of tailing off after two weeks and the last few days she had noted each morning a more fascinating world passing them by. They approached a low mountain range, passing through it across a saddle and from that point on, the landscape changed. Beyond the mountain range were low hills and, as they made their way toward the capital, reaching out on its promontory into the sea, she began to see farms and fields of wheat. She had been told by her father that Pelasia was the world’s greatest supplier of grain, but had always assumed this to be an exaggeration, given the fact that it lay at the edge of the Great Southern Desert.