Anthony took a breath. “Long ago, hundreds of years, Alexander the Emperor sent a phalanx into the desert to take submission of each tribe who held a valley or oasis here. All surrendered without fight except the men of one valley—this, it would seem—and the phalanx marched into their land to conquer them. The defenders, though, were truly desert raiders to whom the valley was only one home of many; they had been hardened by the wasteland and by years and years of raiding caravans. They met the phalanx head-on, then sent outriders to the flanks, and though they lost, there were only a quarter of the Macedonians left alive.”
“What of the raiders?” Balkis asked, her voice hushed.
“They retreated into the mountains, and the Macedonians followed. There they jockeyed for position, neither willing to strike first unless they held the higher ground—and finally settled in place, watching one another across a ravine and occasionally raiding one another…”
“And became neighbors?” Balkis asked, her eyes huge.
“Their grandchildren did,” Anthony said. “The Macedonians would not budge, for they had their orders from Alexander and would not go back to him until the raiders submitted or every last soldier was dead. They married mountain women from their side of the chasm, while the raiders' wives came up to join them. Their children, though, married the children of the mountaineers on their side of the chasm.”
“Who were kin to the soldiers' wives!” Balkis exclaimed.
“They were indeed, so the grandchildren saw no reason to fight their cousins. They made peace, and a few of the great-grandchildren married one another—so by the time my father was born, we were so much a mixture of raider, soldier, and mountaineer that we know not to whom we should swear allegiance.”
“And therefore govern yourselves, and resist all who would conquer you?” Balkis asked with a smile.
“We do, though few care to try.” Anthony still gazed at the echoing battle below. “My folk are a stubborn and stiff-necked breed, and yield to death rather than to kings—as the raiders did when they fought this battle.”
“Whereas the Macedonians we see here are bound by loyalty to Alexander's commands,” Balkis said softly, suddenly understanding, “and will therefore not willingly yield a single inch.”
“Even so,” Anthony agreed. “Therefore they stand here, obedient to the emperor's will, and every night their ghosts fight the battle again.”
“You do not mean that each side is convinced that if they refight it often enough, they will finally win!”
“So it seems.” Anthony's mouth pulled into a hard smile, gaze still on the ancient and current battle. “So the legend says. I had never thought it anything but an old wives' tale, a fable to make people realize they had to let go of the past and think of the future, but…”
His voice trailed off. Balkis watched him a moment, then finished the sentence for him. “It is no fable, but truth.”
“It would seem so,” Anthony said. “Alas! My poor ancestors! If their descendants marrying and becoming one people cannot end their fighting, what can?”
“Nothing,” Balkis whispered, but she nonetheless wracked her brains as the two of them sat, spellbound and shivering, watching the ghosts slash and stab at one another until all had fallen. Even then she could think of no way to weave a spell to stop this ghostly carnage, and decided that this was a task for a priest, not a wizard.
It seemed an age before the battle sounds died away. Then Anthony spoke, face somber. “It is done. Let us leave this place.”
But Balkis clasped his hand, looking back at the valley floor. “What noise is that?”
Anthony listened. It was soft at first, only a crunching here and there, but it grew in number and volume—ripping sounds, slurping and gulping, slobbering and grinding. He shuddered. “It is the carrion-eaters, come to clear away the ghost-flesh.”
“But I see nothing!”
“They, too, are ghosts,” Anthony said grimly, “and I never yet knew a vulture or jackal that did not hide from sight when it could.”
Balkis buried her face in Anthony's tunic. “I dare not see their work being done!”
“Nor I.” Anthony hid his face in her hair, and they sat shielding one another against the night, but the sounds of the gruesome banquet made them shiver until the horrid feast ended.
Finally the sky lightened with false dawn; finally the obscene noises dwindled. Still they sat huddled together, and neither could have said when sitting became lying, when shuddering stilled and warmth and solace grew, for at last they slept in one another's arms.
Balkis woke when the rays of the setting sun bathed her face. She sat up, blinking in confusion as she looked about, then remembered how she had come to this place of trees and grass in the middle of a desert, and shivered. She shook Anthony gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead! Wake up and tell me that last night's memories are only a nightmare.”
“Hmmm? Wha … ? Nightmare?” Anthony sat up, blinking, and raised a hand to cover a yawn. “What nightmare is this? That I travel with you? I cry your pardon for the unpleasantness, but it is—”
“No, dunderhead!” Balkis gave him a poke in the ribs. “Fresh wakened, and you jest with your first yawn!” But she smiled. “The phantom army, and the ghastly banquet! Tell me that those were only a dream!”
“The battle!” Anthony came wide-awake. “No, I fear my ancestors were real.”
“But their ghosts?”
Anthony shrugged. “Are any ghosts real? Still, we did see them—it was no dream.”
“No, I fear not” Balkis gazed off toward the valley.
“Well, there is one way to tell,” Anthony said. “We have only to wait and listen. If we hear shouting and the clash of steel, we will know.”
Balkis glanced at the desert beyond and thought of the empty miles stretching northward. “Should we take the time?”
“An extra hour out of several months?” Anthony asked. “I think we can spare it.” He unstoppered the waterskin and took a drink, then frowned and shook it. “We should take time to climb down to the stream in any event—we do not wish to march dry.”
Balkis shuddered at the thought.
“Come, we need not stay longer than the first calling of trumpets,” Anthony said.
“True,” Balkis admitted, and together they climbed down to fill their waterskins, but climbed well back up the hillside while there was still some sunset left—at least high on the slope. There they turned to look down into the valley, already deep in gloaming—and froze, staring.
“What is that which moves so quickly?” Balkis asked.
“It is the size of a fox,” Anthony offered.
“No fox I've ever seen had a jet-black coat!”
“No, nor was ever so shiny.” Anthony stiffened. “Tell me I should not be so surprised—we are only one valley away, and the ants must forage here now and again.”
“Surely they must,” Balkis agreed, but neither of them believed it.
They could not deny, though, that the creature they saw scuttling abut the valley floor was definitely a giant ant. As they watched, it cast about, probing the air with its antennae, north to east, east to south, south to west—and stopped, facing them. It lifted its head…
“Be ready to run.” Anthony's hand tightened on hers.
The ant shot forward—but a form rose from the ground before it, a form in leather armor, battle-axe swinging. The ant hesitated, then attacked the shape with fury—and went right on through. It halted in confusion, turning back—and saw a figure in brazen armor advancing on it with a spear. Instantly the ant charged, tearing through the apparition, then pausing in consternation, but only for a moment before another specter came running in its direction while a fourth came hurtling from the other direction. The ant whirled, tearing at the spectral warriors, about and about in a frantic dance of frustration, never able to come to grips with its foes.