David Niemitz
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Faerie Knight 147
🕑 Added 2025-01-25 13:01:49 +0000 UTC147 - Eayn Zarqa'
The tribes of the Provincia Iberia are a people both hardy and strange. I have encountered the raiders of the Maghreb at the southern passes, bringing their goods to market, and I cannot help but wonder what it does to a man - to live an entire life in a place where the land itself is trying to kill you.
The Campaign Journals of General Aurelius, volume II
☀
13th Day of High Summer’s Moon, AC 297
On the tenth day of marching west through the Maghreb, Ismet and the troops Wāli Marwan had placed under her command reached the Eayn Zarqa' oasis, where she had spent her childhood. Alone, she could have made the ride in only two or three days; but as she had learned at the University of Maʿīn, and then experienced for herself riding with first General Shadi, and then Lionel, armies covered ground at a much slower pace than a single rider.
Not even the Etalans had been able to maintain roads in the wastes. Sandstorms covered the Etalan stones in drifting dunes, and there were very few landmarks that remained constant. As her father had taught her, using the skills passed down by their ancestors for generations, Ismet navigated by the stars. In this task, the Sun Eater worked against his own aims, for the constant presence, day and night, of the constellations made Ismet’s task easier.
She maintained a screen of mounted scouts, which she put Fazil in command of. When they made camp, she was careful to assign watches and enforce discipline. This was the first time that the entire responsibility of leadership had fallen on her shoulders alone. Always before, she had either Shadi or Lionel to lean on, with whom she could discuss decisions and debate problems. Ismet found the experience surprisingly lonely. Though she was surrounded by one hundred and forty men, the only one she could trust with her worries was Fazil, who had been with her ever since the march north from Maʿīn to the Tower of Tears.
Eayn Zarqa' Oasis emerged from the wastes so suddenly that, coming upon it for the first time, a parched traveler might be forgiven if they mistook it for a mirage. Where one moment there was nothing but the endless wastes as far as the eye could see, stretching out beneath the cold stars, the next a dark smudge appeared on the horizon. Beneath the sun, Ismet knew from long familiarity, the contrast of green against brown would be shocking. Even in perpetual night, the warm shine of hundreds of lanterns and torches brought life to a land otherwise desolate.
As they drew closer, the oasis resolved itself into more familiar shapes, if seen only by night. Above the groves of date palm, almond and olive trees rose the Rock of Eayn Zarqa': a plateau of limestone upon which her ancestors had raised walls of baked mud, surrounding a tower of the same rock. The oasis itself stretched below, interconnected lakes, ponds and canals fed by a remarkable three dozen freshwater springs. The town was of mud brick houses, as well, though generations of serving as a nexus for trade and travel through the Maghreb had imported wood, cloth, metal and jewels from many lands. The night market, as a result, displayed brightly colored awnings over stalls built of cyprus wood, brass braziers lit to ward off the chill, and lines of horses, camels and mules used for hauling goods to market.
Her father’s men waited at the edge of the town, just past the outer wall of baked mud brick: an honor guard of forty men, wearing their brigandine armor, and carrying their shields, bows, and swords. Ismet reined her borrowed horse in, and held up a hand to halt the march of her troops before dismounting and striding forward by herself, with only Fazil to accompany her.
“Lady Ismet,” an officer called, striding forward to meet her. “We received word of your coming from Wāli Marwan’s pigeon seven days ago. Your father has been marshaling troops since then.”
“Good,” Ismet said, unable to suppress a sense of relief. For days now, she had struggled to quiet her mind in the lonely hours before sleep took her, counting over every way that her plan could go wrong. “My father is in the tower?”
“He is,” the officer confirmed. “He waits for you there with the Exarch of Nāshiṭāt, who arrived yesterday.”
“Samara has come?” Ismet smiled. “Good. My men will need a place to make camp, as well as fresh food and water. We travelled lightly, and they could use a rest. There is also a chest of gifts from the King of Narvonne, for my family.”
“I will see to it, Exarch,” the man said, and bowed.
“Your name?” Ismet asked him.
“Arkan,” he said. “I was promoted to captain of your father’s guard a year and a half ago, while you were in your final year at the university.”
“After wedding my cousin Fatima,” Ismet recalled. “I was disappointed that I could not return for the ceremony. It is good to be greeted by family. How is she?”
“She is well,” Arkan said, with a grin. “And our first child comes soon. Fatima has acquired such a craving for fresh dates that I worry she will scour the entire oasis clean of them. Give me one moment, and I will accompany you up to The Rock.”
Ismet ended up handing the horse she had borrowed from Marwan to one of Arkan’s men, while her cousin’s husband gave orders. Not five minutes later, his men were leading the troops from Khalij Alrimal into the oasis, while Arkan, Ismet and Fazil made their way to the two hundred and forty wide stone steps that led up The Rock, spiralling around the perimeter before coming, finally, to a gate set in the mud-brick wall. Her father’s guards, many of them men she had known since she was a young girl, saluted as she passed, and she greeted them by name where she could. There were new faces, as well, since she had last visited: fresh boys who could not yet grow a beard.
Once past the walls, the interior complex of her family’s fortress sprawled out around her. Unlike the oasis below, The Rock of Eayn Zarqa' was no lush paradise of fresh water and shady trees. It had been built entirely for defense, and depended on a combination of cisterns and wells to bring water up from below. A single round tower, squat and fat, served to keep watch over the waste for miles in every direction, and provided ample warning of any approach. Over the years, her father and grandfather before him had purchased and imported, at great cost, a selection of scorpions and trebuchets to line the outer walls. By the light of torches, lanterns, and braziers, Ismet could see that every one was manned now. In fact, Ismet noted, some of the guards she saw in the courtyard wore bandages that must have been used to treat recent wounds.
Frowning, she turned her steps to the tower itself. Visitors often expected it to be her family’s residence, but the truth was that no one wanted to live up here, baking beneath the sun without any shelter or relief from the trees found at the Oasis below. If Ismet had come to visit merely for the pleasure of seeing her family, she would have sought them out at the Palace of Gazelles, where her mother, aunts and uncles, and younger cousins would be waiting.
Instead, with two armed men at her side, she strode into the fort to the map room, where she found her father.
Salah ibn Yassar was no stranger to battle. He had survived the Massacre at the Tower of Tears just before her birth, and was a veteran of routine conflicts against the small bands of raiders who plagued the wastes. Though his beard was now more white than black, and his face sagged with more lines than she remembered, he broke into a smile at the return of his only daughter.
“Ismet,” he said, opening his arms wide. “It is a relief to see you again.”
“Father,” Ismet said, and could not help but smile and fall into his embrace, though the armor they both wore made it awkward. “Have you had trouble here?” she asked, once they’d released each other and stepped away. “I saw bandages on several of the guards outside.”
“Botis Raiders,” Salah said, with a grimace. “Three days passed. This darkness is turning men into starved animals, Ismet. They are desperate and frightened. Even here at the Oasis, where we have fresh water to spare and plenty of stored food, my people are starting to panic. If the sun does not return soon, I fear for what will happen.”
“That is out of our hands now,” Ismet said, though it still gnawed at her. “Exarch Samara, it is good to see you again.” She turned toward the other woman in the room. Samara ibnah Arif was two or three years older than her; Ismet could not quite recall the precise date. “You received my letter?”
“I did,” Samara said. “Though I am not certain I would have believed it all if Nāshiṭāt had not spoken to Epinnoia, and confirmed what you said. You have been on quite the adventure since I last saw you at Maʿīn. The Angelus say you have fought no less than four daemons in the span of only three moons.”
“It does seem outrageous when you say it like that,” Ismet admitted, stepping over to the broad, polished table of cyprus planks where ox-hide maps had been spread, and weighed down by chunks of limestone. There were polished stones of different colors arranged to mark troops, and she found herself missing Lionel’s neatly carved wood figurines. It was easier to determine troop compositions at a glance with the king’s set, she had to admit. “Adrammelech, Agrat and Sammāʾēl in the Hauteurs Massif. Zepar the Scarlet on the road to Rocher de la Garde. I missed the worst of the fighting during the siege, though. That fell to Sir Trist.”
“But,” she continued, “there will be plenty of time to speak of those battles on our march west.” Not to mention, Ismet decided, Lionel’s letter and offer of marriage. “How many men do you have gathered here, Father?”
“With increased assaults from the raiders, as well as the spreading panic, we will need to leave a sizeable force to defend the town,” Salah ibn Yassar warned her. “I have called upon every settlement our tribe has within four days ride, and most of the warriors they have sent have already arrived. That means, however, that what we have here is overwhelmingly cavalry, not infantry.”
“The numbers?” Ismet asked again.
“One hundred and forty on horse,” her father said. “Split evenly between lancers and horse archers. One hundred infantry. The rest I must leave behind.”
“Uncle Marwan gave me another hundred infantry, and a score each of mounted archers and lancers,” Ismet said, reaching out for matching stones and moving them to rest on the painted depiction of the oasis. “Three hundred and eighty men, all told.”
“I am not a student of war,” Samara said, cautiously. “But that does not seem like enough to take Maʿīn. Particularly if there is a daemonic Exarch to contend with. I am not as capable a warrior as you,” she admitted.
“I understand that,” Ismet said. “But no Exarch is truly helpless, and even the slightest edge you can give me against Valeria and Agrat will be worthwhile - to say nothing of the effect you will have on the morale of our troops.”
“We will pick up more men as we go,” Arkan, pointing at the map. “We can take the trade routes through Rabie Altimsah and Suq Alnakhil here, and here.” His finger traced a route across the wastes and west toward one of the mountain passes south of Maʿīn. “They are both loyal to the tribe. And Eish Alsaqr Pass, here,” he continued, “is commanded by Rizqullah ibn Zayyan, who fought with Marwan and your father in their youth.”
“I remember. Do you still trust him?” Ismet asked, looking to her father. “We visited the pass when I went to university, but I haven’t known him as long as you.”
“I trusted him twenty years ago,” Salah ibn Yassar said, without a moment’s hesitation. “And I trust him today, with my life. He is a good man.”
“Necessity renders our decisions simple,” Ismet said, with a sigh. “A daemon cannot be allowed to control the Caliphate. Let us hope Rizqullah is the friend we both remember. When we reach the pass, he will either join us, or we will break him. Nothing can be allowed to stop us from reaching Maʿīn.”
