- TMK -

Abardol’s assault at Trasap was the first sign that the Crusade turned against Union of Arrcus. With the Arrcosi army crushed by the Empire, Abardol was left with little challenge against their depleted garrisons.

           

There was no praise, however, to be heaped on a foregone rout like that at Trasap. That glory was reserved for Crusaders who marched with Marschal Ulrich to Cathlod. The jewel of the Dadac, Cathlod was the real prize of the war. The Empress had expected to take the city after their victory in the north. She forgot how close Cathlod lay to the Holy Land, that the Empire was not the only hound with teeth in these parts.

           

And she forgot how weak they left the Arrcosi in the aftermath of Harralheim.

           

Like the Skald of the far north, the tribes here were allied to the Arrcosi. While they lived within the borders of the Union, Arrcosi control of these nomads was slack. But like the Skald, when Arrcus called, the nomads came.

           

The alliance between the three peoples was older than the Crusade or the Empire. Now, it proved to be their downfall. The time had long past where the nomads could make a difference in this Northern War.

           

Because there was nothing here.

           

Nothing to see, or hear, or smell.

           

The Divide was an empty shell nestled between the pinewood sea of the taiga and the hills to the south. In what world could such a wasteland give rise to an army that could halt the will of God?

           

By no means was the place a desert. Not in the sense the people of the Holy Land had come to know. The sky was not a constant ember scorching everything beneath. In fact, the sky was grey, not from vapor or stubborn clouds, but dust. Everything in the Divide belonged to the dust. The shrubs thrived in it, the lizards burrowed beneath it, and the wayrunners bathed in the dust.

           

There was so much dust, Farsald could taste it with every breath. As dust coated his already dry mouth, Farsald took a sip from his canteen, changing dust to sludge. He gagged as he swallowed, his wayrunner jolting with surprise.

           

“Gargle and spit before you drink, Mudmouth,” Byarlun told him.

           

“Mudmouth?” Farsald asked.

           

“The name we call outsiders. Ones who try to battle the dust. We learned long ago it is an unwinnable fight.”

           

“Indeed.”

           

“I suggest you get used to the feeling. There will be a dust storm in the night. There always is this time of year.”

           

“Perfect,” Farsald grumbled. “How much farther until we reach the village?”

           

“Depends when the village stops.”

           

“What?”

           

“Daiseric told you, did he not? Our villages move. It’s the only way to survive. Right now, the tracks say the village is moving north. So, it will be some time before we find them. May not find them before the sun sets.”

           

“Paradise’s folly…”

           

“What did you imagine this would be, Crusader? Glorious combat? Conversion of people begging to be saved by the hand of the Deus? This is war. Endless marches in the wastes followed by brief spouts of violence. This is the righteous splendor of which you dreamed.” 

           

“What about you? Why are you here?” Farsald said with a grimace. “Yes, I may be naïve. I may be just another Gepid hoping to fight for God. But at least I believe in my work. I cannot say the same for you.”

           

Byarlun yanked his reins back abruptly, stopping his wayrunner in midstride. The bird uttered a high-pitched chirp, cracking hard caliche with its talons. Byarlun then brought his wayrunner in front of Farsald’s, the other wayrunner rearing back in alarm. On instinct, the mounted Crusaders behind them reached for their sidearms.

           

“That is why.” Byarlun pointed to the Crusaders. “I believe in the Deus, talbrüder. I believe he made the oceans and rivers, the mountains and the sky. I believe in his stories and in the Angel of Ire. But I also believe he is against us. We Asylent are too few to stand against the might of his Crusade and my people are far too stubborn to care. That is why I am here.”

           

Farsald laughed. “Pagans are all the same. Like Redaldorf before you and Treboznid before them, you claim we are devils rather than saints. Then comes our Crusade, the purifying inquisition, and that falsehood melts away. The word of the lehren washes over you all and you see the light of becoming one with God. The fallacy of nations themselves burns away. All shall become united under the tutelage of Athraiél.” 

           

Now it was Byarlun’s turn to laugh.

           

“Here I supposed you were going to say something unique.”

           

“We are all children of heaven. That is why we fight. To return to our father,” Farsald replied, ignoring Byarlun’s quip.

           

“Be that by book or by bayonet…” Byarlun said as he yanked the reins of his wayrunner.

           

“What did you say?”

           

“Nothing, talbrüder. We have tarried too long. The winds are rising and the birds are thirsty.”

           

Byarlun’s spurs clicked against his wayrunner, the bird resuming its trot. Farsald followed suit, the five other Crusaders trailing him.

           

He exhaled heavily as they continued in silence across the Divide.

           

Byarlun was wrong. As entrenched as every pagan the Crusade had encountered before. That was why Farsald was here, though.

           

God was with him. God was with them all.

           

The nomads simply did not know that yet.