Of course, the most important development in their search takes place while he’s asleep.

  Khafra’s minor annoyance however was quickly smothered by the pleasing progress they’d already made. He had expected them to stumble through the desert chasing ghosts. It was entirely through luck that they’d stumbled upon the information they had, and it was reassuring that Syla wasn’t present and thereby unable to drip-feed each scrap to him as she desired. The news, however, was not exactly positive.

  One of Rexis’ scout-students had been discovered, lost and delirious in the desert, chased by two Naga slaves on horseback. The scout swore she was the only survivor from their expedition into the desert and had been running ever since a calamitous encounter with a Naga and its enslaved army. She was convinced that the entire army was chasing her now, which is when her tale began to border into delirious incomprehensibility.

  He was now waiting on a report, having sent his own scouts off into the night to at least attempt to bring some veracity to her story. He had no intention of believing Syla’s theory of Naga in the desert, not without being sure the only proof of that theory was not suffering from the perils of that same desert. They were certainly taking their time. The wait wasn’t making this damned soup any better.

  Khafra sighed as he stared into the murky brown slop. Aiur had always said: “The best way to win the respect of your men is to eat among them and suffer the same unappetising food they do. All the while it saves you the time and manpower it takes to haul a decent meal this far from civilisation, and you’ll relish your delicacies all the more when you get home.”

  Up until now, he had avoided following that advice. He enjoyed his delicacies far too much. Now it felt pertinent to listen to his mentor’s suggestions, though he was not doing it to win the First Legion’s respect. He was their Legate; he should not need to. They owed it to him as their natural leader.

  He was determined to live up to the expectations placed upon him in Aiur’s absence, and exceed them if he could, but he would take no rank until he saw a corpse. Even should the very worst happen, he would not take his master’s rank until the last possible alternative was exhausted.

  So, he endured the cooling soup. In Aiur’s name. At least he was not alone in doing so.

  Cleonar sat opposite him in the tent, eating with enthusiasm, or at least more speed, than he was.

  “You actually like this stuff?” Khafra asked, struggling to stomach even looking at it.

  “It’s better hot,” Cleonar said bluntly, finishing her bowl and pushing it away with an expression Khafra decided was a grimace. “Not much better, but better.”

  “Ah,” Khafra managed, leaning over his bowl to try and eat more of the soup before it became even more unpleasant. It was already mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid interspersed with some sodden solids that combined together into a rather repugnant taste, but he swallowed it down nonetheless. If this scout was right...he was going to need it.

  “What do you think of this scout?” he asked, largely to take his mind off the rancid taste in his mouth.

  “I know Callia, vaguely but enough to know Rexis thought highly of her skills, but not her mind. She’s prone to panic under stress, but he never said anything about her also being prone to exaggeration,” Cleonar said, her tone grim. “It lines up with what I saw in Sturva. They certainly encountered this creature there, and I have no doubt the two slaves we saw off in the night were not the only ones in pursuit. If she is the only survivor as she says? I cannot be sure. We both know what we would rather believe, so focus on the now.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “We have a large force of Naga slaves to fight.”

  “Precisely. I have no doubt our scouts will return with news of such a thing, or not at all.”

  “We will find them. We will bring the beast to battle and discover what truly happened out here in the sand.” Khafra sighed, his own face twisting into a frown.

  “No, you haven’t quite got it. I think we need to be in formation and ready to receive an assault before midday.”

  Khafra paused, his spoon dropping into the remains of the soup as he raised his head to meet Cleonar’s steady gaze. “That’s ridiculous. They can’t have found us that quickly, can they?”

  “They found us last night. They will come.”

  “This is a Legion Cleonar. It is a beast that does not stir quickly.”

  “I am fully aware. Forgive me for sounding like our...erstwhile master, but if this beast does not wish to be roused by a thousand spears, it will save its rest for another day.”

  ***

  The Legion had mustered for battle in record time.

  After Khafra had consented, Cleonar set to rousing and mustering the cohorts that made up the first legion with a curious mania, and now they stood proud over the mustered might of five thousand battle ready legionnaires of Nerkai.

  They had marched from the camp at first light, spreading their eastward-facing lines between the bank of the river and the beginning of the desert dunes in a staggered curve. They stood atop the tallest dune on their right flank, Cleonar with standard set at her side and glaive ready, Khafra bedecked in heavy scale and with his lions-head helm nestled in the crook of his arm. Down below, the ranks of heavily armoured infantry prepared positions and obscured their great mass within the undulating dunes, readying a series of ambushes, baits, flanks and feints.

  “We’ve made the best use of the ground that we can. I still don’t see your midday assault. Of all the things I expected Naga to be, tardy was not one of them,” Khafra said, pride swelling in his chest at how efficiently his legion had readied themselves.

  “We needed to be prepared by midday. I never spoke of a midday assault, but they will come,” Cleonar said with an air of finality. “Any later and they would have caught us unawares. Instead, we shall turn that back on them.”

  “And what provides you such devilish insight?” a familiar voice called from behind them, making Khafra tense and Cleonar sigh. Syla stalked up the dune toward them with Shadrak in tow, her black formal outfit seeming untouched by the sand and wind.

  Khafra took a moment to ensure his face was level, calm yet stern as he half-turned to face her. He eyed her for a moment, allowing the comforting quiet her statement had broken to settle back in.

  He turned away from her, casually gesturing with one hand to Cleonar. “It is your experience. Enlighten her.”

  Cleonar smiled behind her mask of chainmail. “It is a story I may recount to you in full one day, but I shall not begin a lecture. Suffice to say, I am the only soul here with experience fighting the true minions of the Naga. Thirty years ago, in the sand to the east of here when I was a mere Centurion.” The memory was clearly an unpleasant one, as her smile sank into a frown.

  Syla frowned. “That’s it? The source of your devilish insight is a minor skirmish with some petty slaves from thirty years ago? Do you even remember it?” she snarled, her tone low and bordering on disgust.

  Khafra remained still, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Cleonar’s fingers curling slowly around the standard, squeezing it tightly.

  “They are not a foe you forget,” she said, her voice composed yet distant. “They are no unthinking mob. They know full well the totality of their strengths and weaknesses.”

  “They are just slaves!” Syla snapped, taking an aggressive stride toward Cleonar. “They are mortal! They fear their masters, but not as much as they fear death! A solid line of steel, shield and spear would stop them dead, while you hold us in…this! This staggered mess!”

  “You would think that,” Cleonar said, her tone pained now. “We made the same mistake. Those in service of the Naga do not fear death, their fear of their masters is so much greater.” She peered over her shoulder at Syla, her eyes hard. “They may struggle to pierce our armour, to break our shields…and so they will flow like water. They will find any crack, any weakness, any opening…and force it open, flooding through it with all the concentrated force they can muster.”

  Somewhere down in the armoured ranks before them, a horn began to blow. It was followed by another, then another, until hundreds were filling the air with their call.

  “Our ring of steel is not infinite. Our lines can never be perfect,” Cleonar continued, her tone growing firmer, harder. “So, we must not give them time to find our weaknesses. Our enemy cannot react to a foe they cannot see until they have already lost.”