Medorosa Canta hadn’t marched double, but he wasn’t far behind either. Three hundred Cynizia men, including a score of light cavalry that ranged ahead to follow the sand laden tracks, then camped north of Red Spire Monastery. Dusk had just reached the Giordanan coast, and the men were yet restless. Had the Vassish turned about and assaulted them, they would have found a sun-weary rabble without lines or tents, let alone fortifications. The whole affair could have been ended with one decisive routing; but the Vassish as yet had no worthwhile scouts of their own, and had no inkling of their enemy’s disarray.

The appearance of the stars is an auspicious time for Giordanans. They hold little faith to the sun god, and hold less love for the blazing heat that kills their herd animals. The myriad images of twinkling lights that shifts and shines grips them with superstition older than their ability to sail the seas.

Aisha had joined her brother in his departure from Puerto Faro, and had been given a droll, managerial role. The monks of the monastery had been forced to watch the Vassish pillaging with gritted teeth. While nothing of their own had been taken, they were wise enough men to understand their own, primitive economy. The destruction of an importer meant an impoverishment of their own welfare. Those men of scrolls couldn’t fight, but when the Cynizia arrived, they were met with cheers and promises of supplies.

A back-and-forth procession of animals stretched between their camp and Red Spire, creeping the provisions north like the crawling of a worm. At the head of the logistics train was the worm’s teeth; the Cynizia fighters. They had found a piece of entertainment for the evening, and left her to herself. She was, as I mentioned, the one in the camp with her eyes turned upwards. Although she saw the omens, the blotting of light by distant clouds and the waning light of certain points, she didn’t know whether they were good omens or bad, for she did not know whether she sought Medorosa’s fate, or Lucius’.(1)

“They’re drinking too much.” The man beside her represented the monastery, though he was not much of a faithful man. Even temples need his caliber; the kind that can size a rogue up with a glance and act accordingly.

Aisha lowered her gaze and looked to her unwanted companion. “You’re the one who brought it for them.”

The representative, who’s chosen name was Nim, had not been born with the look of Giordana to him. A repentant Aillesterran pirate, he had yet to absolve himself even many years later, well after the sun and the food had given him the local, swarthy look. Only his hair lingered of his past; black and bone straight to his shoulder blades. “Ale has two uses in a march; to reward victory and to prepare the uninitiated to take a human life. This? This is immaturity.”

A cheer erupted from the circle of men, which surely echoed far across the sands. The fire light of the silver mine sat upon the horizon, and yet the Cynizia played their game and drank their ale. Aisha sighed. “They’re boys heading out to become heroes. Why else would they party?”

“Killing doesn’t make you a hero.”

“Have you ever heard the story of Emil the Giant Slayer?”

Nim crossed his arms and glanced at her. “That’s a tavern song, isn’t it?”

She pulled her knees up to her chest and set her gaze on the ring of Cynizia. She could see her brother approaching it. “It’s not the kind of story you’d hear in a temple or a castle, if that’s what you mean. But it’s the kind of story these men grew up on,” she said, and in a soft voice, she sang.

In time before the rule of man,

When gods and giants battled more,

Can any say that he was greater than,

The young hero, Emil, that I fell for.

The Cynizia had lured in a sand snake by scattering the blood of a goat. A great sport for them; forming a circle and pushing it in with spear and sword. The moment it stepped onto exposed rock, the creature’s fate had been sealed. Unable to swim through the dunes, the great, leaping strength of the beast had been sealed. Even a drunk rube had little to fear from the snapping jaws so long as he had a spear between him and it. They had cornered it between them all, and there was only one question.

Which of them would go in to slay the beast?

If they were to close the circle tighter, it would choose someone to lash out at; the weakest it could spot. But, that wasn’t their sport. The ring of spears was to set the stage and to make an arena. Medorosa would have to do something to show his mettle to them; to spill blood in continuing proof of his vendetta. The Cynizia would have no less of him.

Against the mountain king, twas but a man,

Emil, the shepherd’s son no more.

Killer of men, he sought the giant Haidan.

Breaker of homes, he fought for lost Andor.

Firelight cast dancing shadows across the slaughterfield. Lamps swung and jostled in the hands of the Cynizia, while the moon rose as witness overhead. Into this vice was thrust not Medorosa, but another of the Vassish prisoners taken from Puerto Faro. Weak and stumbling, fated to die, he had Medorosa’s honor blade plunged into his chest. Crimson streaked him from chest to groin.

And yet, he lifted up a sword like the crescent moon.

The sand snake cowed away from him, for deep instinct told it to flee and seek a meal elsewhere. The thorns of spears trapped it with the man. With flight cut off, it had no recourse but to fight with fang and claw. It hissed and spat, flinging that dreadful blight across the rock. Muscles coiled and buched, tightening as the Vassish drew close.

The Cynizia jeered, but they too jumped and shouted when the sand snake lunged. A flash of scale and steel, the two met. Blood plumed and the snake fell. There was but a scratch through the lips. The Vassish had rolled away and sprang back to his feet. The sword danced from hand to hand, a line of red blood at the edge.

He was a hero.

With steel in hand

He was a hero.

With love in heart

He was a hero for all

Again, the two fighters clashed. The Vassish threw himself at the sand snake. He hacked at its body, rending through hide and fat. In turn, gashes of red bloomed across his body. The Cyniza shouted and scampered, some even ventured to take stabs at the writhing tail. The fate of the sand snake was set before the Vassish entered, but there was one possibility left to it; to bring a prey with it into the next life.

The beast leaped high, and the Vassish gripped his sword with both hands. He drove it up and clean, ripping through the sand snake’s chest. It fell dead, heart beating no more, lungs breathing no more. It died with its fangs ripped through the man’s face, pumping death into him.

The cynizia roared, and several skewered it anew with their spears. Only when it was surely dead did Medorosa pushed through the ring. They laughed and clapped him on the shoulders as he shoved the two corpses apart. The only thing he cared to do was bend down and rip his honor blade free from the chest of the Vassish soldier.

He was a hero.

With steel in hand

“What a disgusting stigmata,” Nim said.

Aisha trailed off in her song. She stared at her brother as he laughed and drank with the others. “Not very good for a merchant, is it?”

“Not very good at all.”

“He must think it’s his fate to do something like this, with a stigmata like that,” she said.

Medorosa turned his gaze north, to the fires of the slave pit, where the Vassish were bringing death and liberation in either hand. When he turned back to the Cynizia, he swept a hand through the air and quieted them all. “Men! Bed down and rest your bodies, shut your eyes. We need only a few sentries, and soon enough we will be fighting once more. Rest! Prepare yourselves,” he ordered.

The Cynizia cheered and threw arms around one another’s shoulders. Their spears lifted up and the dispersed in groups of two or three. A few volunteer chefs scurried in to grab the sand snake’s corpse, for they knew the ways of cooking and preparing it. They had a smoldering cook fire prepared, coals to cast it across, and by the time the men woke, there would be red meat to break their fasts with.

Medorosa didn’t bed himself down as he ordered his men to do. His eyes set upon his sister, and the leader of the Cynizia marched up the dune to her. “Did you get a good view, sister?”

She didn’t lift her head. “I saw everything,” she answered.

Medorosa grinned. “I’m getting better at it, aren’t I?”

“I wouldn’t say good enough to brag about it yet. Enough for a show.”

“Good enough to give the Vassish a surprise,” he said. His hands went to his hips, and his smile became a scowl. “I’m glad I never told them about my stigmata.”

Nim ventured to ask, “What is your stigmata? Some form of hypnosis?”

Medorosa barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know? I’ve only told my brothers, and I don’t intend to tell anyone else.”

Aisha gave a coy smile. “You told me. I could answer his question.”

“You could.” Medorosa pointed a finger at her. “But, you’d regret it.”

She smiled without saying a word. The girl was dancing a line between allegiances. I had extracted from her a promise to tell Lucius the specifics of Medorosa’s stigmata, should she reach him; and she had departed from me without telling me of his ability. My fool of a pupil hadn’t thought to question her while he still could, though he excused himself later that bad information would have been worse than no information. There was some merit to that, for at the time, he had no reason to believe she would truly betray her own brother.

“I should get some rest myself.”

“Yes,” Medorosa said. “You’ll want to be well rested so you can see our victory tomorrow. I can’t wait to hear the songs you’ll compose.”

She smiled and got to her feet, dusting her dress off. “You know I hate composing.”

“Is that why father had to keep buying you paper so you could scribble your notes?”

She strode past him. “Medo, you wouldn’t know a ballad from a sonnet if your life depended on it. If I wrote a song for you, you’d just keep asking me to make you taller and stronger.”

“Would too!”

“Would not!”

She left him there to make small talk with Nim, and retired to the quaint tent that had been pitched for her. Medorosa was right; she wanted to be rested for the fight. The only thing that stopped her was a prickle upon her neck. A pair of golden eyes watched her from the darkness. The words of her oath weighed more heavily upon her for a moment, under the gaze of Golden.

She threw the flap of her tent shut.

I would like to note that there are two types of fate in this world; things that will come to pass because the actions are already in motion, and things yet to be. The weather is the former, dice the latter. Obviously, one can be foretold and the other cannot.