[b]Rhumid Wastes[/b]

([url=http://youtu.be/I9Xkd6lXrfE]Song[/url])

Even behind heavy canvas the coldness of the Rhumid salt flats could not be stayed. The wind and air found holes and cracks between openings in the fabric. Fires held back the cold well enough, but it was still uncomfortable. And without the sun it was even colder.

All the same, gathered at a large heavy table the armored figures of the underlords and commanders under Thespos Comatid had gathered in console to their liege-lord. Atop the heavy salt-dried and wasted wood of the table lay spread an impressive map painted on goat skin. Pinned to the heavy woods by daggers as to not unfold for the men who looked down on it.

“The situation goes tense.” Manoren said, rising from his log-hewn seat at the side. The dark red cloak he wore to keep warm in his armor fell loose from his lap, hitting the dusty, salt-crusted carpets with a thud. As with all the men here, his face bore the pink and pale complexion that came with having too much salt and dust brushed into his face. It almost made him more ghostly than he was. “Cassian Mithrid's son's men rides through the mountains and the salt flats cutting down Rhumids on the claim that they are responsible for the death of Onesmios. This has predictably made the natives tense, many of who are allied to Hesiod Milatid. The death of Hesiod's father has no less made him considerably tense in the past few days as we all now orbit each other tensly.

“I don't think we need to be told that there is a tension amid the camps. Ever as we move along, I got to say it's become less a focused march to protect the construction of a road, but the simple act of pretending to do so. And far too many more families are eerily silent on the matter.”

“It would seem to be a good time we withdraw from the field.” grumbled an elderly general, Sparaia. He wasn't a man of high-birth; having been a former slave. But it had come to be revealed the man had significant education when he was purchased by Thespos to tend to his gear. That was over thirty years ago, and it showed.

He was nothing older than Thespos who sat slumped over the table, drumming his knuckles on the dry porous wood. Sparaia's head was a rich crown of full curled silver hair, flaked with white bright than the sun's basking glow. Deep lines curled over his knotted and crudely drawn face. He had never spoke where he was from, but it had never been a point to ask. He was a slave, he was a different sort of man and his freedom had given him a second rebirth in his life. “I have surveyed our supplies and I fear if we continue consuming our rations the way we have been we will not last a week. We could last at a week and a half, but our men will become underfed and watered. That would be dangerous here. Even as cold as it can be, simply walking in this bitter wasteland will drive a man to thirst as he would if he carried on for three days without so much a drop.”

“Are you suggesting that we retreat from our duty!?” another commander shouted, throwing thick heavy hands down onto the table for emphasis on his rage. Thespos turned to him. He was his uncle, some many generations removed by his wife's brother's in-law by some unknown number of generations. Or that's what he was told when he arrived at his court in Qarim, in the city of Kangdi.

He was a tall man, with soft caramel tanned skin and a thick head of golden hair. His nose was bent and curled both to the side and downwards. He looked unlike it, but he shown himself a Calydonian through and through to reciting the epic poems of the Calydonian people and reciting the histories of the Comatid lineage, and the Solonids. “I would not take you as a coward, brother Sparaia!” he spat loudly. It was his trademark to be loud. Alecxos the Loud, “We should stay and stand on this field, and slay all the foes and all the commanders of the houses where they stand!”

“And what will we do then when we march back for home? Between us and the sea stands at the very least the pass, that might I remind you the Milatids control!” Sparaia argued, “And if they get so much word that a son of their family has died their men would cut us down in the rocks, and our victories would be for naught.”

“If we cut them down here, then we will cut them down at the pass.” Alecxos continued in a booming, proud voice.

“I do have to add he's right, Alecxos.” Manoren nodded, “What do we have as a bargaining chip to ensure our safe passage. It's not just the Reddened Gates in those switch backs and narrow canyons that stands to block our march home. But we will all the same need to reach the sea. Then what? Lay siege to the weakest port to procure ships? March along the coast to the Kaindo bridge and cross home by foot? We'd have well over many months of marching to do, and winter is dawning on us.”

“Then what would you have us do?” another old general asked. Long silver hair hung to his shoulders, from even under his helmet as he turned to Manoren with squinted half-blind eyes.

“Consolidate ourselves, lord Maxos.” Manoren bowed, “We can't stand against eleven armies. We need to seek allies. The mutual survival would benefit us.

“That would be an insult on us!” Alecxos boomed. 

Thespos looked over at him. Though he knew he only used 'us' as an empty means of inclusion, he did respect the pride he had in the army and his confidence. Raising a hand he bid the attention of the men to him. “Alecxos, may you give us the standing retinue of men under my banner?” he asked.

“Certainly, my liege.” Alecxos bowed, lowering his voice. He stood from his seat as Manoren surrendered to his.

“At the moment we stand at 9,000 men.” he said, “4,000 proud Calydonians noble to our cause, 2,000 horse, and four-thousand retainer levees from the Qarim people. We hold seven-thousand spears, two-thousand bows, and a thousand swords. 1,000 of our men are of high birth, with the armor and equipment to their name and our horses as fresh and well raised.”

Thespos nodded. “Thank you.” he said politely. “I committed some of the highest manpower to this campaign and several thousand slaves from the Qarimite barbarians to the construction of this road in faith to Lord Syros. In my campaigns with him we have faced armies far greater than our own. All of them unified in our destruction.”

Raising to his feet he leaned over the table, placing his finger down on the lines drawn in chalk, marking where they were. In the heart of the desert of the far north. “The families that followed our Godly Emperor are divided amongst ourselves in distrust. If the tensions are as my son suggests it will break soon and they will fight.

“We shall not flee from the field. We shall in fact be present. And there as the banners of our enemies burn themselves against one another we shall stand to see their insolence destroy themselves.

“We do not need to commit at the first drawing of blood. We shall commit when all our enemies have destroyed themselves on their own spears. Then shall we move to steal away the survivors.”

“How do you propose we pass through Mithrid lands, my lord?” Sparaia asked, shocked.

“If we may, take Mithrid prisoners. If he has not been killed, steal Hesiod. We shall ransom the true son of the fool Onesmious as our ransom for safe passage to home. Then do as we may decide when we reach home.”

“Father, I must confess that this plan could turn the Mithrids too far against us that we won't have time to consolidate for anything but them!” Manoren pleaded, “We will need their faith for as long as we can get it.”

“And what might we possibly do when we reach home!?” Maxos squinted.

Standing out of his seat Thespos rose. The mighty beast of a man rose until he towered clear over his contemporaries. He was a giant in size. Sitting, he was a brooding ox. But on his feat, he was like the cyclops his ancestor had slain so long ago.

“We bring ourselves to inherit Syros' legacy.” he said, “And if the other families would stand against us, so be it. We'll kill them all. As we have for so many eons.”