Chapter 9 – Orders
Morandor strode around the awakening camp. Another glorious day in the 32nd army! He stopped and glared at a pair of troopers who had paused while filling in a latrine. They hot footed it and got back to work promptly. He moved on, smiling to himself. It wasn't a bad gig, as things went. Leastwise not if you were an officer.
Sure, there was the occasional pain like being expected to invade a demonic dimension, or be cannon fodder while the gods fought it out. But they always prided themselves in getting everyone back. And they had the magic to do it. So the occasional death, although painful and hideous, wasn't that much of a price to pay. Besides, you got a bonus for giving your life for the empire.
He mounted a reviewing platform and looked out over the camp. There were other fringe benefits as well. Not far below him were several Amazons taking their morning shower. They noted him, gave a brief salute, and continued on with their ablutions. They had no body shyness whatsoever, and Morandor loved that.
The 32nd army was one of the 'Amazon armies'. Mostly that referred to its founding back in the first empire. When the empire had conquered Amazonia it had proved somewhat difficult to rule. One of the emperors, or empress if Morandor remembered rightly, had the notion of raising three armies primarily of Amazon citizens. Typically one was used to further Romitu conquests, and the other two to patrol and pacify Amazonia. It proved a successful formula.
During the chaos of the magical plague and disintegration of the first empire, the three Amazon armies had turned renegade and were officially disbanded. It was Scioni who reconstituted them again. Mostly because two of his core leaders were Amazons, and nostalgia brought in many recruits. Quite a few from Amazonia itself, and from the Amazon diaspora. But to bring it up to full strength, standard recruits were drafted or assigned to it. Modern Amazons, after several centuries of Romitu rule, didn't have the historical problems working with men as of old.
Morandor sighed again, and reluctantly moved on from watching them shower. They weren't as comely as some, but they certainly beat Dwarven women in both looks and lack of inhibitions. He'd take what he could get.
He passed down the rows of tents, heading towards the stables. Everyone was about their work and he just had to look officious for the odd slacker to snap to it. He took the opportunity to tighten the buckles on his boots where a cadre of Amazons was changing into their work clothes. No, sir. Not like the 'Dales at all.
He, himself, came from Westdale. A massive upthrust of rock east of Kemet. Not far away was another massif, imaginatively named Eastdale. They were said to be the last two of seven ancient Dwaven kingdoms. The rest were all somewhere in the Underground, and lost to legend. Morandor had his doubts about if they ever existed at all. These days all their trade and contact was with the surface, and that meant Romitu.
In his political phase, Scioni, the great architect of new the Romitu empire, had made bringing the 'Dales into The Amphictyony, that bureaucratic interregnum abortion, his cause célèbre. Greedy people on all sides supported the notion, relished the expected taxes and exploitation of markets flooded with cheap Dwarven goods in one direction and surface cast-of Amphictyony seconds in the other. Treaties were signed, hands were shaken, and great plans made.
But Scioni was one of the sneakiest bastards Morandor had ever seen. Buried into the language was that the 'Dales were to be brought on-par with the other major Amphictyony cities. The raison d'être of the Amphictyony was the care and maintenance of the municipal gates that linked their cities and provided for the trade (and taxes) that they padded their pockets with. In due course Scioni, who had netted the expansion department, sent out a tender to all major centers of magic for bids to construct the 'Dales gates.
A year passed, and there were no bids.
It was rather a shock for The Amphictyony to discover the wherewithal to build the gates fueling their cash cow was lost with the fall of the first empire. But, with a prepared flanking move, Scioni put forward a proposal to ask members of his own personal household skilled in the magical arts to devote themselves to rediscovering the art of gate building, if suitably funded. With the embarrassment of the lack, future expansion plans on hold, and the 'Dales screaming about treaty violation, it passed easily.
And, to be fair, he did deliver on it, and had the two gates built within the year. However, what really earned Morandor's enduring respect was that while doing so, his people had also mastered building smaller gates for all the secondary cities. He rolled these out at the same time. This was met with ecstatic welcome by those cities, which had always been shut off from the most profitable trade, and made him extremely popular there. Since the gates were privately funded, supported and operated, the fees collected, which were lower than the municipal gates and willingly paid, were also privately owned by Scioni. That, and the reduced traffic (and taxes) to the municipal gates caused most of the Amphictyony reps to go into apoplexy.
It wasn't long after then that Scioni left politics and went back into his preferred field, military command. Morandor knew a winner when he saw one. He signed up at the first opportunity, and had never looked back.
His boots rebuckled, all blemishes removed from the polish, hobnails tightened, and Amazons completely dressed, Morandor rose and resumed his journey. Scioni had built this army like a well-oiled, well-crafted machine Morandor's own race so admired. So much so that a half-skilled pissant such as himself could glide along as an officer and actually be effective. Certainly General Ainia was no genius either. But they both knew the buttons and levers to pull to get the contraption to chug along and do what it did naturally, and to collect praise for doing so.
He wrinkled his nose as the wind shifted slightly and made it clear he was approaching the stables. Maybe he'd put in a request to the Magic Academy. He had heard they were going so overboard with magical supplements that they had plans for a magical latrine that scrubbed your arse for you. Maybe they could do something about the smell of the stables.
A stable hand spied him and shouted out the presence of an officer, as he let him in and secured the gate behind. There was a wide, sandy paddock, with a few horses in it either being saddled or unsaddled, and a few more being led through exercises. Canvas stalls lined two sides and a large hay filled cart was parked in one corner.
Morandor strode up and down for a few minutes, pretending to be interested in the details of what everyone was doing. He had no idea and didn't really care. All he needed to be able to see was a guilty start or shifty glance. Then he would use the 'hairy eyeball of death' on them and a confession was almost always proffered. But this morning everyone seemed self-confident enough to have actually been doing their duty or hiding their slacking professionally.
“Which stall is Mercedi's?” he asked the stable hand.
“Number twelve, Sir”, she said enthusiastically. “I'll take you right there.”
“No need, trooper”, said Morandor, laconically. “I've mastered the art of reading numbers. You just get back to your duties.” She saluted and scurried off, trying to look very busy.
Morandor grunted and walked the line of stalls. Mercedi had her good points, but she also had her irritating points. Overall she wasn't his favorite person to deal with. Which was saying something. Morandor mostly couldn't tell one trooper from another one. The baby faces humans had all kind of blurred together for him. Even the ones with facial hair. Most of the time he didn't need to distinguish beyond their rank and role. That suited him fine. The fact he actually recognized her name when he read the duty roster was something. But it was just easier to deal with her than pick someone else and risk throwing sand into the machine that was the 32nd. He had a fear that if he ever perturbed its gears that he'd actually end up having to do work!
He slid the gate open to stall 12 and strode in. A bay horse looked up from its feed trough at his entry, trailing some hay in its mouth. Morandor looked around the stall; saw a pile of tack and harness, a saddle, and other gear, but n
o one else. He looked quizzically at the horse. “So where is Mercedi?”
The horse whinnied and shook its head towards where a hay bale had been spread out over the sand floor. Morandor looked back at the horse skeptically, but it had gone back to eating. He wandered in that direction and then saw her, lying down spread-eagle in the hay.
She was topless and wore only the briefest of loincloths. Her black hair was bobbed in the usual Amazon style, but she lacked the typical red war paint. What was also atypical was her skin. It ranged from a light green on the underside to a dark almost brownish green where she was most exposed.
He had asked Ainia about that once, and had been told that she was a fringe Amazon. They were from the marginal outskirts of Amazonia bordering on the outer waste. The land was poor and food was frequently scarce. Their sun goddesses has blessed them, however, with some essence of plant. Hence the green skin. They could gain limited sustenance by lying out in the sun, like a plant, and adsorbing its rays.
Kind of freaky. But Morandor had no problem embracing cultural diversity. Especially when it took the form of exposed female flesh. The fact she did this at the drop of a hat was what he considered one of her good points. Her face was relaxed and her breathing steady. She was probably asleep, but Morandor didn't want to take the risk and admire the view too long.
“Trooper”, he commanded, in a stern tone.
“Yo”, she said, but didn't get up.
Morandor gritted his teeth. He considered most of her bad points to be centered on when she opened her mouth. “This is Major Morandor.”
“Yo sir”, she corrected herself, equally lazily.
He scratched his beard in frustration. “You're the scout on duty this morning. I have a mission for you.”
“Cool”, she said. She stretched a bit, and then got slowly to her feed. “What's up?”
Morandor crossed his arms and stared up at her. The view was pleasant so he let his glare continue. He knew it was pointless, though. She had the temperament of a lizard. He had never got around to asking Ainia if their sun goddess was reptilian.
“We have received intelligence that there may be a disturbance from the Black Hole. Its border may have been compromised.”
“Downer”, said Mercedi. Not quite the serious response Morandor was looking for.
“We need the perimeter scouted to verify or refute this.”
She nodded slowly. “That'll take a few days. Say three.”
“Understood. We're not trying to engage. Just look for anything unusual. Take a mage, but other than that, keep it small. Make it as fast as you can.” Morandor kept his eyes on hers, to try to convey as much seriousness as he could.
“Rightio”, she said. “With a mage, I don't think I need anyone else. No point sending runners if we can send messages by magic.”
“Works for me”, said Morandor.
“Did the... intelligence say anything else?” Mercedi asked.
“I'm afraid not”, said Morandor. He preferred to keep her on her toes. But just in case this turned out to be something, he thought it better not hold anything back. “The information came from the other side.” He nodded meaningfully. “I can't vouch for it, but I can't ignore it.”
Mercedi nodded slowly. “Right”, she said. She pointed her finger at him and winked. “I'll get on it.”
She looked around the stall and then picked up a saddle. “Was that it?” she asked, stumbling towards the horse.
“Yes, I guess that is it”, said Morandor, trying to hide his irritation. “Send word on the instant if you find anything.”
“Sure thing”, she said, tossing the blanket over the back of the horse. “Sir”, she added.