The sand storm had come from much further north, whirling through silent dunes and cryptic gulleys, blocking the beautiful gray-blue light of the moon, bringing with it chaos and darkness. Somewhere in between the Twin Cities, much earlier that very evening, the armies of Iza-Kiêrre and Ben-Kiêrre had gathered to duel in fierce battle under a leaden early-evening sky.
Soilabi had truly been given no choice, for the Outlanders had not arrived as he hoped, meeting unannounced delays that only angered him; and Sephobwe had already commanded his army to contest against their camps. If Soilabi would not meet them now, Sephobwe would have much victory over him as already many of his forts had fallen during raids.
He had managed to find victory over many of Ben-Kiêrre's forts in the north, but the outcome of this battle would cut them off from their armies there, forcing those men to abandon the ground they had taken. There were also only three more major forts of his own before Iza-Kiêrre. They all knew this battle would be very important in deciding the outcome of the war. If Sephobwe was to win here, Soilabi would be on the defence and the war would have truly begun.
Perhaps, he thought, if he succeeded to keep them at bay and cause a significant sting in their ranks he would buy sufficient time for them all. His conviction was still resolute: the Twins should not, should never, war, and all of his retaliations and contending were only to keep Sephobwe from thinking that it would be easy. Some things were, as he thought it, necessary, but certainly unfortunate. He still believed in his heart of hearts that the Chancellor was the problem – not his friend Ahmatein.
The Twin armies were facing each other, although at a considerable distance; their light mail-armour blinking in the rusted light. The air was still and cool, with a permanent smell of dust. Soilabi was on his horse gazing at the army before him – strong, mighty and formidable – a fierce enemy. One that he never dreamed he would face. With him he carried a small lamp, modestly carved and painted black. This lamp was the Flame of Peace, to be carried to all wars and kept as a sign of the peace between the Twins when they would war together. It was a lamp that represented generations of tradition and virtue.
He rode swiftly to the middle of where the Twin armies stood. There a small tent had been erected by both generals. This is where the terms of peace would be discussed. His General, Ujalna, rode next to him.
Ten minutes passed before Sephobwe rode down to meet them alone. Soilabi was still looking in the army, trying to see Ahmatein.
“You carry that flame in vain,” Sephobwe said, calmly and confidently, as he arrived. His helmet was a dark steel and he wore it low. It shaped around his eyes and curved upwards to a sharp end at the top. Soilabi had never seen this shape of armour before. It covered only his head, but left his face completely open except where it circled around the eyes. He did not get off his horse, despite Soilabi standing under the tent.
“It is not you with whom I wish to speak to,” said Soilabi. “You are not the sultan of our great sister. Where is the high sultan, the worthy and wise Sultan Ahmatein?”
Sephobwe's horse snorted, but Sephobwe remained calm and cool. “He is here,” he said at length. “But he has made his displeasure at speaking and seeing you quite clear.”
Soilabi looked again behind Sephobwe, trying to see Ahmatein in the ranks of the opposing army. “I do not see him,” he said flatly.
“You should look more closely,” Sephobwe replied. “Move closer.”
Soilabi hesitated and Ujalna drew his scimitar while mounting his horse. He trotted over to Sephobwe, eyeing him suspiciously.
“If you say one word to your ranks I shall cut your throat,” he said. “One word.”
Sephobwe nodded casually. He looked at Soilabi. “Well?” he asked. “Do you wish to see a true warrior of virtue? He is there.”
“I shall move closer,” said Soilabi, mounting his horse and nodding to Ujalna who was keeping Sephobwe under close scrutiny. He trotted closer to the Ben-Kiêrre army and tried to see Ahmatein, but couldn't.
But one man did catch his eye and the sight perplexed him. He saw a man dressed in the royal robes on a white horse. He was wearing a mask that made it difficult to see his face, and on closer inspection, the mask looked like it was made of mirror. It reflected the dark twilight, creating a deeply ominous look about the man. He did not regard Soilabi but stared straight forward. In his hands, however, he held the Flame of Peace.
“See you now virtue?” shouted Sephobwe back to him from a distance. “He has taken on the fifteen disciplines. He is at peace!”
Soilabi sighed. “I carry the Flame of Peace!” he shouted angrily, both at Sephobwe and at Ahmatein, rattling the lamp. “I see the mighty and wise Sultan of Ben-Kiêrre carries it too!”
“Indeed!” replied Sephobwe. “But see? He does not bring it. For flame and passion are one!”
Soilabi regarded Ahmatein for a while, troubled and sorrowful. He returned to the tent to be scorned by Sephobwe, but in a very disinterested way. “This is a war of kings, it seems,” he said, emotionless. “But it is truly a war of virtue, a war of straight paths.”
Ujalna moved closer to Soilabi, his scimitar still drawn and his face full of contempt. He fixed his sword on Sephobwe's throat in just a moment's breath. “You!” he raged, “You lack respect! See now, here I have a chancellor in my hands! It only takes one swift movement and your power shall perish with you!”
Sephobwe was nonplussed, ignoring the general. “Would you continue these talks in vain?” he said softly. “Your friend does not bring the Flame, sultan. He does what is right. Shall you?”
Ujalna held his ground, waiting for the command from his sultan. Sephobwe looked at him. “And your man will not cut me down, for he holds on to his traditions of relentless passions.”
“I hold to traditions of true moral virtue! You do not!” replied Ujalna. “And neither does your sultan – we have no need for chancellors such as you!”
“Hold!” cried Soilabi, looking back. “Ahmatein is a wise sultan! Withdraw your scimitar!”
The general obeyed. Sephobwe continued to look at him. “Such rage,” he said calmly. “That is why we war with each other. Rage must be destroyed; that is right moral virtue.”
“Do you have terms?” asked Soilabi tiredly. “It seems you do not wish to continue this war, by your words.”
“Our terms are simple, as they have always been. But your eyes are blind. Surrender to us, and we shall teach you the True Way, the Ancient Way.”
Sephobwe moved in closer. “My sultan does not wish to rule over you and your city,” he continued quietly. “He wishes to simply teach you the True Way. Then, you shall be at peace with the All – and each other.”
“I have seen the effects of this teaching,” said Soilabi. “It has destroyed our covenant, peace and friendship. I am not convinced it is the true way, as you speak of it.”
“That is only because you have been entrenched in your own dogmatism. Simply surrender and join with us; bloodshed could be avoided today.”
“Your teaching has not destroyed my love, Chancellor. And I still love my brothers. But I cannot surrender. It shall go against all I was ever taught was right and all we have ever stood for.”
“That is the problem,” answered Sephobwe softly. “Very well, then. It is time.”
As he said this, there was a familiar breeze. Soilabi flinched and looked around.
“I was sent in The All,” Sephobwe continued. “And The All shall weave towards us. Do not be surprised at this. Rather, marvel at the mystery. For all shall be consumed, and then peace will come.”
He turned around and rode up to join his army, while Soilabi and Ujalna rode up to join theirs. “A storm,” Soilabi said as they rode.
Ujalna nodded. “Indeed,” he replied. “Will they hold back?”
Soilabi looked over his shoulder, seeing Sephobwe giving orders in the opposing ranks.
“I do not think so, my trusted general,” he said, “Sephobwe means to war, regardless.?
??
Ujalna was silent for a moment. At last, he spoke his heart: “My sultan, what the Ben-Kiêrre chancellor has said troubles me.”
Soilabi looked at him. “Continue.”
“If we surrender, we shall have peace,” he said. “No bloodshed. He himself says he does not wish to rule us, simply teach us.”
“Those are the words of his mouth,” replied Soilabi, “But a man's heart is shown through his deeds.”
The general nodded. There was another rush of air and he mumbled, “The storm is coming.”
In a few fleeting moments there was darkness. From the north it came – deep and black – a thousand whirlwinds of angry sand and cloud, racing towards them defiantly.
“From the north?” thought Soilabi. Sand storms did not come from the north, from the mountains. Unless it came through the Passing, but that was impossible. The last storm of such had been recorded in the ancient volumes, at the time of the Moncoin.
Soilabi gazed at it. This could only mean his worst fears come true. But how could it be? Was the Moncoin truly returning? Here and now?
The storm rushed upon them, a blanket of stinging sand and turbid blackness, crashing against their bodies, corroding their hearts in an instant. In the confusion Soilabi and his general commanded the army to retreat, for surely Ben-Kiêrre would not fight in such a storm either.
But, turning around, Soilabi saw faint lights in the thick and angry dust. They stood still, without wavering. Then the storm suddenly subsided – as if the eye of it passed over them. There, not too far away, stood the Ben-Kiêrre army, confident and not affected, for it seemed the storm had overlooked them and had only run over the Iza-Kiêrre army. Ben-Kiêrre lit up flaming arrows and shot them into the sky. They came flying down menacingly, maiming a terrible number of Iza-Kiêrre who were still confused with the storm. Once the deed was done, the storm returned in another fit of rage.
Soilabi stood aghast. Either it was that they were not favoured by the Divine, or that Sephobwe had acquired favour with something else. The Moncoin. He did not want to know the answer.
Commanding his army as best he could, they gradually retreated. Many found themselves utterly mystified and lost in the dark biting wind. And so, evening fell and continued, with Iza-Kiêrre on the retreat and Ben-Kiêrre in the advance. Two hours, maybe three, would pass before the storm finally disappeared and continued to pour out its wrath further south; its evil colliding with Gerald and the nomads, keeping in their tents and under cover.
Gerald had come to Anna and her father's tent, and closely, together, they waited for the wild and angry malevolence to pass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR