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The two moons of Avarill hung gibbous in the night sky, the small seeming to follow the larger ones path, stars twinkling and dancing in the velvet blackness of the sky. In the hills and glens of the land below, small fires seemed to reflect the dance of the stars, each placed in a pattern to the next.
Rows upon rows of tents lay pitched in an orderly manner, spears and pole arms stacked upon racks and within easy reach. The soft murmur of voices wafted on the wind as the vast army settled in for a well earned rest. Sentries patrolled the perimeters in pairs, their set route delineated and unvarying and any conversation between the pair was low pitched and minimal.
Up on the highest hill a great silken pavilion had been erected, its colorful sides glowing in the light of numerous torches. Ringed below it were the lesser tents, though bright and also made of silk. Before each, a small fire blazed and from within them, the lights from lanterns and braziers to warm those within reflected outwards, causing the material to gleam as if near translucent. No figures moved about in any of the lesser pavilions, though shadows of men reflected from the greater, men meeting to determine the next move in the century old war.
Climbing up the hill was the silhouette of a man, armored in the plan leather of a mercenary sergeant, called above to make his report and to receive his next orders from his commander. Adrian Rustam didn't expect much. He'd come to accept the sneering comments, the disgust-filled looks and the rolling of eyes when he appeared to his lawful superiors. It had been a long time since he'd believed that they could see anything beyond a set of hard-worn leather armor and callused hands. This was a mercenary, the kind that they sent to their death with each one of their ill thought-out plans.
Shaking his head in disgust he ascended the last few feet, pausing before the canvas of the main tent. Normally, it'd be a higher rank than he that collected the orders for his small company, but times were hard, and men died. Too many men died...The sounds from within jarred him to a sudden state of alarm-filled attention.
"How is it going, Ramakal" one of the deepest voices rumbled.
A weedy, slightly whining voice answered "The work is, for the most part, successful, my lord" every second word or so interrupted with a rasping breath. "There are those that cannot be...", another breath, this one mixed with a laugh that caused Adrian's eyes to widen in disbelief, "changed my lord, and they are put out of their misery, of course."
There were chuckles from inside. "Damn barbarians, deserve everything they get." Yet another voice, this one strong and full of youthful anger, Adrian could well imagine the tolerant smiles of those within.
The older voice continued. "How long until it's ready for the troops?
"My lord, I believe that should we use it now, the success rate would be four in every five."
"That's an awfully high failing, Ramakal" the voice held an amount of disapproval in it.
"They are only mercenaries, my lord; there are always more, and in exchange for one in five, you can control the greatest army in history, soldiers stronger than any normal man. The altering of their memories is almost entirely successful; we would be able to start as soon as my lord wishes."
Adrian drew backwards, his dark eyes widening in disbelief. As a mercenary he'd served many, some corrupt, and some not. But never before had anyone spoken like this, with a careless disregard for the lives they used and discarded. The words, in themselves, were not what shook him to the core. Coupled with the rumors that were rife around the camp, they were something terrifying. He turned and started to run. If they knew he'd heard them...
The tent flap behind him whipped open and a yell echoed though the night, Adrian didn't pause, grabbing the nearest horse, a well-groomed black stallion. Pulling himself into the saddle and driving his heels hard into its sides, he bent his tall frame until he lay almost flat along the beast's neck. Alerted the perimeter guards began to draw and nock arrows as the horse flew through the camp. He closed his eyes, listening to the whistling of arrows and prayed to any deity that would take him. "Please... please..."
Having escaped his pursuit, Adrian and his loyal subordinate, Alannara Lasheea, gather allies and forces, preparing to bring war to the nobles who would taint the land with the perverse magic of the mages that seek to enslave the innocent...
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