And so we begin to learn more about Dasmon and his party, specifically about Dasmon's humble intelligence and how his ideas are very contrary to Cresan tradition.

-----

CHAPTER 6 - AMBUSH

Dasmon glanced down at the women as they snuck up the rise, bent low until the last several feet when they dropped to the ground and slinked along on their bellies, strung bows in their left hands.  Dasmon and Hamon were already atop the rise, hidden in the grasses and watching the Etlaentean scouting party below.  The Etlaentean reconnaissance team was about seventy-five men in strength, lightly armed with longswords and a form of bow Dasmon was not familiar with-an extremely small bow mounted on a club.  Even the weapon's arrows looked unfamiliar to Dasmon, small bolts of metal with none of the fletching he was familiar with.  The unfamiliarity was cause for even more concern to Dasmon.

"We can take them, sir," Hamon whispered.  "The numbers favor us."

Dasmon shook his head, jaw clenching as he tried to control the contents of his stomach.  The Fourth had arrived at the mines after only two days' march.  Calista, the women's Korporale, reported after another day that she'd spotted an Etlaentean force closing in on the mines.  She'd read the reports of how the Etlaentean army was organized and guessed that the approaching unit was accompanied by four wizards, based on their clothing and weaponry.  Looking down at the party below, Dasmon agreed with the woman's assessment.  Whereas most of the men below wore blue-green leather with yellow swirls, four men stood out wearing white leather with gold-embossed geometric shapes and ivory cloaks which lay off their shoulders to their calves.  They also wielded staves with a curved blade on each end.  The weapons looked light, agile, and fast.  Still, Dasmon had seen what Etlaentean wizards were capable of with their magic-watching men's heads pop like gourds was a sickening thing-and the exotic blades were of less concern to the Kurknull.

"What do you make of those bows they carry, Sergueant?" Dasmon asked.  "How much of a threat are they?"

Hamon narrowed and shaded his eyes from the overhead sun.  "I've never met these landsmen before, Kurknull, only the landing parties from their navy.  Still, some friends of mine have said those small bows have the same range as our women's, if not the accuracy.  If the men assembled just below the rise and charged on your command, we could close the distance before they got off more than one volley."

Dasmon nodded and finished Hamon's thought.  "Depending on their shields to deflect anything that did achieve air."  The Kurknull thought for a moment before continuing.  "Have the men trained the close charge formation?"

"Not recently, sir, though it's in our basic drills.  Still, there's very little cause for it, sir.  Our shields suffice well enough for any arrow."

"Unless men are extremely well-trained and practiced," Dasmon began, almost to himself, "gaps will form in the line during a charge, causing openings where the shields separate and cease protecting the next man over.  If those Etlaentean bows have any accuracy whatsoever our men could expose themselves dangerously."

Hamon shrugged.  "Perhaps, but I've known many a man who could continue running with an arrow in his shoulder."

"What about his leg or gut, Sergueant?" Dasmon challenged.  "We do not need a man falling during a charge.  In such close formation he'd become an obstacle for the men behind him and suddenly we'd have even greater holes in the line."

Hamon grunted.  "I think you are underestimating the men's skill, sir.  We know how to sidestep a fallen comrade without breaking the line."

"But why take the risk?" Dasmon asked, his mind racing.

In war, men died.  Dasmon knew this, but refused to face it if he could avoid it.  If he had his way, he would never see another of his countrymen die again.  He'd seen enough of it.

The troll charged the rank, over ten feet of pure muscle and ferocity barreling down impossibly fast.  Dasmon ordered his men to set for the charge, spears shifting until they were held underarm.  Shoulder to shoulder, Dasmon's men faced the monstrosity, grim determination in their faces.  Fifteen feet before the spears the troll raised its gigantic spiked club over its head.  Dasmon could smell the stink of the creature and it made him gag.  Dasmon commanded the rank to stand fast, the men bending their knees and gripping their spears furiously, left shoulders tightening in anticipation of the force the troll would bring.  Mere feet in front of the spears the troll swung its club.  Men were swatted aside effortlessly, beautiful round shields suddenly bent inward into crumpled, useless masses.  Only one spear found its mark, but the troll continued on as if it felt nothing.  Another swing of the club and more men were flung aside, their bodies broken and shattered, no more than bloody sacks of meat.  Dasmon and one other flung themselves clear of the slaughter, although Dasmon was the only one still conscious when he regained his equilibrium.  Sergueant Dasmon looked around him, watching in horror as three other trolls rampaged through the Fourth, only one appearing the worse for wear, that particular rank successfully goring the troll with more than one spear.  Dasmon looked back at his own decimated rank, tears coming to his eyes as he saw his two brothers staring up at the sky, their eyes lifeless.  The troll turned and snarled at Dasmon, crushing the unconscious survivor's skull with a simple step.  Gripping his spear overhand, shield forward, Dasmon rose and cried out in rage, throwing himself at his family's killer.

Kurknull Dasmon narrowed his eyes, an idea forming.  He motioned for Calista and the woman hustled over, being careful to keep her head down and below the lip of the rise.  A head of fiery red hair, Calista was strong and beautiful, with more than a touch of masculine strength about her.  Though attractive, only a man who could handle a strong woman would fall for her.  Her legs were longer than Dasmon's own, bare beneath her tunic, but what caught his attention were her green, vibrant eyes.  They practically sparkled.  Beyond her beauty, however, was a predatory presence-the way she was always scanning her environment, her fingers lightly gripping her bow, and her rolling cat-like stride-which made Dasmon want to trust her.  He hoped he could.

"Korporale," Dasmon began, "form your rank up just below this rise and prepare to attack on my command.  Tell your people to aim only for the wizards-just the wizards, mind-and cease fire after the second volley.  Have your ladies make as much noise as possible for the count of fifteen after your second volley and fall back to the bottom of this hill, behind the men.  Make sure the Etlaenteans follow you."

Calista frowned in confusion.  "Just fire at the wizards, sir?"

Dasmon nodded affirmatively.  "Trust me, Korporale.  Hamon, split the rest of the file in half, bringing one rank up here but to the left two-hundred feet and the other to the right also two hundred feet away, both crouching down in the grasses.  Leave the remaining ranks down at the bottom of the hill."

"Sir?" Hamon asked, not comprehending the plan.

Dasmon swallowed hard.  His plan did not fit the standard Aktenan form, which was why both Calista and Hamon were confused.  Dasmon prayed he was right about the Etlaentean's lack of experience, especially with female warriors.  He prayed to the gods they would consider the women easy kills and come charging over the hills.  Once there...

"Make sure the topmost ranks crouch, Hamon."

The Sergueant gave his Kurknull a skeptical look.  "Only a blind man will miss the men, sir.  The grasses won't do much to hide us."

Dasmon nodded.  "They don't need to be invisible, Sergueant.  If all goes the way I'm planning, the enemy will be too distracted by our men below to pay the others much attention."

"But if you don't really mean to hide them..." Hamon started, then paused.  Slowly Hamon began to comprehend what the Kurknull's plan was.  "Aye, sir," the Sergueant replied finally.  "We'll be ready."  But he didn't look happy about it.

The plan in place, Dasmon waited until Calista and Hamon could inform their people, strode down the hill toward the rear two ranks.  Already the left and right ranks were ascending the rise, being careful to make as little noise as possible.  Dasmon took his place of command to the rear rightmost corner of the two ranks and surveyed the men.  Everyone appeared ready, although he caught a few furtive glances and a couple confused looks directed at him.  Still, the men were professionals.  They would just have to trust him.

He was about to give the attack order to Calista when he caught movement out the corner of his eye to the left.

"Archers!" he shouted as loudly as he dared-please let it be only loud enough for the women to hear-and gestured to the figure atop the hill behind them.

The intruder was an Etlaentean scout who'd had the fortune enough to stumble across Dasmon's file.  The scout put a horn to his lips and blew, a low blat sounding across the hills, followed by a short echo.  Calista raised her bow and strung an arrow in one smooth motion.  Before the scout had made ten paces he was stopped short by Calista's arrow, immediately crumpling to the ground and rolling down the hill.

Calista looked to Dasmon, concern on her face.  Dasmon nodded and mouthed the order to attack.

"Archers, rise!" Calista shouted, unworried about how far her voice would carry.  There was no point any longer in the women remaining quiet.

Dasmon watched as the twenty-five archers rose from their crouched positions, strung their arrows, took aim, and let fire.  Within five seconds of the first volley they released their second and began screaming at the top of their lungs, warbling cries that reminded Dasmon of the stories of Amazons from when he was a child.  The second volley gone, Calista ordered the withdrawal of her rank.  The women raced down the hill toward Dasmon's men, still yelling.

Catching Calista's eyes, Dasmon asked, "Did you get the wizards?"

"I don't know, sir.  The air turned milky and solid around them just as the arrows descended.  I think two of the...shields?...collapsed before the second volley."

Dasmon nodded, turning his attention back to the top of the rise.  "Steady, men.  Be ready."  If there is even one wizard left alive this could be a disaster, he thought to himself.  "Look sharp."

Steadily the sound of enraged men flowed over the rise, becoming louder and louder as the ground trembled slightly with the stomping of their feet.  A moment later Dasmon saw the distinctive turquoise of their pointed leather helms.  Seventy-five Etlaentean soldiers paused for a moment at the top of the hill then descended, their war cries beginning anew.  Dasmon thanked the gods for his luck.  The enemy saw that they outnumbered their foe.  They did not use their odd bows, but descended en mass, the middle of their formation extending forward to form a spearhead.  As the last man topped the rise and ran toward Dasmon's ranks, the Kurknull shouted to Calista to split her archers to either side of the men and keep the Etlaenteans from spilling around the men.  At the same time, Hamon rose from his position in the grasses, bringing his rank with him-the other across from Hamon followed after a moment.  The two ranks atop the hill ran toward each other to form one unit, shields overlapping to form a solid wall of bronze identical to Dasmon's, then turned to face the battle below.

The Etlaenteans charged down the hill and crashed into Dasmon's men.  Some of the Etlaenteans dodged the nine-foot spears, others tried to hack the spears out of the way.  Many simply used their last breath to cry out in pain as spears pierced their chests.  The front row of Dasmon's ranks stood firm against the weight of the Etlaentean rush, shoulder to shoulder support from the back rows giving them strength.

"Now!"  Dasmon yelled above the battle, lifting his spear high for Hamon to see it.

Without warning, the second-half of Dasmon's file descended and hit the Etlaenteans from the rear, crushing them between the two spear-wielding forces.  Calista's archers picked off the few men who managed to escape the vice as it closed-they didn't get more than twenty feet.  The battle didn't last more than a minute more; the Etalenteans were caught and could not escape.  Dasmon refused to ease up, ordering his men to finish the brutal job.

The carrion birds fed well that evening.

* * *

"Only two injured, sir," Hamon reported, the final tally a pleasant one.  "Sprained shoulders, both.  Nothing serious."

Dasmon sat in front of the camp fire, staring into the flames.  He was very grateful for the report-or, rather, he was grateful for the contents of the report.  No one died.  Brothers still had each other; families were still whole.  He'd been lucky today.

"They won't fall for that again," Dasmon said quietly.  "Once they discover the battle scene and piece together what happened, they'll know better."

Hamon cleared his throat.  "That was a particularly innovative strategy, Kurknull.  Where did you learn that from?"

Dasmon shrugged.  "Nowhere, really.  It just seemed the best way to keep the men safe-the best way to minimize the danger."

"Hmm..." Hamon replied, wetting his lips.  "Warfare is not generally a safe business, sir."

"Perhaps," Dasmon answered, "but I don't see a need for suicide runs, either."

"A straight run at the enemy isn't exactly suicide, sir.  Especially with the way these Etlaenteans fight.  It's as if they've never fought on land before."  Hamon paused, scratching his jaw thoughtfully.  "Of course, with their clear power on the sea, perhaps they've never had need to combat over land."

"Be that as it may, Sergueant, no one died today.  I consider that a win."

Dasmon could see the disagreement in Hamon's eyes.  The Sergueant probably thought him weak, unwilling to shed blood if the need arose.  Couldn't he understand that Dasmon wanted these men to return home and be fathers-the women to have the opportunity to become mothers?

Hamon cleared his throat again.  "Sir, I'd just advise against letting the men get the impression you think they're feeble.  They know what war costs, and all here are willing to accept the consequences so long as they die heroes-so long as their families can sing of their glory."

Dasmon nodded, eyes drifting to the fire.  But wouldn't they prefer to be with their families, and not just remembered as someone who died lonely on the battlefield?

A long moment of silence passed, neither speaking.  The sap in the fire expanded and burst, the wood snapping every so often, sparks rising suddenly then fading just as fast in the moonlight.  Dasmon soaked in the fire's warmth, the Kurknull feeling very cold despite the victory that day.  He thought of home and his workshop, the half-finished vase he'd been forced to leave behind when the Etlaenteans began their assault.  Dasmon's servants had covered everything in white cloths before he'd left for Akte, but he knew there would much to clean when he returned.  He flexed his hands then as he stared into the fire.  They ached for the feel of wet clay, for the tedium of molding fragile curves and joints.  He missed the apron he always wore over his day's clothing, though more often than not he wiped his hands on his tunic rather than his apron.  Still, he felt bare without the white potter's coverings.

"Sergueant," Dasmon asked suddenly, "what were you before the army?  I mean, what did you do?"

Hamon grunted and blew air through his nose.  "I can't rightly say, sir.  I joined the army shortly after becoming a man.  I've never really known anything else."

Dasmon looked up at the Sergueant.  "But you must have had dreams as a boy, wanted something other than the military for your life."

"Well," Hamon answered, running his fingers through his steely hair.  "I suppose I once fantasized about woodworking, my father's trade.  He was a great carpenter, you know.  Made a chair once for Akte's governor.  A great carpenter..."

"Why did you join the army?" Dasmon asked, suddenly very curious-carpentry was similar to potting.  He'd had no idea the Sergueant might have an artistic side to him.

"What else?" Hamon answered with a chuckle.  "Doesn't it always involve a woman?  Ephrode, now there was a beautiful girl.  Ah, I haven't seen her in oh, over twenty years.  She wanted me to prove my heroics, you see.  Boys do silly things to prove themselves, I suppose, and I was no different.  So, I joined up and trained hard.  I was the best in my day.  I won thirty duels my first year in."  He outright laughed then.  "Of course, I didn't really make any friends, either.  Confidence is a good thing...having an overinflated ego...not so good."

The two men shared a laugh at that.

"When I felt I'd reached my peak I returned to Ephrode.  Any guess as to what I found?"

Dasmon gave Hamon a bemused look and shrugged.  "She was married?"

The Kurknull almost swallowed his tongue when Hamon snorted and chuckled dryly.  "To a poet, of all things.  Apparently she wanted to hear about heroes more than she wanted to be with one.  Ah, youth."

"I'm sorry, Sergueant.  I didn't mean to pry," Dasmon offered.

Hamon full-bellied laughed then, slapping both knees.  "No need, Kurknull.  I went back to the army after that and discovered I'd found my true love without even realizing it.  I haven't looked back since.  In fact, I'm grateful to Ephrode.  A man should always find his true love and stick with her, to Haides with anything else.  If it wasn't for that two-faced harlot, I'd never have ended up where I am now.  And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

Dasmon smiled and lowered his head.  "I'm glad to hear that, Sergueant, but you're married now, aren't you?  Rinledger Stavros mentioned your boy..."

Hamon's face clouded.  "Adrastos, yes.  His mother died in childbirth.  I was married once.  The boy stays with his aunt."  Hamon smiled then.  "He dreams of following in his father's footsteps someday."

Sergueant and Kurknull shared a silent moment by the fire and Dasmon thought about his own past.  Was he happy in the army?  Well, not as a commander, to be sure, what about before?  He was a lauded hero.  Didn't he enjoy the glory?  It would be easy to convince himself that he enjoyed the recognition and praise, and they were gratifying for at least a short while, but they weren't what drove him.  He was a good soldier and a great fighter-one of the best-however what drove him was the challenge, not the praise.  And like Hamon, Dasmon felt like he'd hit his peak.  He wanted to go home and back to his clay.

A woman's voice interrupted Dasmon's thoughts.  "Excuse me, sir?"

"Korporale," Dasmon responded after looking up at the woman.  Damn, but those legs are long!  "What can I do for you?"  The Kurknull gestured for her to take a seat with him and the Sergueant.

"Thank you, sir," Calista said, sitting down smoothly, legs crossed.  "I've been thinking about that scout who almost ruined your battle plan-an inspired plan, if I do say so myself."

She ignored Hamon as he rolled his eyes.  Dasmon understood very well Hamon's opinion on the matter.  He hoped the Sergueant would come to accept his style.

Dasmon nodded to Calista.  "Go on."

"I examined the scout's body and equipment.  He was geared up to travel for days on end away from his main party, not merely an hour or so away like we do.  His appearance was so unexpected it nearly did us in.  I think maybe we can learn a lesson here."

Dasmon thought about that while Hamon guffawed loudly.  "Let's just disperse the entire file, while we're at it.  These Etlaenteans really piss me off.  Cresa has had its wars, but we've always been civilized about it.  Two cities have an argument, they send out their men, and the opposing Genurals meet in the center of the battlefield to negotiate.  When they can't come to an agreement, the two armies fight-simple, straight forward, and honorable.  And they call us barbarians!  The only reason to send a scout out days in advance is to set up an ambush, and what honor is there in that?"

Suddenly the Sergueant realized what he'd said and went pale.  He lowered his eyes, muttering.  "I mean, I wasn't trying to imply..."

"It's fine, Sergueant," Dasmon assured the Sergueant.  He wasn't really insulted by the Sergueant's words or implication.  Turning back to Korporale, Dasmon asked, "You think we should have our own scouts?"

Calista nodded confidently.  "The women can cover the ground fast enough..."

"No," Dasmon interrupted.  "I'm not going to send a woman.  We can send one of the men out."  He missed the dark look that came across Calista's face.  "That is if any of the men are capable of it.  What do you think Sergueant?"

Not liking the subject, but honor bound to serve, Hamon worked his jaw for a moment, apparently considering the options.  "Lykaos," Hamon said suddenly.  "If anyone can do it, he can, sir."

"Are you sure?" the Kurknull asked warily.

Hamon nodded casually.  "If you knew where he came from, you wouldn't be asking."

"What do you mean?" Dasmon asked, his brows furrowing.

Hamon leaned back for a moment, stretching, before answering.  "Sir, Lykaos was a draftee.  It was either the army or prison and hard labor.  He chose the army."

"So, how does a criminal make a good scout?"

"Well, let's just say in his profession he was very good at finding the secret things."

Calista leaned forward and gave Hamon a stern look.  "He's changed."

Hamon shrugged.  "Maybe.  But the Kurknull wanted to know.  He's a thief, sir, and certainly capable of scouting while remaining invisible.  The only question is:  is he trustworthy?"

"I'll vouch for him," Calista answered with a tone of authority, her back straightening.

"Girl," Hamon replied, shaking his head.  "Just because the two of you wrestle in the night doesn't mean the Kurknull can trust him."  Calista opened her mouth to protest, her face flushing.  "Give over, woman.  Everyone knows and no one cares.  If anything, your relationship gives us a sort of leverage over him, and gives him a reason to not run away."

Dasmon was speechless for a moment.  One of his men was involved with the women, and their Korporale of all the choices?  He was flabbergasted at the breach of protocol.  Still, Hamon appeared fine with the situation and the old soldier seemed well-grounded.  Dasmon decided to follow the Sergueant's lead for the moment and let the matter drop.

"I want to talk to him," Dasmon said, looking Hamon in the eye.

Nodding, the Sergueant rose and walked off toward the rest of the men.

Calista chewed on her lip as the silence grew deeper, Dasmon lost in his thoughts again.  "Sir," she said after a moment, "Thank you for letting the women carry such an important role today.  Not many commanders would take the risk."

"The risk?" Dasmon asked, confused.

The moment felt awkward to him, the way he often felt around women.  He tried not to let it show and hoped his position as her commander would keep her from reading too much into his manner.  She was a beautiful woman.  And as much as he could tell himself that he had no interest in anyone, especially one of his own subordinates, it was hard not to admire beauty when it presented itself.  And she certainly wasn't shy about being a woman.

Calista grinned, somewhat embarrassed.  "You're my third commander, Kurknull, and none of the others has trusted my rank to do anything more than fire from the rear.  We women are too squeamish to face bloodshed, I suppose, or to show bravery when faced with an enemy."

"Well," Dasmon began, understanding her thanks now.  "I figure you are risking your lives every bit as much as we men are.  You could say you are risking even more than we are."  He looked her intently with that last-men sometimes did things to women in war that was far from glorious or noble.  "That makes us equal in my thinking."

Calista nodded then, struggling to say what she was really thinking, Dasmon could tell.

"Korporale, speak freely."

The archer sighed then and squeezed her eyes just for a moment.  "Then why can't one of us be your scout?  We already go forward a couple hours ahead of the file.  What is a day compared to that?"

Dasmon frowned, not quite understanding her lack of comprehension.  It was obvious to him.  "Korporale, being a woman, you have certain disadvantages compared to men.  You are not as strong nor do you have our endurance.  But, more importantly, you have the ability to put us men at a serious disadvantage.  Most of my men see you and your rank as potential wives-maybe not their wives, but someone's someday.  If something happened to you while you were a day away, the men would start to wonder if you were hurt.  Oh, it wouldn't be many a first, but the number would grow daily.  Call it a failing in the male gender, but we would soon become so consumed with fear for you that we would start failing at our jobs.  I can't have that.  If this Lykaos goes missing, I am sure some would worry, but it would not be the distracting sort of concern."

"Have no fear of me going missing," a surly voice said from the darkness, startling the Kurknull.

Two figures appeared from the shadows, stepping into the firelight.  Hamon strode over to his seat and sat.  The other man was thin, almost unhealthily so.  His black hair hung thinly, thick with oil and perspiration, around his shoulders and his face held patches of black whiskers, none long enough to make a respectable beard.  The man's eyes were such a light shade of blue they appeared almost ghostly in the firelight, and his sharp nose gave him a very predatory look.  Dasmon looked the man up and down, appraising him and assessing his capabilities.  He looked agile and fast, if a bit thin.  Dasmon could easily see how this man would make a successful prowler.

"You're Lykaos?" Dasmon asked, not really needing a reply-it was just an easy way to start a conversation.  The other man nodded.  "I assume Sergueant Hamon explained what I need you for?  Good, then I will add this:  we know the Etlaenteans have a good idea where the Lauream Mines are, though not specifically.  Today we encountered a search party, not an invading force.  It only makes sense that they have other similar parties out there.  I need to know where they are so we can strike at them preemptively.  Can you find them for me?"

Lykaos sneered.  "It's not like I have much of a choice, now do I?"

Hamon stood, face heating.  Dasmon waved the Sergueant back.  "Of course you have a choice, Korporale.  You could take the opportunity to run, or even betray us and join the Etlaenteans.  I hear their wealth is beyond anything any of us could imagine."  The man spit off to the side, a sign of distaste Dasmon assumed.  "I am betting, however, you have more loyalty than that to your fellows, your country, and even to your woman."  Calista made a choking sound at that, not intending it to be quite so audible.  "Am I right?"

Lykaos stood before the campfire for a long time, thinking through his options.  Dasmon hoped he hadn't made a mistake with the man.  Still, he trusted his gut.

"I'm a thief," Lykaos answered.  "You know this, yet you're still trusting me.  In the past I would have suspected you were setting a trap for me.  Maybe you are, but I somehow don't think so."  Lykaos paused them, his eyes drilling into Dasmon's own.  "No, I don't think you are," he said almost to himself, barely loud enough for the Kurknull to hear.  "It's an odd task you're assigning me to-not very Cresan at all.  Fine, then.  I'll do it."  He smiled wickedly, then.  "These Etlaenteans seem like they could be fun to toy with."

Dasmon looked up at Hamon, their eyes locking for a moment.

Dasmon counted to five then stood.  "You'll head out in the morning."