“Gods damn it!” Lysander swore. He turned from the major who had just delivered the morning report and grabbed the map covered table, gripping the edge firmly. The muscles of his arms bulged as he heaved it up and over, flinging it half way across the tent in his fury.

Liam barely reacted to the fit of temper. He examined Lysander’s scarred face, seeing the marred flash burn an angry red. It had a tendency to do that when the man was feeling particularly piqued. Or when he’d had too much to drink. Despite the early hour, both were likely true.

The subject of Lysander’s ire stood his ground bravely. He had just delivered that morning’s ‘butcher’s bill,’ the list of soldiers who had been killed in the night. Ever since the siege of Dhetheru had been lifted, and the army had surged deeper into the desert, the night had brought nothing but death.

Liam and Lysander were both at a loss to explain it. They had started out setting patrols, but when men stopped coming back from them, they’d pulled the pickets in closer to the main camp. Every morning, new reports of men dead or vanished came in.

At first, Liam had suspected the missing men were being kidnapped. As the weeks wore on, however, he began to feel that desertion was the more likely cause for those who disappeared. But that still didn’t explain the numerous deaths that occurred every night.

They knew what was happening; the desert folk were staging nighttime raids on the camp. That much became obvious on one nearly disastrous occasion when they had attacked the griffin pens. Thankfully, the animals were capable of defending themselves, although more than one had taken to the air in the face of a concerted attack.

What vexed Lysander so greatly, and Liam as well, was how the desert folk managed to sneak into the army encampment every night. Nothing they had been able to do had stopped the attacks. The numbers of dead had decreased, but even a trickle was demoralizing, when every attempt to protect the men failed.

Some men had taken to given up sleeping altogether. This plan had a series of dire repercussions. Some tended to fall asleep on guard duty, which undercut the whole point. But this was the least concerning behavior, as far as Liam was concerned. The fights that broke out over the smallest matters were a much bigger problem. Some men were nearly psychotic from the lack of sleep, and had to be clubbed into unconsciousness.

All of this had slowed the army’s progress in the desert to a crawl and did nothing to lighten Lysander’s mood. Liam wished he could find a politic way to sleep elsewhere in the encampment, but he couldn’t risk leaving Lysander unsupervised, nor give him any cause to grow angrier.

The experience had taken its toll on Liam, as well. He was looking haggard, beginning to show every one of his sixty three years. He was getting too old to go on campaign. He grimaced at the thought. In truth, years of palace life and relative peace had made him soft.

While Liam reflected on the last few weeks, Lysander had been ranting and raving, pacing about the tent in his fury. The major had withstood the tirade stoically. Liam made a note to promote the man to colonel when this endeavor was at an end. Assuming the major didn’t wake up one morning with his throat slit.

Liam was about to step in and try calming Lysander down when he was interrupted by a cry from outside.
A dust-covered lieutenant from the cavalry burst into the tent. He snapped off a quick salute.

“Report,” Liam said.

“Commander, we’ve spotted what appears to be a large encampment of desert people to the southwest.”

Lysander’s head snapped around, pausing in midstride. “Prepare the men!” he bellowed. “Finally! We can strike back at these cowards.”

Liam heard the bustle begin outside, as Lysander’s orders were relayed. He spoke to the lieutenant. “What sort of encampment?”

“It looks like women and children, sir.”