The desert trembled beneath the thunder of a thousand hooves, not of horses—but of camels. Towering beasts, the true tanks of the sands, moving with a grace that belied their sheer power. Each stride sent plumes of dust swirling into the air, a golden mist rising to herald their approach.
Upon their backs sat warriors clad in steel and shadow. Their armor gleamed under the merciless sun, adorned with intricate etchings, and from their helmets sprouted vibrant feathers, splashes of color against the dull tones of sand and iron. But it was their masks that struck fear into the hearts of men, shaped into faceless white visages that closed all that could have resembled of human from their faces.
Each carried gleaming lances, two javelins strapped behind them, and a wicked axe at their side. They sat tall, unwavering, gripping their reins with the ease of men born to the saddle.
They were the Juggernauts of the Sultan.
None could feign ignorance of their name. No army could claim they had not heard whispers of their wrath. The Riding Bane, they were calledm the terror of cavalry, the monsters of the dunes. And now, the world witnessed their charge once more.
High came the cry.
"ALALALAI!"
"ALALALAI!"
It carried over the dunes like a haunting war song, a chorus of death and dominion. It was tradition, a battle cry older than empires, passed down from the age when the Sand Riders ruled the wastes, when the endless Qarzla Desert was known as the Shifting Gold Sea.
For two hundred years, they had roamed as raiders, striking from the sands like phantoms, vanishing before vengeance could catch them.
That was until Afarah the Tall stood against them. He did what no man before him had dared, he conquered the desert itself. Twenty-five years he fought, subduing the tribes, slaughtering those who resisted, taking the sons of their chieftains as hostages, scattering them across his empire. He believed he had tamed the sands.
But the desert could not be chained.
With each passing sultan, the riders rose again, turning their camels into weapons of war, striking deep into enemy lands, raiding, vanishing, and leaving only fire in their wake. They knew not how to till the earth, only how to take from it.
Then came Mursma the Fair.
Where others saw an enemy, he saw an opportunity. He did not burn their camps or spill their blood,he made them an offer. Settle beneath my banner, and ride not as raiders, but as warriors of the Sultanate.
Of course that offer came when they lost the war once again.
And so, the Sand Riders became something far greater.
This alliance had been a masterstroke for both parties. The Sultan gained an unshakable bastion on his eastern border, warriors who could match and dismantle the heavy cavalry of his western enemies. In return, the Sand Riders were given free rein to raid and plunder any land that did not bear the Sultan's banner. And on the eastern frontier, where few dared to plant their flags, there was no shortage of victims.
Over time, this pact solidified. For ninety years, it flourished, until the Sultan took his trust a step further, handpicking the strongest, most ruthless warriors among them to form the Riding Bane.
What had once been an unruly horde of raiders became a brotherhood of elite warriors. And unlike the mercenaries who sold their swords to the highest bidder, the Riding Bane had become something even rarer , loyal.
But today, these riders were not fighting for the Sultan.
They were fighting under the banner of the Prince of Arlania.
And just as the prince had predicted, the emperor had taken the bait. His reserves had surged forward to meet the feigned flanking maneuver, leaving his archers and cavalry exposed, naked before the storm that was about to descend upon them. The only thing standing between the Riding Bane and utter slaughter was a thin line of bowmen scrambling to nock their arrows.
Five hundred lances rose into the sky.
Then, the war cry rang out.
"ALALALAI!"
"ALALALAI!"
The very air quivered under the force of it. The ground trembled as the camels surged forward, their riders standing tall in the saddle, eyes locked on their prey. The archers panicked, loosing arrows in frantic succession. The sky darkened with their desperate volleys.
The shafts struck their targets, but to no avail.
Arrowheads splintered uselessly against steel-plated armor, bouncing off the thick hides of the camels, harmless as pebbles against a fortress wall. Again and again, they fired, hands trembling, hearts pounding, but their arrows may as well have been twigs hurled at an avalanche.
And then, the storm arrived and the lines met.
It was like thunder.
Axes swept through flesh and bone, tearing men apart like rotting parchment. Lances struck with unrelenting force, punching through ribs, pinning bodies to the earth as if they were nothing more than insects on a collector's board.
Some riders, savoring the bloodshed, hurled their javelins mid-charge, watching with grins as they found their marks, buried deep in screaming men. Others didn't bother, cutting down the archers from the saddle, their steel masks reflecting nothing but death.
The archers stood no chance against them. Their arrows were useless against heavily armored foes on horseback. If only they had lances to match their opponents, perhaps they could have fought back. With one swift thrust, they could dismount their enemies or even slay their steeds. But alas, they had none and were paying the ultimate price for it.
The once pristine sand was now stained with blood and littered with the bodies of fallen archers. The air was filled with the clash of swords and the cries of wounded warriors. In just five short minutes, over two hundred archers lay wounded or dead on the ground, while only six riders were killed .
Despite their best efforts, the archers could not hold back the monstrous forces that surrounded them. Everywhere they looked, they saw their comrades being mercilessly cut down by the enemy's mounts. The sight was enough to break their resolve and send them running for safety.
"Come back, you cowards!" a searjent or a lord would cry out, desperate to rally their troops, striking some in the back. "You will be decimated if you run! Come and fight for your emperor!"
They even tried to appeal to their greed, reminding them of the promise of riches and glory that awaited them if they emerged victorious, some simply used their sword as argument for their oration, killing whatever men was not fighting that had the misfortune or falling close to their path .
None of it was enough to stop the sea of panicked men from fleeing.
—————
"Your Grace, the archers have fled! The enemy is closing in fast! We must leave before it's too late! The battle is lost!"
The panicked voice of a noble cut through the chaos, his words drenched in desperation as he knelt before the emperor.
Gratios surveyed the battlefield, his grip tightening around the reins. His infantry was making progress, cutting through the mercenaries and forcing them back, yet the shadow of death loomed large,the Sultan's camel riders were advancing after swerving from the mass of archers fleeing the ground.
His jaw clenched.
"Damn that bastard."
He had underestimated Arzalat. To bait him into a reckless advance, to lure him in with what had seemed like an easy rout, only to strike from the flanks with those desert fiends? It was madness.
Or was it brilliance?
"One must have iron balls to attempt such a maneuver." Gratios mused bitterly. "Either he is a madman, or he has absolute faith in his infantry to hold even when crushed from two sides."
And then there was the Sultan. To think the prince had allied with that snake.
The emperor's mind raced. He could flee, head south towards camp, rally his reserves, regroup. But flight was its own gamble.
And yet, another voice whispered to him.
"Fight."
"The camels are focused on the archers. Their charge will take time to reposition. If you strike first with the clibanarii, you can turn the tide. Luck favors the bold, Gratios. You did it once already remember?Raise your lance and charge.Charge and fight and win."
His heart thundered in his chest. His blood burned with the fury oft found in his house,that old thing that always took hold of his heart and mind, that same power that had embraced him all his life, that feeling that spurned him to massacre his brothers, and take the throne from their cold corpses.
"Your Grace!" The noble's voice snapped him from his thoughts. The words remained unsaid. They were getting closer.
Gratios answered not with words, but with steel. His sword flashed into the light, its polished blade reflecting the fires of war.
"I refuse to flee!"
His voice was a roar, cutting through the battlefield like a war drum.
"Look, my lords! Those desert bastards are still cutting through the archers! They are scattered, we can break through their lines before they regroup! No force in history has shattered the Sultan's Riding Bane. Let us be the first! Let history remember those brave piooners!"
A moment of silence.
Then, the nobles roared in return.
No one would shame himself with dishonor when spurred by their emperor.
"GLORY TO THE EMPIRE!"
Lances rose to the sky.
Spurs dug into flanks.
Hooves thundered forward.