An easy, cool breeze poured over the hill and across the faces of Relican and Kurmlish, bringing the smells of the region’s colorful wildflowers, scrubby pine bush, and old sweat from men and women. Sounds of insects buzzing and even an occasional bird graced the mountain foothills failing to drown out the inane chatter of military grunts that wafts like a ridiculous murmur up a sparsely covered landscape.
“Looks like about twenty thousand.” Kurmlish whispered.
“Twenty?” Relican said. He paused and wagged a finger at the encampment about a half mile below them on a small plain between a sheer cliff and a slightly less sheer cliff. Both were high enough that the army passing through the gap couldn’t be attacked directly, but certainly could be attacked indirectly. “I see at least fifty thousand. It’s fifty if it’s a single platoon.”
Kurmlish shifted slightly to look directly at his fellow scout. “You’re blattered, man.” His voice was rising. “Maybe twenty-five, but never fifty. No-no-no. Thirty max.”
“Have you ever done this before? If it’s thirty it’s at least forty-five. I round up so we’re never surprised.” Relican sniffed with his nose to pull back a bit of running snot. “Let’s just call it sixty thousand and go home.”
“Hmmm. I see your point. But I counted and that group over there on the left… that’s about five hundred, right?” Kurmlish pointed and spread out his thumb and forefinger like he was trying to squeeze the army between them. “If you count groups, then it’s about five thousand from the left flank to the banner. Four of those. That is twenty, right?”
“The red banner?”
“No. Wait. What red banner?” Kurmlish rolled to his side to look his lieutenant in the face.
“That one! For songs-sake, man. That skyfe is really threading your brain out, isn’t it?” Relican pointed and Kurmlish squinted, trying to see which direction the finger indicated.
“You don’t need to pick on my disability. That’s unfair. Okay. Sure. I think I see a red flag there near the middle.”
“No, you dolt. It’s not a disability. It’s a disease. And I’m not talking about the middle.” It was Relican’s turn to get too loud. Quiet was your life on patrol.
“Show me, you rude son-of-a-vonce-herder.” Kurmlish whispered and raised his filthy eyebrows to accentuate a smirk.
“Wow. Herder? You do know vonce is grass, right? Nevermind.” Relican shifted his weight to his far shoulder and pointed. “Look. Follow my finger. From the left, there’s the set of a dozen tents, then the skimms. Those each hold ten, so that’s one-twenty. Then another bigger batch of tents. Then the red banner… see that?” He dropped his arm and looked over at his soldier.
“Ah. I see. What you think is a banner is a signal flag. See?” Kurmlish glanced over at his lieutenant and pointed with his own finger. “It bears the insignia of a horned crow, which is clearly just a unit insignia. Now, a banner I would expect to have a wider stance, and probably a second pole. These Ersonans love to waste a man carrying an extra pole like that.”
Relican sighed. “Fine. The red dangly burblefob there with the horny-crow. On the left of that is about three hundred troops, right?”
Kurmlish chuckled. “Burblefob. You crack me up, Tenny. Sure. I see the tents, but you’re thinking there’s ten each, and there can’t be more than six in each.”
Relican’s face was turning red.
“And did I say Ersonans? I think it’s Ersonians. Or maybe Ersonicans? Ersonites? Maybe you’re right and the skyfe is making my brain into hash soup.”
“Will. You. Shut. Your. Gape?” He hissed, pressing his finger hard against his lips making them bulge out at the edges while furrowing his brow, and made his eyes open extra wide.
Kurmlish nodded, and furrowed his brow in return. Both the men faced forward and raised their binocs to their faces. After settling in, each had time to recount and reassess their estimates. A rustle in the dirt behind them made them both roll quickly to the side, away from each other as they had been trained.
Relican pulled his pistol out and aimed at the beast that he faced. The fat little nub-toothed lizard about two decimeters tall called a whallet stared him down, then casually trotted away under a rock. The pair looked at each other and rolled back into observation position.
Relican whispered, “Wild whallet is a good knaw, don’t you think?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. That it is.” Kermlish whispered, then stared forward a minute longer. “Okay.” he said. “I’ll agree that it’s closer to eleven thousand Ersoners.” He sniffed back his own runny nose. Another sound came from behind them, but they both ignored the pesky whallet. “Ersoners feels right.” The lieutenant just grunted his response. “Do you even know what they’re called?”
"Honestly, I don't care. They're the enemy and they want to kill us."
Kurmlish gurgled.
Relican twisted his head to look and saw a young soldier bearing the horned crow on his chest twisting his blade in Kurmlish’s neck. The Hatran lieutenant opened his mouth to shout but before he could a different blade pierced his own heart.
* * *
#AtoZChallenge
Z is for Stayven Zinn. He is an original ambassador from the time of the near-destruction of Gioveda over 800 years in the past.
Y is for Yeoman Stone. This monolith standing atop the end of the ancient sea wall the once protected the harbor from storms has a surprise or two left in it.
X is for Xerophyte. The rugged, hardy "Father Pea" that nearly all of Gioveda relies on as a food supply is killing them slowly.
W is for Wulff. This retired warrior has lived outside of Hatra for decades, and now lives in the oasis miles from the city.
V is for Vonce. The tall grass grows quickly in the sewer outflows and is used heavily in nearly all facets of life in Hatra.
U is for Uci. The very young migrant with special skills eventually makes her place in our story. Here we see some of her very humble beginnings.