[Kransha]

The strategic was the largest pavilion on the grounds, larger than all the personal tents and yurts erected for soldiers or officers. The pavilion had several stem-off rooms, and was held up by strong cords. It was the temporary strategic headquarters, for informal occasions, of Pashtian generals. The actual War Room of the captains was a marble complex, which also held munitions, supplies, training facilities, and the other necessaries, which was built integrated into the training ground walls. The strategic pavilion was large, made from the strongest, thickest cloth, the color of stone and marble, streaked with purple stripes and adorned with many regal banners bearing symbols and motifs. The inside of the tent was strangely dark, the floor carpeted with fine fur, and held many tables, cushions, and racks of weaponry, maps, scrolls, or other similar objects.

Inside the pavilion, the first to greet Morgôs was Gyges, who he’d seen the night before, his adjutant lieutenant. With a bare grin, he saluted the General properly, and Morgôs returned the gesture. Nearby, seated on a cushion beside a long, broad slab of polished wood that acted as a table, was Lieutenant Adbullar, who promptly rose and saluted as well. Adbullar was the commander of the Foreguard of the Pashtian army, the frontal cavalry division that was the forefront of all Pashtian forces in battle. Beside him sat Memnon, captain of the unit known as the Midguard, in Pashtia, which was always the focal point of the Pashtian line, a division that was also consisted primarily of cavalry, fast moving, horse-riding spearmen and lancers who backed up Pashtia’s famed cavalry archers. Captain Aysun, who was hunched over the table across from Morgôs, was the Rearguard commander, whose horse-swordsmen covered the back and flanks of the Pashtian forces. Last was Iskender, who stood to Aysun’s left, the wizened captain of the entire Pashtian infantry, units of pikemen to fend off enemy cavalry, most efficient against dealing with nomadic enemies. The only captain missing was Nesryn, who was the commander of the Pashtian artillery and an Avari like Morgôs.

“General Morgôs, I am glad you’re here.” said Adbullar, gesturing for Morgôs to sit at his appointed place at the table. He was a middle-aged mortal, stern and talkative, but intelligent enough not to be thought a fool. He was not the epitome of a man, but looked as if his lot in life should have been that of a lord in Faroz’s court. “Likewise, Adbullar.” Morgôs said solemnly and made his way to the cushion offered to him. He was still wearing his elaborate court garb, whereas his captains all wore varying military uniforms, tasseled and adorned with medals and pins of a sort, their finest probable, Self-conscious because of this, Morgôs sat in the billowing length of his robe and leaned forward onto the table as the others sat down, taking their places around the circular slab. “Now,” said the General, his voice cold, “what urgency requires my presence?”

“Nothing so pressing, sir: simply some minor repercussions.”

“Repercussions of what?” Morgôs questioned, curious and disconcerted by the way Adbullar spoke. “The westerners, General.” The captain said in reply, “Not often is the Desert of Ardûn traversed by far-wanderers. Activity such as the coming of the Emissary and his train attract attention in the Burning Sands, and from the peoples who move there. The few sedentary people will take no notice, but hostile tribes might have followed the Emissary towards Pashtia, attracted by the look of them. In the past, this has occurred many times.” Morgôs halted him here, chiding him deftly: “There is no need to remind me of the past, Adbullar, I know it better than you. Tribal warlords and their primitive minions are no match for Pashtian walls and blades. This matter should not require my attention.”

“No, sir, it should not, save for aesthetic benefits of the situation. Word has it from scouts that some overtly organized tribesmen mass in some numbers, perhaps over a hundred men but not much more, just beyond the northwestern walls of Durvelt. Their minds are unperceivable, and we can only guess that they plan to raid Durvelt in an attempt to catch up with the Emissary in Pashtia and plunder his goods as well as sack the town. Of course, even the militiamen of Durvelt could hold out against tribesmen. But, this gives a magnificent opportunity. The political situation in Kanak is one of unsettlement and, in some respects, volatile with the Emissary’s coming, but it can be soothed. An all-out military victory over the tribesmen, witness by the King, his family, and the Emissary, could prove to be the perfect salve.”

“It is overkill.”

“Precisely!” blurted Adbullar, “Instead of throwing some grand parade or military exhibition, we can take the Foreguard of Pashtia to Durvelt within the week, with the royal family and the Emissary in tow, and make a fine exhibition of our victory. The Emissary could get a glimpse of our military prowess, the troops morale would be raised, the King would be impressed, and perhaps allot more funding to the army. No matter what, we can benefit from a full-scale attack and overwhelming of the raiders on the border. ”

There was an unsteady silence. No captain spoke for a few moments, and all eyed were fixed upon Morgôs Elrigon. Soon, a deeper, thicker voice spoke up in agreement. It was Memnon’s. “General;” said the Captain, “it is indeed an efficient plan, and Adbullar is right about the benefits.” Morgôs looked at him, almost as a man betrayed, but then became curious again. “So,” he said quietly, rising in a somber fashion from his seat, “you wish for my permission.”

“No, General,” said Iskender, swiftly cutting him off as the last syllable of the General’s sentence fell from his lips, “we want you to lead the Foreguard to victory. It is no great victory, but a spectacle it shall be all the same, one that will fill Pashtia with the pride it has lost.” Morgôs waited no time before pointing out the initial flaw. “That is Adbullar’s duty.” He said, but Adbullar quickly stood, snapping to attention, and said, “I will accompany you as a lieutenant, rather than lead in your place.” Next Aysun stood up. “As will we all.” He said, “We should all be present with the present courtiers; docents for the Emissary.”

“The Captains of Pashtia reduced to tour guides?” Morgôs objected, irritated. This endeavor seemed like a flashy attempt at securing more glory for the Pashtian armies, and a waste of money for the kingdom. He looked, as if for advice, to Gyges, who had been standing conspicuously silent throughout the dialogue. Morgôs wondered about this, since Gyges was often talkative, and eager to join in conversations of this sort, but he was considering something else, something distracting. Morgôs was nearly distracted as well, if Adbullar’s voice had not snapped him back to the immediate present. “No, not so.” He said, doing little to assuage the fears of the General, “This is to procure political stability, not to make us look like fools.”

“But,” Morgôs said, “what wil it achieve.”

There was a painfully uncomfortable silence that filled the air then. The Captains had been dealt a defeating blow with this question. They could reiterate what they’d said before, but the stern wisdom of their general’s voice told them that repetition would not be a suitable reply. Instead, they stood, all risen now from their seats, pondering, searching for an answer. The wind blew gently against supple cloth that made up the pavilion, causing it to undulate gently above them, creating the sound of whispering that filled their ears. Still, all was silent – until Morgôs himself broke the tenuous calm. “It shall be done soon enough, a week perhaps.” He said, startling all of his commanders immensely, “I must sort things out in the court. The situation with the Emissary has made things…more complicated. I will try to make the proper arrangements. In the meantime, Adbullar, select squads of the Foreguard to go to Durvelt, and all of you appoint a squad of your respective commands to be representatives of their divisions, which will accompany us there.”

Again, a long silence came. Nervously, Iskender spoke up. “It is a good choice, General.”

“For now, it is.” The General acknowledged icy cold.”

Luckily for all, the uneasy conversation was closed when the voice of a lieutenant issued through the tent-flap of the pavilion. “General, Captains,” said the officer, “today’s exercises are about to begin.”