Zarian city was known to take cold water baths in a sunny desert with no rivers running freely. They had it all: the water, the food, the gold and the beauty. Very lucky for us, because all of it will soon be ours. Half of what we take will be traded for more supplies we need while the rest will be stored for the winters and given to the civilians as daily rations. That is an Ildocian way. Army always takes, never gives away.
Our march halted in the desert until we get our fresh water from the villages wells, completely dried by Ildocian First army. Some of those Zarians were left for dead, their cattle taken, their houses burnt and men killed. We even took their kids, slayed the old folk and left the villages like a drunkard leaves the brothel. March was on again with the Star always frying our heads, heating the heavy knights in their armor and slowing down the skinny slaves in our backs. We prayed for rain, even more for a shade but the desert didn’t provide any oasis nor shelter. Still, we had to move. Nights were somewhat bearable, but we moved in haste to take them off guard.
– Move until they build the towers! – commander spoke from his horse that had his breath sound hollow.
– But sir, the desert will kill us all. I would welcome the Zarian blade right now, at least it’s cold. – one spearman spoke, squinting his eyes toward the knight.
Knight wanted to move his horse and stomp the fool until death with iron hoofs, but the horse didn’t move, not even when the rider stabbed the steed with his heels. The horse crashed down with the last breath, squealing out of thirst it couldn’t be quenched. Knight rolled two feet away from the horse, rearranged his royal emblem on the breastplate and yelled as powerful as he could, which wasn’t very loud because of the dry vocal cords. No one laughed as no one had power to do it. We felt sorry for the beast, because we shared the same fate as this brown haired horse. Soon, the men will fall dead on sand where the desert will bury them and hold a eulogy when the wind starts whistling over the dune tops.
– You see. – the spearman spoke holding his spear he leaned on and hugged with both of his hands, – We will die before we reach the damn Zaria… This sunny weather is no good for the marching man that leaves the dust clouds behind.
– I wish we could fight in winter. – another guy spoke.
– Shut it. – knight said it rising up where sand poured from his cavities in armor, – We will be there in few days. The water is there. You want water, we must win the war. – he pointed at the head of the column and we fell to march.
In lack of precious liquid, we drew blood from useless horses and filled our paunches with piss and spit. We marched across the desert like a serpent, leaving the trail of sand clouds and dead bodies.