"I never thought it would be this bad, Hakim."

The commander of the western front army of the Caraliyyah Caliphate -- which the Trinitian somehow mumbled into 'Cataliya' -- stood at the crest of a shallow, grassy knoll and looked down upon the aisles of his field hospital. Rows upon rows of white tents bore the symbol of the Pink Crescent, which were drawn in the crystal pinkish-red color of the Samaran 'Fluid of Life' that all healers shared in common. Thousands of sick, quarantined troops overflowed even their capacity, as the influx of patients overwhelmed the amply prepared medical units attached to the army.

Baha ad-Din Salim ibn Ziyad pulled at the hairs beneath his thickly-bearded chin. It was a bad habit he regressed to every time he felt frustrated. Though he doubted any leader worth their salt could feel more helpless than he did right now.

"Flu, typhus, and now even dysentery? How could this happen? So quickly?" General Salim turned about to face his deputy.

"The problems have been present since the start, Your Eminence." Hakim answered, his countenance as blank as tranquil water. "We walk among a land and climate alien to our kind. Our men grew up on the arid savanna and scorching deserts. Now they trek beneath the gloom of a northwestern winter and its freezing rain. The human body is frail and slow to adapt. How could they not fall sick?"

"But why now? Why the sudden surge?" Salim countered. "We entered Rhin-Lotharingie a month ago. Our soldiers have been falling sick since week one, yet the healers have always managed to keep the illness contained. I even moderated our pace of advance to keep the troops from exhaustion."

"All resources have limitations, Your Eminence," replied his advisor. "The heavy casualties incurred in our last battle drained our healers' mana and expended their supply of Samaran blood. How could they cope with another disease outbreak immediately afterwards?"

Hakim had the appearance of a beautiful, scholarly young man clad in white robes. However he was too tall to be inconspicuous, and too pale to be a descendant of the desert tribes. Nevertheless, advisors of exotic origins were nothing new in the Caliphate. Affluent individuals often sought to claim wives or servants of distant origins, as it was widely considered a fashionable display of wealth... or in Salim's eyes, decadence.

Though in this case, looks were also deceiving. Hakim... wasn't even human.

A close examination would notice the faded blue hues that seemed to billow across the surface of his skin. Instead of supple human tissue, his 'flesh' was an illusion. They were embers condensed into layers to take on a tangible profile, to blend in more easily amidst humankind.

Hakim was a jinn -- a race veiled in mystery, creatures of smokeless flames.

The human and jinn societies shared a God, a Prophet, and even a Caliphate. Yet the majority of their people remain segregated to this day. Hakim was among the few who intermingled with humans. He was one of the marid caste, the elite class of scholars and leaders among his people's rigid social hierarchy.

The Caliphate's western front army had only twenty marids in total, plus several hundred ifrits -- jinn of the warrior caste. Nevertheless the numeric racial imbalance did not stop the Caliphate's military traditions: every high-ranking leader was paired with his or her own wazir, a marid who served as their advisor and second-in-command.

The other nations of Hyperion might have equated this to the 'chief-of-staff' position. But the truth was far more complicated than that. The bond between commandant and wazir was forged for life -- usually the shorter, human life. And until death breaks them apart, the two shared all assignments, promotions, and punishments equally.

"Battalions! Full stop!" A distant yell came from behind the two leaders.

The order echoed down the road from one officer after another. Wheels creaked and hooves stamped against the hardened ground. A supply convoy of several hundred horse-drawn wagons snaked down the earthen path until it vanished between the wooded hills. They halted at the encampment's outer security perimeter, where the captain on watch verified their identity before letting them through.

The scene was almost suspicious. It had been weeks since Salim witnessed such an unmolested column.

Most supply trains had to run a gauntlet of ambushes on their journey to the front, if they arrived at all. By the time they reached camp, the wagons would roll in with Lotharin arrows sticking out from their sides. Their escort would walk past in bloody bandages, while several half-burnt carts usually carried men too injured to walk.

Salim's army of 57,000 soldiers consumed nearly 40,000 stones (over 200 wagon loads) of bread, 30,000 stones of meat, and 45,000 stones of fodder per week. Ferrying such immense quantities from the Caliphate and transporting them safely across several hundred kilopaces of wooded Lotharin hills required a monumental effort from the logistics and reserve divisions of the army.

Without adequate supplies, his frontline corps would be forced into 'foraging', which was euphemism for seizing grains and livestock from the local populace. Such behavior often encountered resistance, which soon escalated to murder and rape once soldiers drew blood. However, even foraging couldn't supply an army of such bulk for long, and within days the troops would begin to starve.

In a realm where even the average commoner knew how to use a bow and axe, this only escalated the problem yet further as vengeful peasants-turned-partisans tightened the noose on logistical lines.

Hence, atrocities against the civilian populace were more than sins. They created a negative feedback loop that quickly spun out of control. Salim had carefully studied the history of Rhin-Lotharingie after he'd been named one of the invasion's front commanders. The last thing he wanted to see was for his army to make the same mistakes as the Imperium's Legions, or more recently -- the eastern, Inner Sea front where the Holy War had already descended into a spiral of vicious reprisals.

Thankfully, Salim had managed to avoid such a scenario thus far. Battalions of reinforcements from the rear had ensured that this latest delivery of food and medical supplies came through. Meanwhile, the four rotting men hanging by their necks near the entrance served as a potent reminder of his "zero tolerance policy" towards all acts of barbarism -- especially rape, which those four had committed against Lotharin prisoners.

"General!"

The yell came as a squad of light cavalrymen detached themselves from the supply column and galloped towards the hill.

"General!"

The newcomer leaped off his horse and scampered up the grassy knoll. Two dozen wary bodyguards squeezed the handles of their scimitars. Their current position was near the edge of the Caraliyyah encampment and well outside the inner wards. But the officer paid them no mind as he rushed up and took a deep bow.

"Major Hamid," Salim addressed the youthful commander of the 86th Light Cavalry Battalion. "What brings you in such haste?"

"General Salim, I bring dire news," he began immediately. "Earlier this morning, as my scouts patrolled the surrounding regions to ward off partisan activity, we caught a squad of Lotharin rangers poisoning a natural spring five kilopaces upstream through the disposal of rotting animal carcasses."

Salim's eyes hardened as he turned to his wazir:

"They're poisoning the land..."

"Yes Sir," the Major confirmed. "I've sent my men to double check other water sources in our locale. They have already discovered three other springs, seven wells, and one stream nearby to also be contaminated by the enemy. In three cases, the contagions were well camouflaged, and may have been left there as long as five days ago when we fought the Lotharins in battle."

"It certainly explains our sudden influx of disease, and these are probably just the tip of the iceberg." The marid Hakim nodded in contemplation. "The abundance of fresh, running water in these lands has made our officers lax in cleansing what they consume. Perhaps even more importantly -- this shows that our opponent has changed commanders."

"The Oriflamme who joined the battle?"

"Some prisoners claim it was their princess."

Salim could only scoff at Hakim's statement:

"A mere child then. With the Emperor's untimely demise, her own authority swings in the balance. What can a maiden barely out of her teens command?"

"She doesn't have to," the Wazir warned. "The Weichsen Knights Phantom that devastated our ruhk riders must have arrived with her. Even if she is a mere figurehead, that crusader state has more than enough competent generals to lend an experienced commander."

And the Lotharins might just be desperate enough to listen to those blackened warmongers, Salim considered.

The General squeezed his bearded chin and he went quiet. No follower of God would forget that it was Weichsel that sparked the 1st Crusade, thus igniting centuries of Holy Wars between the Caliphate and the Trinitian states.

"That makes sense. Lady Estelle may be a nonbeliever, but she is also a courageous and honorable woman," Salim spoke with earnest respect. "Such treachery is beneath her dignity and conduct. To poison the water supply would not only harm us, but also their own civilians for many months to come."

Not that many of them remained, Salim thought. Most of the nearby villagers had already fled across the river to take shelter behind the Avorican Capital's fortified walls.

"Do we have any information on the status of their command?"

"None," answered Hakim. "We killed and 'captured' several of our own spies during the last battle. Two of them were signal officers whom we relied upon to pass information from our agents within their camp. Intelligence has already taken efforts to re-infiltrate them back into the Lotharin ranks. But we have yet to hear back from either."

It really spoke for just how savagely Caliphate forces had mauled the Lotharin army, that they ended up severing even their own spies' communication lines.

"What of the Lotharin saboteurs you encountered?" Salim addressed Major Hamid once more.

"We had cornered their squad, but..."

"But--?"

"Their leader did not surrender. He insulted God in his cowardice, and therefore I killed him in battle."

"What did he say?"

The cavalry major's expression tensed, as he realized too late that he had already said too much.

"There is no deity but God," he then uttered before lowering his gaze to the ground.

The phrase was sacred to the Tauheed religion: words spoken not only as a prayer, but as an official declaration of one's conversion -- a transformation which forgave all prior sins.

"Then why did you kill him?" Salim demanded. His calm but chilling voice penetrated all resistance in a display of his decades of experience as a judge.

"B-but he spoke them out of fear of our arms!" The Major stammered under the oppressive atmosphere. "They were insolent to God!"

"How do you know? Did you split his heart open and see?"

"Sir, I..."

"Answer me. How could you be sure of his insincerity? How do you know?"

Major Hamid immediately knelt down on the ground. He could only bow in regret as the General repeated the question again and again.

"I do not... I cannot!"

With a softening sigh, Salim looked down upon the subordinate who failed to remember one of the fundamental teachings of the Prophet.

"It is not our role to pass judgment upon his faith and piety. If he lies in the name of God, then it is God who shall judge and punish him. Whom are you to take such decisions into your own hands in arrogance?"

For over a minute, no words came back as the Major could only stare into the dirt in guilty silence.

Even if there is no military code to adjudicate this, I must pass judgment, Salim exhaled a deep breath.

The Major had broken a law of God, which stood even above the laws of man. For discipline and ethics to be upheld among the soldiers, he must serve as an example and be punished accordingly.

Yet at the same time, Major Hamid was a seasoned veteran with countless deeds of battlefield valor. If the penalty was excessive, it would discourage the other men. Furthermore, Hamid was among the best scout leaders in the army. It would be difficult to replace him and maintain the same level of efficiency.

Salim pursed his lips as he felt his scholarly mind turn, seeking legal precedence as far back as the Prophet's Companions. But unlike his past days spent administering civil law, time was one leisure that he currently did not have. Every minute in a war zone could be measured in lives. He needed a swift decision so that the Major, or his replacement, could be sent back with new orders.

"Major Hamid," the stern-faced General said after another minute of deliberation. "You are hereby ordered to fast for the next two months in repentance for your sin -- from sunrise to sunset as if they were the Holy Month of Revelation. Furthermore, you will surrender two years of your salary as blood money."

Relief flooded the young Major's face before he bowed again:

"Yes Sir!"

It was easy to be considered merciful when Salim had a reputation for legal severity.

"Hasten your search and identify any fresh water sources remaining, Major Hamid," the General continued. "Focus on our rear where there is less chance of sabotage. Put a watch on any unspoiled water supplies. You may pull two infantry battalions to assist you as needed."

"Yes Sir! It shall be done!"

"In the meantime," Salim added as his voice softened and he leaned over to place a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Repent, reflect, and atone. I will pray for God to forgive you, for it is his law that you have broken."

"Yes Sir! And thank you." The Major saluted again, this time with gratitude reflecting through his eyes.

As the cavalry commander descended the hill, General Salim exchanged a look with his wazir Hakim:

"You don't approve, dear brother?"

"It simply seems... unlike you," the Marid stated, his expression as stale as ever.

Salim returned his gaze to the young major's back with the traces of a smile. There was a time when he was just like his wazir. However the more he aged -- and the more children his wives gave him -- the more he realized that being logical and impartial was far from enough in being a responsible leader.

"The Caliph once gave me advice to be more fatherly to my men. I am still trying to follow it."

"Sentimentality has little to do with legality though," Hakim replied.

"No," Salim admitted. "But it has everything to do with humanity."

After all, did the Prophet himself not say that 'kindness is a mark of faith, and whoever has not kindness has not faith.'

The General then watched as the descending Major grew distracted, perhaps even entranced for a brief moment, by the figure of a new arrival traversing up the slopes. The woman's face was obscured by a black veil that revealed only a pair of large, onyx eyes. But in spite of her armor and concealing robes, it was obvious that she was slender of build and took every step with grace.

Salim couldn't help but shake his head as he watched the encounter. Boys.

It wasn't exceptionally rare to see a woman in the army. The tribes of the south had been forced to enlist women ever since they ran out of recruitable men during the Dragon-Demon Wars, over a thousand years before the coming of the Prophet. Yet while women had relinquished their role among the frontline infantry, female-only battalions could still be found among both the logistical and specialist troops.

Of course, the two genders were strictly segregated by both unit organization and camp arrangements. Just because God allowed the two groups to work together didn't mean he tolerated frivolous indecency.

Nevertheless, it was an unusual sight to see a woman wearing the red-striped lamellar armor of the Mubarizun. After all, these were the elite champions and duelists of the Caliphate armies, who had been especially trained to kill enemy leaders and lead daring assaults.

Salim felt his instincts clash as he eyed the newcomer. He had nothing against women. He loved his wives dearly, and had already sent two daughters to institutes of education in law. But hell would freeze over before he allowed any of them to clash blades against the finest killers of his enemy... even if they were also women.

But then, Salim felt his lips twist into a faint smirk. She and her girls are probably the reason why my supplies arrived unhindered.

"Colonel Farah ad-Durr Ismat ad-Din, commander of the Crimson Dervish Mubarizun squadron, reporting for duty, General Salim!" A soft yet crisp voice emerged from her hidden lips as Farah took a deep, respectful bow.

The dervishes were a mystical, martial order within the Tauheed religion who believed strongly in asceticism. They were famous for maintaining a keen awareness of their surroundings at all times, while few men could challenge their blade dance and live.

"Welcome, Colonel Farah," Salim returned a polite nod. "How was your trip?"

"We shattered two ambusher groups and the engineers had to repair five sabotaged bridges. So nothing unusual."

Spoken like a true professional, the General smiled.

He rather disliked the inability to read her expression. But then, it would hardly be appropriate for him to ogle the face of a woman not from his own family.

...

As the meeting on the hill continued, neither the Caliphate commanders nor their bodyguards paid any attention to the two disheveled, stray kittens playing among the tall grass just outside earshot.

They were partially correct. One of the kittens was a true stray, who stayed with the army thanks to the scraps of food that sympathetic soldiers tossed her way. However, the other had been carefully disguised with dirt and dyes, as well as intricately woven wards that concealed her magical aura as a familiar.

The playtime was but a pretense, as she kept a keen eye and two ears on the Cataliyans' conversation at all times. Both sensory feedback relayed through the minds of several other cats until it reached her master, who laid hidden and prone among fallen leaves in a dense patch of trees over three kilopaces away.

So a new challenger appears, Cecylia Renata von Falkenhausen mused to herself as she stroked the largest body of her matryoshka cat. Plus naval reinforcements are on their way.

Two days spent lying on the cold, hard ground had all been worth it. Her ceaseless observation had gained dividends on its own, yet that was nothing compared to the treasure trove of insider information that she overheard now.

Thank the Father for human carelessness, she smiled to herself.

Of course, as one of the detail-obsessed dhampirs, she had none of that particular weakness.

 

----- * * * -----

 

"Halt!"

Cecylia exhaled a silent sigh as the Lotharin officer called for her to stop. The main allied encampment had three layers of security checkpoints backed by patrols. Though by the time she passed the innermost perimeter, she had already been stopped over a dozen times.

It wasn't even because she looked suspicious. Cecylia had swapped her disguise as a peasant teenage boy for her Weichsen regimentals before entering camp. Compared to the mishmash of clothing that common Lotharin soldiers called a 'uniform', her crimson-on-black officer's dress identified her in the crowd with ease.

"Captain Cecylia von Falkenhausen of Weichsel," she turned to salute the Lotharin Captain, a young Avorican nobleman judging by the crest sewn into his seafoam-green tunic.

Cecylia didn't miss how he pursed his lips in disapproval, or the disgust in his gaze as they met her scarlet-crossed pupils.

"What does a sinner like you want with our Saint and Princess?" He almost spat out.

His fingers never once reached for her offered identification scroll. In fact, he stayed just outside arm's reach, as though her mere touch carried a vile contagion.

"I'm on my way to the allied commanders to report the successful completion of my mission." Cecylia kept her head held high and her tone professional.

"What kind of mission would that be? To whore yourself before the enemy just like your ancestors did during the Demonic Invasion?"

A few of the nearby men jeered. However the Lotharin Captain held his expression of contempt, as though his guess had been serious.

This is why I didn't want to stay in camp, Cecylia thought as she maintained her expressionless countenance. He's even worse than the usual bigot.

She still remembered her first day after being posted to the embassy at Alis Avern, when she stopped at a Lotharin restaurant and was told by the owner that 'we don't serve your kind here'.

Unfortunately, masking herself with illusions while traversing the encampment simply wasn't an option. Cecylia's spellcraft wasn't adroit enough to conceal illusory auras against close scrutiny by trained security officers. To give them suspicion on top of existing prejudice would only serve a recipe for disaster.

"The details of my mission are for command's ears only."

Not for an insignificant, loathsome half-wit like you. She finished the rest in her head, not wanting to give him an excuse to escalate this further.

"I'm sure a Cataliyan assassin would claim the same thing," the Captain sneered back.

"There are no dhampirs in the Caliphate ranks. And no assassin would be foolish enough to fake being one outside of Weichsel."

The retort seemed almost nonchalant, despite the dark history it held. For centuries, the Imperium had prosecuted the dhampirs for their ancestors' betrayal. The Tauheed Caliphate that rose in the south proved little better. Yes, the Prophet had proclaimed that the dhampirs should be allowed to create their own communities and remain unmolested. However, with their continent permanently scarred by the ancient Dragon-Demon Wars, the hatred of all things 'demonic' could not be expunged from cultural prejudices.

Cecylia had heard of dhampir communities settling within the Grand Republic of Samara and nations further east. Nevertheless in western Hyperion, Weichsel was the only country where dhampirs could truly gain a respectable place in society.

Meanwhile at present, the Lotharin nobleman's brows furrowed as he snapped back:

"Are you calling me a fool?"

"Not at all. I merely spoke of some little-known facts..."

She was still explaining herself when a distant call rang from behind.

"Cecylia!"

The dhampir turned and her eyes soon fell upon the short Samaran girl who walked up with a slight limp. The familiar's arms waved in a joyful, if tired cheer.

"Is there a problem with her identification, Captain?" Kaede added in mild confusion as she came closer.

The Lotharin nobleman pursed his lips. He clearly recognized whom the familiar belonged to.

"No, not at all." He simply stated before leaving with his men to resume their patrol.

"What was that about?" Kaede wondered aloud as she staggered up to Cecylia, who wrapped an arm behind the smaller girl to support her.

"In the eyes of most Trinitians, we dhampirs will always be miscreants who transgressed against the Holy Father." Cecylia spoke plainly as she helped Kaede back towards the camp's central area. "We're used to it."

The Samaran girl, however, only puzzled back:

"But that was over a thousand years ago, right? Today, you're a Trinitian just like he is... so what's the difference? If anything, he should be disliking me for being a Samaran and therefore a heathen."

Cecylia couldn't help but smile at Kaede's innocence.

"Except being Samaran makes you a cute, 'tolerated heathen'. Even if you are a nonbeliever, all but the most hard-nosed inquisitors will forgive you for being misguided by your 'past life' memories. Of course, the Grand Republic's 'Blood Bank' diplomacy certainly helped.

"By the way, what happened to your leg?" The dhampir then added.

"The Princess happened." Kaede's expression clouded as she muttered with a bitter sigh.