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"You are the king of Alcazar, beholden to the god of light. Do not seek the help of these heathens from across the river."
"What would you have me do, red priest," said Andal II as he ran fingers through his dark beard and stared from a window of his keep upon the forces assembling below him. "Corsairs from Cerak have not stopped at ravaging our coast, but have pushed inward burning towns as they go. I do not have the soldiers to hold back both the corsairs and Torleon. Nor does Torleon, but they are blind in their rivalry of me.... And they have the support of two other kings. The Radiant Church has been of little help in solving our dispute, Sancho."
He glanced sidelong at the priest, who in turn stared at the floor in shame and said nothing.
"Your masters are greedy. Let me guess, there is some arrangement to give up a percentage of my lands to the sun god when Alcazar is taken? No, do not feel the need to answer. I know what is spoken of in the dark stone corridors. They have left me no other choice."
"Sire, a foreign army has not crossed the twin rivers in decades. Please do-"
"It is already done, Sancho. The vanguard of Amol-Kalit crossed the Sleeping Sister this morning. They will be here by mid-day."
* * *
Upon the Cortosi plains south of the Sister marched an Imperial host made up of many disparate warriors: hundreds of mounted Abtati archers, girded in golden armor of finest make from the spoils of their recent Kaliti conquest; blue orcs from Kherkhana wielding their mighty horse-slaying swords; at least a dozen elephant riders and many lion-shaped Ngonya beastmen from the Savanna; and thousands of Kaliti foot soldiers from the Seven Cities.
At their head, riding in a chariot, was Gerra himself.
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