As soon as he was noticed, the camp woke to life. A swarm of orzacs—some fitted in silvery armor, others still in their everyday clothes—rushed toward him. They all looked tall and supple, just as they were described in the legends.
Most of the riders had already screwed the metal sheaths on the tail spikes of their moulans, but a few hapless orzacs were trying in vain to do so, amid the merry laughter of their companions.77 The moulan’s tail was controlled by the attack rein—a leash of metal balls tightened between the sixth and seventh vertebra, used to press a nerve and trigger the hitting reflex in the desired direction. The skillfully targeted hit could transform the placid animal into a terrible weapon, capable of knocking out even the most formidable enemy in a single blow.
In front of the army stood a tall orzac, his crest wrinkled by the merciless passage of the years, dressed in shining platinum armor and holding a richly decorated helmet under his right arm. With ritual gestures, he presented the orzacs’ Brocat of Loyalty.
“Great Huxile! My name is Kizac, the ratrap of the orzacs,” he shouted as soon as Gill accepted the claws. Gill noticed the spark in his eyes. Finally, a smarter AI than the rest of his troops…
“Your sarpan and armor, master,” said Kizac and pointed at two Antyrans carrying them with reverence while the third was bringing forth a moulan.
Hmm, riding the moulan—he had totally forgotten about that… He knew all too well that a baitar was often judged by his ability to ride, and he had never straddled a moulan before. Due to a silly superstition, the Antyrans had the tendency to demoralize if the baitar tripped or moved clumsily in the saddle. Gill knew of at least four armies running from the battlefield at the fall of their baitar, even when the battle was almost won.
He tried to remember everything he once knew about the moulans, which wasn’t really much to begin with… They were lazy, fussy animals; they wouldn’t let him ride if they sensed him to be weak or hesitant or if they didn’t like his smell at the first encounter.
Of course, the tarjis didn’t have this problem because they raised their moulans from hatchlings.
In his situation, he expected a dangerous game of will, where he had to show the beast who the master was if he ever dreamed of riding it.
“The spies tell that the enemy is ready to fight,” Kizac said, pressing him to hurry.
“Dress me!” he ordered his troops.
Immediately, the Antyrans jumped to dress him in his silvery breastplate encrusted with iridium and gold, worthy of a baitar. The model on the chest represented Akhron, the monster with six arms and platinum claws. The other pieces of equipment included a skillfully crafted golden helmet and a superb purple sarpan. The game didn’t seem quite realistic in this regard because the sarpan and armor felt lighter than they would in reality. Only mine or the others too? A just question, as the answer would determine if he had any advantage in fighting the AIs…
Then came, of course, the moment he was so afraid of: mounting the moulan. Trying to look confident, he pulled himself onto its back while two orzacs rushed to lift his soles. The moulan’s flesh shivered under his palms, and the beast perked up its ears, which couldn’t be a good sign.
Anyway, it makes no sense to pull back now, he thought, dragging his left foot across the rump. For a brief moment, he hoped that everything was going to be all right, but the nasty beast, feeling his fear and hesitating moves, had a different opinion: it started to gallop insanely fast.
Somehow, he was expecting that, but what he didn’t expect was the animal’s speed of reaction. He hadn’t even managed to catch the ear chain, and now he had no chance of doing so because the violent shaking was forcing him to hold on to the net for dear life. It was rightly said there’s nothing more dangerous than an out-of-control moulan…
In a desperate attempt to stop it, he frantically grabbed the closest rein, which was the attack one. An obvious beginner’s mistake—the attack rein had no use in steering the beast. The maneuver proved fateful; in the next second, he flew from the animal’s rump, pulling the rein after him.
With one movement he managed not only to fall under the eyes of the orzacs but to trigger the tail reflex right in the direction of his tumbling. The collective sigh of the army accompanied his contact with the discoidal grass and the tangential blow of the lethal spikes, which knocked off his helmet, fortunately without flinging his head off his neck in the process.
Boiling with rage, Gill leaped to his feet and ran back at the beast, which was staring at him indolently while chewing a mouthful of juicy grass. He put on the helmet and jumped on the moulan’s net.
He had learned his lesson, so he grabbed the ear chain first. The moment the moulan broke loose, he was well lodged on its rump, his back straight and his eyes on the bumps ahead—hoping to clean some of the earlier dishonor. The damage was done, and the morale of his troops would surely suffer after this demonstration of clumsiness—but knowing the stakes, he wasn’t expecting anyone to run from the battlefield. Yet.
He let the moulan run without steering it in any way, but then he jerked the ear chain hard to show the beast who was in charge. It was essential to remain astride during the next several minutes until the beast’s anger subsided. It seemed, however, that he pulled too hard—the surprised moulan roared in pain and rose on its hind legs, promptly collapsing on its left side. He was back in the grass!
Kizac galloped past him to catch the moulan before it vanished into the forest.
Calm down, the voice of reason screamed in his kyi. You lost your smell? You didn’t even breathe Acanthia’s scents three times and already think you’re Huxile? Remember your task to hand over the brocat? You don’t need to ride for that! He immediately relaxed, realizing the folly of letting himself be lured by the game’s realism. The moulan could have killed him easily. The female was right—there was no way of helping her but to stay hidden.
He glimpsed her in the distance riding a moulan toward him—and she was riding flawlessly—followed by a bunch of creatures. Obviously, she had seen his pathetic attempts to straddle the moulan… Enough is enough! His pride deeply wounded, he turned to Kizac.
“Bring me my moulan!” Gill ordered.
He grabbed the net, refusing any assistance, and rolled onto the rump. As expected, the moulan went berserk, but this time, he didn’t let it speed away.
“Stop!” he ordered the beast, pulling gradually stronger on the ear chain until the animal stopped, trembling in rage, but no longer trying to overthrow him.
Gill had no time to savor his small victory. He turned and searched for his ratrap.
“Kizac?” he shouted.
“Yes, Your Greatness!”
“Take a few orzacs and follow me.”
About ten soldiers joined him. Ignoring the mad roaring of his moulan, he gently released the rein, steering it toward Sandara. As he approached her, he realized she had dressed in the light blue armor of the grahs, one of the marvels of their blacksmiths. The armor had beautifully rounded shapes to deflect the sarpan blows or projectiles as well as long, sharp spikes along the forearms and elbows to provide the wearer an advantage in close combat.
Sandara was accompanied by fifteen grah footmen, dressed just like her. The grah soldiers always fought in groups of three—two of them holding the enemies at bay with their falchies78 while the third slammed his gorg between them. He also threw the trilates, the throwing axes, of which the group always carried twelve.
Although his main concern was to remain saddled and avoid further dishonor, he couldn’t ignore the strangeness of the meadow where he was supposed to meet her. He was trying in vain to understand the geological forces that carved the hillside like that, his archivist knowledge unable to provide a plausible explanation. The discoidal grass was pierced by massive marblelike blocks resembling the ones in the tekal forest. However, they didn’t appear milky and were covered in a muddy crust. The water puddled around them, flowing from hundreds of tiny springs that seemingly emerged from the very heart of the stones…