The Manticore Hunter

III

Few knew why the Sea of Sorrow initially received its name, but the heat was almost unbearable, leaving the entire caravan of soldiers in a state of dripping sweat. Anyone entering this desert without the necessary supplies would not take long to succumb to the desert's brutal and hostile conditions.

Weeks of travelling east were followed by three days of travelling through the desert searching for the fabled Manticore. The trip had been costly. Two soldiers had already succumbed to the harsh conditions. Sandstorms had smashed through the camp as the sun gradually descended towards the horizon, the caravan was devastated by the wave of dust that enveloped them engulfing the soldiers with apparent ease.

Grumbles were starting to emerge throughout the camp. The crescendo of discontent battered morale constantly like a tidal wave. The question of the existence of the Manticore was ripe and the legitimacy of the crusade was constantly ridiculed. Were it not for Searmundr's and Vermund's birthright and ability to execute anyone for low treason, a mutiny would have taken hold by now.

The mercenaries were the loudest to complain, despite the promise of a large purse, many wondered if the horrific conditions of the trek across the Sea of Sorrows were worth it, missing out on the potential of other lucrative jobs.

Ethelston refused to complain, instead taking every opportunity to teach Mutt the art of survival and swordsmanship. Despite the squire's age, Ethelston found his intellect and dialogue thrilling to engage with. Mutt's enthusiasm to learn and absorb as much information as possible appeared to encourage Ethelston's already inflated ego.

If the Manticore did not exist, despite the incredibly uncomfortable conditions that he had to endure over the last few days, meeting the passionate but honourable Mutt had been a surprising and incredibly rewarding experience.

Should the mythical creature exist, however, what it would do for Ethelston's reputation and purse would be beyond his wildest dreams. Once returning from the horrific desert, Ethelston had already entertained the idea of visiting Beatrice again in celebration of his reputation.

Was it Beatrice? Or Bethany? Perhaps Brunhilde?

He had become considerably confused once he began attempting to get the beautiful, but wild, mysterious archer's attention. Her exceptionally strong and intimidating physique fascinated Ethelston, and each time he engaged in conversation with her, her rebuttals appeared to encourage him more to attempt interaction.

During his travels, he had received some rejection by beauties far and wide across the continents, but the archer was so brutal in her refusals that many of the other mercenaries had snickered at Ethelston's embarrassment. This humbling turn of events, while demoralising, seemed to invigorate Ethelston, especially in the harsh, unforgiving environment.

"Aryya, have I not told you how beautiful you look in this sweltering heat? You do not sweat, my dear, you glow!" Ethelston complemented the olive-skinned archer.

"Two swords, you talk too much," Aryya replied. The woman, easily as tall as Ethelston, pushed him aside as she attempted to proceed toward the rations wagon. It felt like he had been hit by a rock, but as Ethelston glimpsed toward her, he could see a small twinkle in her eye. It appeared that his persistence was gradually paying off.

The mood was low as the sun reached its highest. Rationing was now strongly taking effect among the cohort and water supplies were running low. Watching the intrepid Aryya defy all rationing guidelines and push past boys pretending to be men, Ethelston was reminded that his lips were parched and cracked, but as he saw Arrya twist a soldier's wrist behind his back, stopping short of snapping it in two, Ethelston's thoughts were elsewhere, concentrating on something that didn't appear natural.