The Quicksand Debacle

The Quicksand Debacle was an incident that took place between 782-784 N.D., and involved a brief outburst of conflict between the Sirdabi Caliphate and the Kalentoi Empire. It weakened relations between the two realms and particularly remains a sore point between the peoples of Saramat and Cadenza.

History

Although a formal peace had held between the Sirdabi Caliphate and the Kalentoi Empire for several decades, no one could say that the border between Saramat and Cadenza was exactly *peaceful*. Small raids remained common along the borderlands, minor tit-for-tat exchanges of blows and captives between the locals which no peace treaty signed by emperors and caliphs could ever eliminate. The territory of Lamarga in the foothills of southwestern Saramat was a particular bone of contention, with the old road to Calentium passing through it, once traveled by the Prophet al-Azad and his entourage on their way to their ill-fated meeting with the Emperor and Patriarch. That was centuries gone, and Lamarga had lost whatever prestige it once held, and much of its former prosperity as well. But there is nothing so small and so poor that two determined parties cannot fight over it as if it were the greatest treasure. And so it was between the Cadenzans and the Saramati, and the poor little territory of Lamarga.

Twenty years before, Lamarga had been the scene of a small uprising, of the usual sort that plagued the territory every several years or so. Usually these were beaten down by the local Sirdabi garrisons with only small effort and loss of life, but this time was different. Most improbably, a woman appeared to lead the masculine Cadenzans into rebellion, and wherever she led, good luck seemed to follow those who followed her. The great general Marak el-Tirazi had been stationed at the Lamargan fortress of al-Anzemar for just a few years at that point, enjoying a comfortable post on the edge of retirement. But the woman who became known as the Viper Queen -- no one ever learned her real name -- was somehow able to overcome the garrison at al-Anzemar while being received there for a parley between her forces and those of el-Tirazi. While el-Tirazi himself managed to escape in the melee and conduct a relatively orderly retreat, both the fortress and the territory were lost, and the once legendary general became an object of scorn and laughter.

Despite the small blow to its own pride, the caliphal government was prepared to more or less overlook the loss of this extremely minor and poorly populated territory, which has always been troublesome anyway. It helped that the Viper Queen herself finally saw her luck run out, laid low by what most concluded was the work of the caliphate's diligent Assassins. But retaking Lamarga became the personal cause -- if not outright obsession -- of Hachmar ibn Marak, el-Tiraza's son. When ibn Marak was offered the post of bey of Saramat, he accepted it with far more enthusiasm than any other person within recent memory -- a willingness that was much appreciated by the caliph, who found the litany of complaints traditionally stemming from the bey of Saramat quite wearing. But more than focusing on the good governance of his province, ibn Marak spent all his time reorganizing the local Lion Guard and recruiting mercenaries to take back the territory that had so shamefully been lost by his father. Recruiting mercenaries proved a fairly easy matter, as the promised pay was good, and many were eager to strike back at the Kalentoi. So, filled with zest for their goal, proud of the swiftness and adaptability of their newly assembled force, and confident in the speed with which they could carry out their mission, the combined force of Lion Guards and swords-for-hire named themselves the Quicksilver Band.

Their campaign began promisingly. The Kalentoi occupiers were repulsed in a series of quick skirmishes and small-scale battles, being thinly spread across the landscape and none too eager to die defending such useless ground. The Kalentoi government was hardly any more enthusiastic about the territory than the caliphate was -- conquering it had been a brilliant achievement in the moment, and good for the image of the Empire, but ultimately the place was of very little use other than as a symbol. If the campaign had concluded then, content with regaining the better reaches of the territory, all might have ended well. But ibn Marak could *not* be content, not until he regained the fortress of al-Anzemar, the loss of which had been the humilation of his father and the end of el-Tiraza's career. And so the Quicksilver Band forged ahead to the Corivo Valley at whose mouth the ancient fortress stood.

They were eager at first, flush with victory and booty from their recent reconquests. But the journey to al-Anzemar was slow and difficult, plagued by torrential spring rains that churned the ground to mud and filled even the smallest streams to bursting. Some among the band began to wonder if they might not call the mission a success and head home now, laden down with glory and treasure? But their commander had express instructions from the bey not to return until the fortress had been taken, and by reminding them of their fortune so far, and the still greater glory that could be theirs, he was able to rally their spirits and push them onwards, until at last they arrived at al-Anzemar.

It was not a prepossessing place. The fortress did, to be sure, command an impressive view of the pass through the hills and the arid valley beyond, and the old road that led across a sparkling stream that ran at the foot of the outcropping on which the fortress sat. But the place was remote, the road ancient, and the whole area no longer of any strategic value whatsoever. The band had, however, developed a sense of deep loyalty to their commander, and they believed in their cause, and in the rewards that would surely come. And so the siege of al-Anzemar began. It would continue to go on, back and forth through torrential rain, blistering sun, and a growing sense of fateful futility for over a year.

Scores died in the skirmishes that took place in the valley below the fortress, or in the unforgiving rocks around it, or bogged down in the stream that soon lost its sparkle and turned into a churned up bog of mud, blood, and corpses. Hundreds more sickened and died from ill nourishment and the illness that began to stalk like a voracious predator through the beseiging encampment. Some men deserted, others became simply too feeble to fight. But the rest kept on, grimly -- the longer they kept at it, the more impossible it became to turn back. How could they first win so much, and now lose so much more, and give up without attaining their goal? Such catastrophic futility was unthinkable. And so the siege went on. And on. And on.

Finally, though, the Quicksilvers seemed to have gained an advantage. Starving and sick as they were, their ability to forage across the area gave them a small advantage over the defenders of the fortress, and the foraging expeditions also brought them a recruit in the person of a mizado who had seen his own ancestral lands pillaged, his farm burnt, and what remained of his family reduced to the status of impoverished strangers in their own land. And he knew the fortress's weaknesses. Protected by the night and the exhaustion of the defenders, the Quicksilvers were able to undermine the mighty walls at their weakest point just above the stream -- until one day just at daybreak, in what some said was luck, some good engineering knowhow, and others magic, the wall collapsed into the waters, and the way forward was open.

More or less open, anyway. The wall had collapsed and opened up the city, but it was still on the other side of the stream, not to mention the heap of rubble that had tumbled into the water. After so much trouble and suffering, however, the Quicksilver Band would not be slow to press home their final advantage, and they swarmed across the stream in a shrieking raggletaggle horde. They were met by the equally ragged and miserable defenders, and the gap in the wall quickly turned into a free-for-all driven by the terrible pent-up frustration and suffering of the last several months. No mercy was given on either side; men were cut down indiscriminately and hacked to bits; more men died in the stream, mired down in the mud, trampled, drowned. It was not a glorious victory for the Quicksilvers -- but it was a victory. Of sorts.

Their beloved commander had been among the dead, discovered ground down into the bloody muck of the streamside -- wounded but not dead of it, rather suffocated in the mud after sustaining a blow to the knee. The defenders themselves were slaughtered to a man, with no hostages taken for ransom. And no treasure was to be found inside the fortress; only filth and shattered buildings, and reeking emaciated corpses buried in shallow graves. But the Quicksilvers had won. At such great cost, they had triumphed.

Overtaken by a potent mix of exultation, bloodlust, and vengeance, the Quicksilver Band scarcely stopped to rest before spreading out across the countryside beyond the fortress like a marauding plague. Village and farm alike fell before the vicious and unexpected onslaught, until it swept even up to the gates of Saltira, the one prosperous town of Lamarga. This just happened to be the week of the great market that drew in people from across the territory, selling and bartering, looking for brides, and reuniting with old friends and family. But none of this was of any concern to the Quicksilvers. Driven on by maddened hatred and a violent need for reckoning, they cut down all who stood in their path. Fairgoers, families, young and old, those gathered in the market grounds and those inside the town, itself made defenseless by the open gates admitting the flow of revellers -- all fell before the frenzied blades of the Quicksilvers. By nightfall Saltira was nothing but a smoking ruin, a pyre for the countless, nameless dead.

Nothing more seemed left to be done. The Quicksilver Band -- what remained of them, after siege and sickness and accident and the brutal heat of battle -- turned around, exhausted, and finally headed for home. A few remained at al-Anzemar, holding the fortress for the caliphate that had largely forgotten them, but most trickled back to their homes, in Saramat and Irzal, Rahoum and Marzum, weary in body and spirit. When they reached Sibela, they found that the news of their feats had spread swiftly, and arrived before them. The Kalentoi Empire was furious. The Caliphate was furious. After all they had done, all they had managed by some feat of luck and will to live through, they found no joyous welcome. They were reviled, and jeered across the provinces as the Quicksand Band who had mired the caliphate in unwanted trouble with their neighbors. Even ibn Marak was swiftly removed from his post as bey of Saramat, and consigned to political oblivion.

It took months to patch up affairs between Empire and Caliphate. It has taken longer still for those who had once been the Quicksilver Band to rebuild their own lives and reputations, and move on from the loss and bitterness. Some of them haven't, yet.