Outside the city gates, the main roads leading east, west, and south were cobblestone for at least half a mile from the city; after that, you got a dirt road. The road south grew sandier the closer you came to the Great Divide.

While cobblestone was underfoot, the cadets seemed jovial. That changed when dirt and dust began to fill the air.  Coughing or sneezing brought a quick rebuke from Master Fenwick. It became apparent silence was more important than their breathing. It only took twenty minutes of eating sand and dust for the cadets to recognize that both Fenwick and Rawls had scarves over their nose and mouth.

Paul understood why Master Fenwick didn’t tell them to cover up. He likely thought: If they’re too stupid not to follow our example, then they’re too stupid for the Watch. Luckily, they weren’t that stupid and soon followed their instructors’ example.

Vetch Rawls regularly left the group to scout ahead and then returned. After three hours, Master Fenwick called a halt and a brief ten-minutes rest. The boys had covered about nine miles, and the terrain had shifted from sparse woods to mostly sand and rock. The cadets hurried under a nearby boulder. It was the only shade from the sun and shelter from the wind they could find. Vetch trotted away to scout ahead. He either didn’t require as much rest as the boys, or he couldn’t stomach their weakness. Paul, who wasn’t tired, figured it was a little bit of both.

Master Fenwick led his horse to the group, looked them over, and found them worthy enough to hear his voice. He cleared his throat. “As you should be aware, if you were paying attention in class, we’re almost ten miles out and will be officially entering the Divide soon.”

There were a few groans from the boys. It was apparent some of them had hoped the caravan would reach them early, but unless Vetch rode back with them in tow, that wasn’t going to happen.

Fenwick smiled. “Well, ten miles is the official line that exists in heads of royals and nobles, but I’m here to tell yah, that desert folk don’t give a lizard’s tail what some soft pink perfumed pecker thinks. To the average bandit, we’ve been in their territory since the road ended. Hell, to the more adventurous devils, since we left the gate.” His smile suddenly dropped.
 
Fenwick slowly turned to look around; his deep blue eyes seemed to meld with the horizon. A swift, dust-filled wind blew in from the east, reminding them that they were indeed within the clutches of the desert. Then Fenwick’s horse turned too. The mare’s large eyes opened wide, and her ears turned to listen to something the cadets couldn’t hear.

“Swords!” Fenwick yelled and drew his broadsword.

The boys hastened to their feet. The thin sand made poor footing as they scrambled to pull their swords and assume proper stances.

“To me, lads, arrow formation.” Fenwick and the cadets rounded the boulder. Their instructor turned his back to them and faced south. Without being told, the mare sought shelter behind the boulder where the team had sheltered moments ago.

Arrow formation meant for the team to divide themselves evenly on either side of the leader and to taper back one after the other. Instantly Paul knew, the danger was not a man. That formation was meant to draw attention to the leader. It was a tactic used against wild beasts, who were hierarchal by nature.
The theory is the animal would charge what it assumed was the leader of a rival pack. When it did, the remaining men would sweep forward and flank the beast on either side, trapping it within and efficiently dispatching it. That was the theory, at least.

Parcell squinted. “I don’t see --.”

In a burst of sand and howling fury, the beast bounded over the ridge, separating it from the group.

“Scrapper!”  yelled Fenwick.

Think an eight-foot-tall Spider, with a body about the size of an elephant and the speed of a tiger. It was a creature formed from a child’s nightmare, and it charged straight for the group with no sign of slowing.

“Brace!” Fenwick’s command was pointless.

The scrapper jumped straight over their heads at full speed. Paul strained to keep his eyes open as sand rained upon him. The scrapper hit the ground only for an instant before bounding up and over the boulder.

Promptly they heard the sickening shriek of a horse screaming in terror and then agony. It was a sound none of the cadets had ever heard before, and their legs froze despite the desert heat.  

After scant seconds the horse’s cries diminished, and all that remained was futile whimpers before the wind regained dominance.

Even before it happened, the cadets knew what was next. Empty eyes turned to Master Fenwick.

The old soldier did not scream, did not yell a war cry or say a  word to his charges. Fenwick covered his nose and mouth against the swirling sand, regripped his sword, and ran for the boulder without looking back.

Master Fenwick did not go around the boulder. He leaped onto a small outcrop and propelled himself up and over. When he disappeared, the boys finally heard his battle cry; the clang of steel striking armor and a shriek of rage immediately followed.

The cadets stood in place as shadow puppets of man and beast played out on the ground left of the boulder, like some sadistic play.  There was no grand musical score. No howls, cries and vows of death accompanied this battle. When your life is on the line, talk is wasted energy. The two raged on for untold minutes, and still, the boys, who would someday be men, found no will to join in.

But time, like life waits for neither man nor boy, and time is harsher on men of Master Fenwick’s age. For a time, anger and loss fueled old muscles and sharpened dull reflexes. Fenwick danced left and right, parried and slashed at legs and mandible, ever searching for a fatal opening.

Alas, the more Fenwick struggled to reach the spider’s head or soft underbelly, the more the beast seemed to protect them. But, where Fenwick had two arms, the spider had eight, and in a battle of life and death, it was a great advantage. Another advantage the beast had over Fenwick was in having just fed. Rage only lasts so long, and eventually, fatigue joins the battle.

Fenwick slashed at an approaching leg; out of the corner of his vision, he saw another coming towards him at the same time. He instinctively reached for his dagger with his left hand to parry the blow. But, Fenwick was not the man he used to be, and an arm once steady and covered with muscle was now marked in scars and trembled. To his credit, he did manage to pull his dagger, but no more. The spider’s leg arrived first directly between the master’s spread legs. The blow lifted him off the ground and hurled him at least thirty feet into the air. None of this Fenwick knew. The impact on his exposed testicles was too much for any man, and his brain blessedly shutdown.
 
It was a limp and unconscious body the boys saw soar through the air and then skid along the ground in a cloud of dust that awoke something within them. For the moment, Fenwick’s body was all they saw, and perhaps it was for that reason, concern overrode fear. Seven of the eight cadets, led by Paul, raced towards their downed master. Only Alfred, the younger of the twins by five minutes, remained frozen in place.

Paul stood in front of the boys with his sword drawn. The six boys who accompanied him formed a ragged line in front of Fenwick. Paul was the first to run, and as leader of squad A, it was only natural that the other cadets stood behind him. Paul counted six men with him and came to a decision. Without turning, he shouted, “Last two stay and defend Master Fenwick, the rest with me. We kill it if we can; if not, we keep it at bay until it gives up or we do.” Paul heard a shout behind him and felt four of the boys move closer to each side of him. Paul raised his sword and his voice, “Char...”

Battles are about more than strength and power. A pack of dogs can bring down a mighty lion. So it was that when the spider went to finish off the wild two-legged creature that attacked it while it fed, it encountered not one but a pack of two-legged creatures. A scrapper was only a giant spider; it had no real intelligence, but it did have incredible instincts. So it quickly discerned that the group was more potent than the one. Now there were seven of the annoying things, all with a long sharp claw that could hurt it. The simple-minded beast that it was did what any animal would do at such a disadvantage.

Before Paul could complete the order, the scrapper turned and ran to its right, kicking up rocks and sand as it quickly scampered around the boulder and away from them.

Paul blinked sand away from his eyes and started to give thanks to the Lord.

Then a scream cut through his prayer.  

Because of the dust, it was difficult to see, but the scream was Alfred's voice and that explained everything.

Instinct and fear. The scrapper’s instinct told it to fear great numbers, so it ran, but when it saw the lone creature, with a distinct scent of fear emanating from it, the scrapper could not resist. It had fed well today, but there was always tomorrow.

The boys watched in horror as the scrapper, without slowing, opened its mandibles and snatched the petrified teen up in mid-stride. Algar, Paul, and two others gave chase.

The cadets were young, and Algar’s desire to save his brother was like a flame spurring them on. But, where the boys had two legs, the scrapper had eight. It was a race that was never in doubt. In seconds the distance between them had grown from yards to half a mile, and then the scrapper was gone.

When they reached the apex of a small dune, they looked out in despair at a sea of barren sand where the scrapper’s tracks were being erased by the wind as if nature herself was aiding her favorite.

Algar, let out a scream that echoed across a completely uncaring land. The scream was not just that of pain, anger, or frustration. For the first time in his young life, Algar felt... alone.