Howl Of The Carrion King

Discovery

Chapter 1

When I wake up, my body shivers in the cool desert air. My fingers stretch out, reaching for my pack that holds a small satchel of firepowder. Which happens to be the only substance that has been capable of warming me up during the early-morning daybreaks of late. The sun heats things up considerably during when its light out, but in its absence, only the bitter cold reigns over the desert nights.

Sitting up, I untie the small cloth pouch and pour a small amount of its contents onto the sand a good foot away. As I retie the satchel back up, I carefully watch as the powder and sand begin to smoke, and then a fire bursts into creation. The person who invented firepowder must have been a genius, to be able to make a substance that instantaneously combusts upon contact with any variant of sand. Not to mention the fortune he or she must have made off the stuff.

Yawning, I pull myself out of my sleeping bag and begin to pack up my things. The heat from the fire helps immensely, and before long, all the stiff joints in my body have warmed up and work well again. Sometimes I find myself wishing that I could have bought a better insulated bag, but then again, it would have been much more bulkier to carry. And it would have been a hindrance when hunting.

Hunting in the desert is difficult, but once you learn which kind of animals live in what kind of burrows, it becomes much easier to do. And the sporadic patches of cactuses often prove themselves to be good sources of water and effective places for cover. Which is exactly why I am sitting in the middle of a large cacti patch this very second. Wouldn’t want to fall asleep out in the open and be carried off to be devoured by some nocturnal predator.

I place all my meager belongings into the middle of the sleeping bag and roll it up tightly, until the cluster of objects only measure a good foot in diameter. Small enough to carry on my back but not too large that it would become unfavorable in the case where I’d have to move quickly.

Next I move onto my quiver and longbow. Not one to have many friends, these two are the closest things to that. My hands are so used to the curved grip of the bow and the soft fletching of the handmade arrows. Gifts from my previous master when he set me free those four years earlier.

Not many people could guess it, but for most of my life I, Aesur Sandwalker, have been a slave. When I was six, my small village on the outskirts of Katapesh was raided, and my parents were killed. I don’t really remember much, so the pain in thinking of them isn’t too great. Sometimes I think that’s a blessing. Still… I do miss them, and some nights I dream of what it might’ve been like if they weren’t killed and I captured.

I moved from master to master during my early years, learning how to cook, clean, and serve. Then, when I got old enough, my chores gradually shifted from the menial household work into the more laborious kind. I wasn’t well fed, and all my owners were cruel to some extent, most wholly uncaring and brutal. I learned to keep quiet until I was told to speak, and to obey orders at the snap of a finger.

Then, at the age of seventeen, I was bought by a kind, caring old man. He worked even at his ripe age to earn enough money so he could buy slaves and set them free. I never did ask why he went to so much trouble to do so. I only stayed with him for a day, and then the next morning he was gone. Only the bow and quiver were left behind. Not so much as a note. I still don’t know his name.

Next I traveled back to Katapesh and lived on the streets for the most part. As much as I hate to admit it, I did steal food and supplies. But only what I needed. And the guards never once caught me, so some benevolent god or goddess must have been watching over me.

After awhile, I realized that living outside the city might prove more productive. I was sick of stealing food for myself. I thought maybe I could acquire some in a more honest way. I hired a guide who taught me how to survive the drastic temperature changes of the desert and badlands, and where food lay in wait for me to hunt it. Before long I learned how to live in the wilderness alone, and I had no need for a guide any longer.

I close my eyes and put my hands over the warmth radiated by the artificial fire. Living alone has its advantages. I never have to share. I don’t have to worry about whether another person is being too loud on the hunt. I only have to take care of myself. But once in awhile I find myself feeling a bit lonely. These periods of time always pass.

Standing up, I strap on my leather armor and many black harnesses, protective armor that keeps me safe from the dangers of the wild, whether the threat is living or natural in temperament. I slip my bow and quiver into the many bindings, feeling them enter snugly into their confinement.

And then I smell something strange. Something familiar; an almost acrid scent. A few moments pass and I recognize the odor with a shudder. Smoke! I look at my dying fire, and see that there is no foggy gas rising up from the flames. Of course, there wouldn’t be, as the conflagrations were started by firepowder that produces absolutely no smoke at all due to its unique chemistry.

Looking around, I see nothing but spiny, glossy plants blocking my view. But something is burning. I’m sure of it, and I want to find out what. I carefully edge between the many cacti lining my small camp, and emerge from the forest of dangerous fauna. And there, on the horizon, is the telltale sign of fire, the flames licking high against the brightening sky. An ugly cloud of black smoke hovers above the blazing image like a foreboding omen. But I’m not one to believe in silly superstitions.

I break off at a light sprint, dashing across the barren landscape around me. Sand has become easier to run in, as I’ve grown accustomed to the extra force needed to be able to run through the light, ever-shifting soil. Not to say that it’s a breeze, I grow tired just like any other person attempting this particular feat.

After about a several hundred feet, I cross over a large dune and become still at the scene before me. I’ve never seen anything like it. In the middle of the clearing, a giant tree fashioned in the shape of an outstretched talon is fiercely ablaze, the flickering flame emitting an impressive amount of heat even standing good fifty feet away.

One wagon is on fire as well, and seems to be the center of attention for those in the camp. Elaborate painted moons and stars on the cart are slowly devoured by the encroaching flames, and people frantically rush back and forth trying to douse the blaze. A gout of smoke pours from an open door, and appears to be the source of most of the large cloud hanging over the ill-fated site.

I dart down the other side of the dune towards the campsite, and as I get closer I see that the members of the group are traveling between two wagons. One is loaded with a large water barrel and the other is the burning cart, dumping bucketfuls of water onto the crackling fire. I quickly move to get in line, and am handed a spare bucket by a middle-aged looking woman. At first her face is suspicious, but she nods and points me on my way to the water barrel. I don’t blame her, they probably need all the help they can get.

As I reach the cart, I scoop my bucket into the vat of liquid and fill it up, dashing back to the burning carriage as fast as I can without spilling my pail. When I splash the water onto the fiery wreck, a small section is put out and charred, black wood is revealed underneath. The crackling of the fire and shouts around the camp are getting to me. I’ve lived in the silence of the wilderness for so long, an event of this caliber is making me jumpy and nervous.

I tell myself to calm down, and I stalk away from the blazing cart. My heart is pounding in my ears, and my head feels funny. There is a shout, and I only have a split second to react as a pair of middle-aged farmers dash past me, chasing a herd of runaway goats, which probably escaped in the confusion.

The inferno is starting to die down, the combined efforts of those in the camp putting the flames to rest. I stand up to try and help again, but by the time I reach the wagon, the fire has all but disappeared. A murmuring crowd surrounds the burnt husk of a vehicle, looking at each other distrustfully. It seems as if this wasn’t an accident.

There’s a beautiful woman kneeling by the wagon, her head bowed in what appears to be deep sorrow. No one is speaking to her, but close by is a cowled man with a peppered beard, a pitiful expression splayed across his angular features. Standing behind the burnt tree is another man, with long, black, tangled hair and ragged, but draping clothes. His face is unreadable; the only thing visible is a dark scowl penetrating out from behind his greasy locks.

One by one, the crowd dissipates until there are only six left, the woman, the sharp-featured man, and the suspicious looking figure still cowering behind the tree. There are two others, a broad-shouldered man draped in blue and silver robes, alongside an old man with a long white beard. And then there’s me, silent as ever, apparently not noticed by the others just yet.

Pepperbeard takes a step forward and places his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Almah. I’m sorry he had to go like this… I know you two were close.”

The woman, apparently named Almah, slowly stands up and faces the man, her face as blank as a statue’s. “Thank you Garavel. But Eloais’s death cannot cause us to slow. You know our goal.”

Garavel’s face betrays his shock, but it is soon replaced by a look of concern. “Yes, Miss Almah. How could I forget?”

The woman nods and then turns towards the old man. “Father Zastoran, please go and take care of the wounded. Your skills will be much appreciated in speeding their recovery.”

Grumbling something about prices, Zastoran hobbles off to a wagon on the other side of the clearing and disappears into the folds. For a moment I wonder what he could do to help, and then remember that Almah had used the title Father with him, and surmise he could be a cleric.

But before the elderly priest remerges from his tent, I am suddenly noticed. It is Almah, her finger pointing directly towards my body. “You there! How did you get here? What is your purpose?” Garavel fingers his hilt of a dagger that had previously been concealed in his shrouds. I need to convince them I mean no harm, and fast.

Too bad I’m not much of a talker. “I… uh… I’ve been hunting in the area to the east, and saw the flames and decided to come help. I’m not going to hurt any of you..."

I eye her friend Garavel's weapon. "B-believe me, that’s the last thing I want to do.”

Almah narrows her eyes at me. Then barks out an order. “Garavel. I think he started the fire. And now he’s spouting lies. In order to gain an opportunity to sabotage us further later on.”

Fear arcs through my mind. She doesn’t believe me, and now I’m in trouble. “N-no, really, I-“

The woman shouts over my protests, glaring at me while calming ordering, “Kill him.”