First 2 chapters of my fantasy novel :D

Prologue

         Aidan stood amidst an ocean of sand, his black robes dancing in the harsh winds as he pulled the hood covering his face tighter. It took everything he had to keep his feet moving, though he knew he was wandering aimlessly. He raised a waterskin to his cracked lips—not even a drop. He tossed it aside and stumbled on. He’d never had illusions of hope; he’d known he’d die in these hellish deserts before his journey even began.

         Journey? What journey? He had neither plan nor destination. All he had was a name. A name whose owner he doubted the existence of. How long had it even been since that vile woman had sent him off to die? He’d rot away and be buried under the sand, his bones forever lost. A fitting death for a monster, he supposed. Maybe the woman hadn’t been mad after all.

         Shielding his eyes, he scanned the horizons. It was as if he were staring into a mirror, miles high and miles across. He couldn’t find the slightest hint of respite; he was at the end of the world.

         Maybe a man with hope would collapse to the ground and weep, or curse the Gods for their utter apathy to his misfortune. But Aidan simply laughed. For the past 28 years of his life he had sought answers, and now he was further from any answers than at any other point in his life. He had escaped the clutches of thousands whom would pay to watch him hang, only to find himself in this inferno. Shadows of circling vultures painted the ground, but he ignored it, for they had been following him for days.

         Aidan didn’t fear death, in fact, he welcomed it. To his recollection he had never chosen to exist. What did he owe this wretched life? The picture of her face appeared in his mind, a rivulet of blood running down her forehead and cold, dead eyes that pierced into his. He screamed and ran forward, daring death to take him.

         Overhead, the sun shone in a cloudless sky, spreading its fingers across the barren inferno and bearing down on the speck of black against the yellow that was Aidan. The headache, dull at first, began to sear. He’d stopped sweating, and his thoughts became delirious flashes of bright lights and incomprehensible swirling.  Tripping over his own feet, Aidan fell face first into the sand. He coughed, realized he hadn’t the strength to rise and smiled.

         He never understood the fear of death, or why it controlled the lives of so many. It was an inexorable consequence of life. Without it, life would lose what little meaning, if any, it had. Granted, he never envisioned himself dying here, at the end of the world, but he always welcomed death—be it paradise, eternal damnation, or an end to the entire farce called consciousness, he just wanted to be done with it.

         For the next half hour, Aidan slipped in and out of consciousness, until finally, his world went black.

































Chapter One

         Naari  gazed at the marble statue of her ancestor. It stood nearly twenty feet high, overlooking the sacred battle grounds and standing right behind the Warrior’s Throne. The figure stood battle ready, knees bent and sword raised high, the left arm missing. Most people, upon seeing the statue, assumed the arm had broken off. But, Naari knew this is how it was crafted. The man, known as Zanzibar, indeed had lost an arm. With pride she looked at him— a square jaw, long hair, and a brave, defiant face stared back at her. This man, despite being seven generations removed, was her grandfather. The blood of a hero ran through her veins.

         The stories said that Zanzibar had saved the Paadir of Danthia. A legend in his own land, he stood, fought, and sacrificed for a people that weren’t his. The Paadir had a rich history, spanning more than a millennium and if not for Zanzibar’s feats, all of it would have been erased.

         Though she was of lighter complexion than the Paadir, hers a smooth olive compared to their swarthy skin, they accepted her as one of their own. In fact, she, like all descendants of Zanzibar, was treated like royalty. She was the last known member of his line, her mother and brothers all defeated on the sacred grounds, and had been encouraged not to participate in combat.  And although hundreds of suitors would have been honored to extend the bloodline, and The Warrior King himself, Hak-el, had offered her his seed, Naari had neglected to make a decision.  A large part was that she simply wasn’t ready to raise a child, but the truth was, more than she cared to admit, that she was afraid to fight. She lacked the bravery of her mother and the fire of her brothers. What a disgrace she must have been to Zanzibar. Had he ever show fear?

         Down below, The Kelkar, an ancient fighting pit, was undergoing its daily maintenance. A fight had just recently taken place, and so the blood stained dirt was shoveled away and fresh, dry earth was packed in its stead. The Kelkar was everything to the Paadir. It was a canvas for The Gods to gauge the courage and prowess of warriors. Not only did the winner of the yearly tournament gain the title of Warrior King, but all disputes of honor were settled in the Kelkar. The fight that had just occurred was a simple matter of a challenge. And while it wasn’t against any rules to decline a challenge, such things among the Paadir were very rare. The Paadir were a proud people, being the only tribe in Danthia to evolve past warring and raiding and becoming civilized. Turning down a challenge to fight in The Kelkar and bringing honor to The Gods and their land was simply a notion that no Padir could comprehend. Even the Warrior King could be challenged, but Hak- el, having held the title for the past 25 years and earning it before he had yet reached manhood, had become a herald to the people. Many, Naari too, believed he was a God in the flesh. He had never been defeated in battle and he was a just King that truly cared for his people. Although the tournament for the title of Warrior King was held each year, no one had stepped up to the challenge in the past twenty five. The truth was no one wanted Hak-el to die.

***

         “I say we head back,” said Roroq.

         Innes gently tugged on the reigns, bringing his camel to a halt, and turned around. His friend was a massive man, donned in a leather jerkin and a huge warhammer strapped to his back. And although stubborn and hardheaded, he was a good friend.  Innes knew that Roroq was probably right, and that they best turn back before nightfall, but their mission wasn’t complete and Innes couldn’t give up just yet.

         The vast desserts of Danthia stretched out before them. And Innes hoped that somewhere on this endless plane was a clue to the whereabouts of a Paadir-destined caravan. The caravan was now over two weeks late, and Innes and Roroq had been sent to find it.

         “You know how much this means to him,” said Innes as he pulled down the cloth protecting his mouth and nostrils, “let’s just look a little longer.”

         “Fine,” Roroq snorted.

         An armed guard had escorted the caravan because Zidosa had become bolder than ever before, raiding and stealing from Padir land in open defiance. The man had made trouble for Hak-el and the Padir for the past decade and no counterattack could be organized because Zidosa’s whereabouts were unknown. No one knew if he was behind the missing caravan, for the lands were harsh and it wouldn’t be the first time men fell to its perils, but the disappearance of so many armed men was more than unsettling.

         The pair continued their search, scouring the desert for any sign of the caravan. It was unlikely they’d find anything, as strong winds shifted the mounds of sand every day, but Innes owed it to his king to give his best effort. Roroq’s incessant grumblings grew more frequent as the sun began its descent. Innes often wondered why a man such as Roroq, who had slain countless enemies as well as being greatly accomplished in The Kelkar, loathed tasks that didn’t involve his mighty warhammer. Still, Innes could think if no other he’d rather have at his side. Roroq had saved his life many times during battles with the rival tribes of Danthia, and overlooking Roroq’s impatience was a small price to pay in having such a loyal and powerful friend.

         “One more hour,” said Innes, “I don’t want to be stuck here come nightfall anymore than you.”

         As inhospitable the deserts were in the day, at nighttime they were a completely different monster. With the sunset would go the intense heat, and a dry, frigid chill would take its place. In such an unsheltering land, one was more likely to die from the night’s cold than the day’s blaze.

         There was no discernible trail, but Innes followed the likely path the caravan had taken to its destination, a tribal village named Erti. And while Erti wasn’t exactly an ally with the Padir, and they lacked Padir’s wealth, as all tribes in Danthia did, they were valuable trading partners. Paadir’s homes were of stone, and their weapons of forged metal, but their lands weren’t nearly as fertile as those in the East. Erti desired Padir tools, while the Padir desired Ertian grains, and so a tentative peace was formed. The other tribes, however, were not so cooperative. Their jealousy fueled their constant raids. The Padir, however, had come to welcome and look forward to the attacks. They relished fighting—the four God’s looked down upon the Paadir with favor when they did battle.

         The hour came to pass and they hadn’t found any implications as to what had befallen the caravan. Innes was disappointed, and resolved that he’d set out again tomorrow. Roroq, he knew, would probably refuse to search for a third day in a row, but Innes would continue to look by himself if it came to it.  He was honored that Hak-el had chosen him to lead the search. The grains the caravan was to return with meant so much to his King. He was a just King and the greatest man Innes had ever known. Rich or poor; strong or weak; man or woman; old or young, Hak-el regarded all of his subjects as equals. Oftentimes, the Warrior King would hand out food, spices, clothes, and even coin to his people at no cost to them. And that was the reason Innes refused to relent his search— what justification could he have for giving up on a task entrusted to him by a man that had sacrificed so much for his people?

         As their mounts continued to trot, Innes turned to his friend, “Okay,” he announced, “let’s turn back. We’ll continue the search tomorrow.”

         Roroq scowled, the late afternoon sun behind his massive frame casting his dark skin into pitch black.

         “We? The search is over, my friend. These deserts tell us nothing.”

         Innes stared at him blankly, his prior reasoning unfaltering.

         “I’m sorry,” he began, “I will continue the search tomorrow.”

         Roroq threw his hands up and cursed.

         “Why are you so stubborn? You know damn well I can’t leave you to wander out here alone, you’d be dead come the first bandit that set his eyes on you. Why are you so stubborn? We’re just gonna have to tell him we can’t find anything.”

         Innes smiled. He indeed was no warrior, and compared to his friend he might as well carry no sword at all, but Innes was no coward and skilled with the bow. The longbow on his back, a finely crafted piece Hak- el had given to him as a gift when Innes had reached manhood, had claimed its share of kills. Still, he was glad Roroq worried for him so.

         “I’ll be fine, there’s no need for you to tag along.”

         Roroq rolled his eyes and Innes turned forward. He hadn’t realized his camel had stopped moving. He said a command, but the beast wouldn’t listen. “Come on,” he said as he urged it forward. But the camel wouldn’t budge and Innes noticed its eyes were wide and it was bleating. Suddenly, the camel rose on its heels. Innes struggled to hold the reigns, but his grip failed and he crashed into the sand.  The camel ran off.

          Roroq dismounted immediately and helped Innes to his feet.

         “I guess she finally lost it,” said Roroq as he patted the sand from Innes’s turban and cloak, “she’ll make for a big feast when we get back.”

         Innes watched the beast as it continued to run away in a frantic pace.

“No,” he said, “something spooked it.”

         “She’s never been afraid of scorpions or snakes before,” said Roroq.

         But, Innes wasn’t listening. He crouched and went to examine the area where the beast had been frightened. Upon further inspection, he found nothing of note, but while turning around, resigned to the fact that his long time mount had lost its mind, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye, a speck of inconsistency in an otherwise uniform periphery. He motioned Roroq over when he saw the dark cloth buried in the sand.

         “Come,” he said, “I found something.”

         “This is nonsense. Come on, let’s hurry to catch the damn creature and get going before it’s too late.”

         “I’m serious.” Innes said. He pulled on the cloth but it wouldn’t move. He pulled again, hard, and a silhouette formed in the sand. “Oh no,” Innes said, his voice quivering, “It’s a body.”

         















Chapter Two

         Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. The sound echoed in the chamber. Aidan lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The dungeon was dimly lit, it’s only source of light imparted by the small, barred window of the door above the pit. The place reeked of human filth. At least a dozen people were crammed into the tiny space, and with nowhere to relieve oneself save for the hard ground, the place was rancid. At least one prisoner had died every day since Aidan had been thrown into the dungeon, which Aidan surmised had been at least a fortnight. But, there was no way to tell if the deaths were from disease or starvation. Aidan hadn’t eaten since he’d been here, no one had. Their only luxury came when the guards tossed buckets of water from over the ledge, washing the waste from the ground, sending it through a tiny drainage pipe in the corner of the room, and supplying them with drinking water.

         Aidan had never seen a more miserable place. Most of the prisoners sobbed and wept, pleading for the guards to release them, and others were driven to insanity. One such man had lost all semblance of rationale. He thrashed about constantly, crying a woman’s name and uncaring to the fact that he was rolling in filth.

         Aidan was neither inconsolable nor maniacal-- he simply didn’t care. Any emotions he might have had were masked by an utter apathy. The last twenty years of his life had been abominable. He was a cold blooded monster-- a plague to the world. His only solace came from knowing that today was the day of his execution. How many thousands would come to watch him hang? The masses would cheer and the ground shake.

         Aidan reeled in pain and shook as his stomach cried out in protest. He rolled to his side and noticed t he room darkening. The clanging of keys was followed by the door high above them opening. Light flooded the room and the prisoners moaned, shielding their eyes from the unaccustomed brightness.

         The time’s finally come, Aidan thought to himself.

         But, the guard hadn’t come for him. Beside him was another man, dressed in clothes far more extravagant than the rags the prisoners wore.

         The man, shaking with his hands meekly raised together, pleaded to the guard, “Please! I don’t belong here! If you let me go I can give you riches. Jewels! Gold! Wines! Don’t put me in here with them,” he said as he pointed to the pit. When the man’s eyes saw the dungeon, it’s complete foulness illuminated and on display, he shuttered. “No! No!”

         The guard smiled as his mailed fist buried itself into the man’s stomach. When he lurched over, the guard pushed him over the edge into the pit fifteen feet below. The man landed with a thud, but the other captives didn’t care. They were up on their feet, jumping towards the exit.

         “Let us go!” they cried. “Please.”

         “Vermin,” the guard said, as he turned and exited.

         When the iron door closed and the finality of their situations became apparent, the prisoners shouted and called out, cursing the guards. When the cries died out, the only thing Aidan heard was quiet weeping of the man that had just been tossed in with the rest of them. The man, huddled in the corner with his knees tight to his chest, sobbed uncontrollably.

         “I don’t belong here,” he whispered, “I don’t belong here.”

         Aidan wandered how a man who seemed so wealthy could end up here. Everyone else in the dungeon he had taken for vagabonds, but Aidan had seen the man was dressed as a nobleman. The green doublet, laced with gold, and the yellow sigil told Aidan the man was from one of The Great Nobel Houses.

         It didn’t matter really; Aidan’s life had already ended years ago and now he was simply waiting to die, but the appearance of the man had sparked his curiosity. The noblemen of Skrenan, as well as nearly all positions of power within the country, had strong implications concerning Aidan.

         The nobleman refused to accept his situation. He screened the darkness around him. Skeletal, diseased men and unmoving bodies lying on the floor added to his despair. What had he done to deserve this, to rot away with these worthless beings?

         Beside him, a man sprawled out on the floor called out, “Mary! Mary!”The incessant cries added to the nobelman’s feelings of hopelessness, would the fate of this man eventually befall him?

         “Shut up, you lunatic!” shouted the nobleman.

         The man did not seem to hear, as if he were on a different world altogether. The nobleman backed away from the crazed man and heard a chuckle. He saw blue eyes piercing through the shadows. “What do you want?! Don’t laugh at me. Don’t even look at me! I am nothing like the rest of your sorry lot. I am Cassius! Rightful heir to House Stovalt. The dozen men in line before me were slain in the massacre, but I am still the rightful heir! This injustice will not go unpunished.” Cassius raised his fist towards the door and then looked back to the blue eyed man.

         Cassius knew at once he hated this man. He sat unmoving and uncaring, as if he wouldn’t blink even if Cassius were the Lord of Skrenan himself. He resolved to himself that once he escaped this wretched place, and after he’d slain every guard that had offered a hand in his capture and imprisonment, he would come back to this dungeon and kill this man. “What are you staring at? On the outside, I’d have stricken you down for much less. Know your place.”

         Aidan didn’t stir. He sat cross-legged, transfixed and slightly amused by the man. He was indeed very familiar with House Stovalt, much more than Cassius could ever imagine. The nobleman’s words fell on deaf ears, however. Aidan simply stared at him blankly and smiled, bemused by the nonelman’s predicament.

         The man’s eyes, as deep a blue as a cloudless sky, and his apparent apathy unnerved Cassius. He scurried back to where he had been before, near the crazed man whom this place had driven to utter delirium.

         Hours passed and he sat against the wall in disbelief. Over half of House Stovalt had been butchered, all of the Houses had suffered losses, but his had been the worse. The entire royal family had even been slain, and during these past few weeks Skrenan had fallen into chaos. With so many positions uncontested, countless battles for power had sprung up throughout the nation. The death toll following the massacre was staggering-- approaching tenfold more than the event itself. Cassius didn’t know who had ordered his detainment, but the list of those that would benefit from his disappearance was long.

         The clattering of the iron door again reverberated throughout the chamber. Aidan looked to it longingly, hoping that the time had finally come. The room brightened as several guards entered. One of them threw down the rope ladder that rested at the top of the pit; it uncoiled on its descent.

         “All right,” the guard shouted as he pointed to Aidan, “let’s go. Time to die, scum.”

         Cassius looked in horror at his surroundings. He had seen the room alit before, when he had first been brought in, but now he was able to truly take it in. Toothless and emaciated men rushed to the ladder. Garbed in soiled rags, or as bare as a newborn child, they struggled amongst each other to climb the ladder.

         A guard at the top signaled behind him. Two guards came, carrying a large metal cauldron, the strain on their face and forearms clearly evident. With a heave they sent the contents onto the throng of prisoners at the base of the ladder. Scalding water rained down on them, hitting their skin with a sizzle. Screams of agony filled the room. Although most of the prisoners scurried away from the ladder, like mice from a loud noise, several remained, their coherency having rotted away long ago. They had been trapped in this dungeon for weeks, and these weeks had been the most miserable of their entire lives. They ignored the pain, blinded by their desperation to escape at any and all costs.

         One of the prisoners scaled the ladder. His dirty fingers clung on to the edge of the floor as he pulled himself up. The guard at the top of the rope ladder smiled as he drew his blade. He thrashed down, cutting deep into the desperate prisoner’s exposed back. The prisoner let go and fell to the pit below where he remained still and lifeless.

         Cassius didn’t blink. An utter terror had consumed him. He realized he was no more than a dog now. That he had no say in regards to his livelihood-- he’d be killed without a moment’s hesitation. His namesake granted him no more power than the man the guard had just so indiscriminately killed. He’d starve and no one would care. Tears swelled in his eyes and he began to cry, losing himself in his long, breathless weeps.

         Aidan rose, relived that the ending to his story had come. He looked at the nobleman, slumped in the corner in disbelief, while he walked towards the ladder. Perhaps, in a different time, Aidan would have felt pity for the man, or the other prisoners bound to this pitiful existence. But, he had lost the ability to care. The coldness he felt was a necessary response to the string of atrocities that had been his life. He asked for no forgiveness or compassion; he only asked for death.

         Cassius brought his head up from his sobbing and studied the man the guards had summoned. He became queasy when he noticed, seemingly for the first time, the pale skin, the deep blue eyes, and the short-cropped blonde hair and put the implications together. Cassius knew who this man was.

         “Wh . . . Wh . . . Who are you!” Cassius called after him, as his hands grabbed the rungs of the rope ladder.

         Aidan glanced back at the nobleman and simply said, “The White Lotus.”

         Cassius nearly fainted, the color leaving his face, and put as much distance between him and the monster as possible. Had he really shared the same space as The White Lotus? How was he not dead already?

         Aidan climbed the ladder with great effort, for his muscles had weakened through days of starvation and nonuse. Before he reached the top, a guard reached down and scooped him up. When he straightened his legs, the air whooshed out of him as a fist drove into his stomach. Before he could begin to regain his composure, another fist ran into his nose. Like a fish just reeled in from the water, he was thrown to the door where another guard caught him.

         The guard, fearful of the prisoner-- like anyone in their right senses would be, cuffed Aidan with shaking hands. Then, he too got in a swing and clobbered Aidan in the ear.

         Aidan was then dragged through the door, into the blinding brightness of the outside world. The time had come.







***

         “Kill him!” roared Roroq, as he pointed to the body lying in the sand.

         Innes, knelt before it, looked at it with sympathy. The man was breathing, albeit barely, and Innes knew he hadn’t much time left in this world. When Innes had initially come across the body, he had feared it would have been of a member of the caravan. But, when he had unburied the body from the sand, he was shocked at what he found. The man was a foreigner, his skin and hair a light color Innes had never come across, dressed in a black robe. When Innes had removed the man’s robes in an attempt to cool him off, the man’s forehead felt like the desert itself, they became even more shocked.

         The blonde haired man carried more than a dozen weapons: two short swords, a crossbow, a dagger, and a belt of throwing knives. Certainly more weapons than a man could hope to use.

         Roroq’s knuckles whitened from his tightening grip on the hilt of his warhammer. He wanted nothing more than to smash the foreigner’s head into a puddle. The Paadir had a negative view of foreigners. The few they had ever come across had been driven by greed or other dark intentions. Foreigners held no respect for Paadiran values. Roroq had no doubt that the foreigner Innes had found was no different than the others, especially considering he was so armed.

         “He’s dying,” said Innes, “it would be wrong to kill him.

         “He is a foreigner,” Roroq growled, “he will only bring trouble for Danthia. Look, the land itself has swallowed him. Our desert is our greatest defense against outsiders. It hands out judgment where it sees fit. I’d sooner spare Zidosa himself than this dog.”

         Innes noticed his friend bristling with rage, itching to bring down his warhammer at any moment. He had to calm Roroq down.

         “What if he knows about the caravan? We can’t just ignore the coincidence of his arrival and its disappearance.”                    

         Roroq grumbled and loosened his grip on his weapon. He hadn’t thought of that. He had always been prone to act on impulse, incapable of sharing Innes’ rational lines of thought. Of course, he thought to himself. The caravan vanishes and the foreigner is found in its stead. How had he failed to connect the two?

         “All right, but tie ‘em up.”

         Innes nodded.

         Too much time had already been wasted, and the sun was fading quickly. They both knew they would be forced to make camp in the desert tonight. They confiscated the foreigner’s weapons and bound his arms and legs. Innes doubted the stranger would be alive in the morning, but he had forced water down his throat anyway.  They set up their camp where they had found the foreigner. It was fruitless to search for shelter in the barren land and so they found themselves huddled around a fire, cloaks hugged tightly around their backs and the cold trying its best to bite them.

         The blonde haired stranger, his hands bound towards his knees, lay before the fire. Roroq kept an untrusting eye on him, ready to jump to his feet the instant the man stirred.

         “Tomorrow, you’ll see how much you like the taste of Hak-el’s sword,” Roroq said, taunting the unconscious man, “don’t you die just yet.”

         Innes rubbed his hands in the warmth of the fire, contemplating their next course of action. If the foreigner died tonight, they’d bury him and report back to Hak-el, though Innes still planned to continue the search. If the foreigner awoke, Innes would question him. If the man knew the caravan’s whereabouts, he and Roroq could skip the day long journey back to Hak-el and head straight for the caravan.

         The night passed on, both of the Padir too wound up to sleep. Innes gazed into the fire. He watched the flames dance. Even though he could hear the fire’s crackling, and the whistle of the wind as it gusted over the flat plane, he felt it was utterly silent. Outside the globe of safety from the fire’s protection, there was only darkness.

         “You participating this year,” asked Roroq, breaking the silence as well as Innes’s reverie.

         “I’m not sure, are you?”

         The last Tourney of the Gods hadn’t taken place since before Innes had even been born. Hak-el had brought the Paadir so much prosperity that no one had stepped up to enter the annual tourney in decades. They weren’t afraid-- death in battle was the greatest feat a Padir could hope to achieve in his life, but they didn’t want to consider the ramification of their leader’s death.

         That’s not to say they pitied Hak-el. Many had challenged Hak-el over the years and every one of them slain. The Warrior King needn’t accept any challenge, though he always did. The Tourney of the Gods was the true process by which a King was chosen. It was held at the first month of every year. All who wished to fight for the throne would rise up, and a tourney would be held. The winner of the challengers would then face Hak-el.

         “I have it in my mind every year,” answered Roroq, “but I can’t very well enter a tournament by myself, can I? I don’t just want to challenge him, I dream of the old ways-- earning the right of challenge through honorable victory in The Tourney.”

                   “The old ways,” said Innes as he fed wood to the flame and pondered. “Times before Zidosa. What do you think would have become of the Paadir if Hak-el had never won the right to be our King?

         “Even now, Zidosa’s attacks grow more frequent and his power grows. We are pressed at all fronts. Let me ask you, if a man as great as Hak-el finds difficulty in these times, how do you think another man would fare?”

         Roroq crossed his arms and scoffed. “I know what ye mean. But my hammer thirsts for glory. This damned Zidosa has dishonored the Paadir so much we can’t even hold to sacred tradition.”

         Innes nodded. “Have faith in Hak-el. If anyone can defeat Zidosa, it’s him. Then, my friend, you will have the glory you seek.”

         Roroq hooted in agreement. How he wished Innes’s words rang true, but he had seen the look of resignation in Hak-el’s eyes. The pain Zidosa had caused Hak-el’s people were magnified in the War King’s eyes. Roroq only wished he were stronger. That he had the prowess to find Zidosa and slay him, giving honor to Hak-el and the God’s. Seeing his king in such a vulnerable state made Roroq boil with rage.

         He realized how foolish and how wrong he had been. He complained that he hated the desert, and that he didn’t have interest in an extensive search for the caravan, but how small of a price was that to pay? He owed that much to Hak-el many times over. When the morning came, he’d continue the search with Innes without complaint.

***

         

         Consciousness came as a blur of darkness and flashing lights. Aidan. He remembered who he was. His head pounded, pressure thudding into his temples like a drum. Where am I? He tried to open his eyes; the brightness sent pierced into his skull. He tried to shield his eyes with his hands but they wouldn’t move.

         He tried to remember where he was, but nothing seemed real. He couldn’t stand and his chest and arms stung.

          Then he heard something. Something that called to him, that seemed to pull him through the blackness and pain. A name, he heard a name. Hak-el. He swore he had heard it. Then it all rushed back to him. He remembered the chase and the desert. He remembered the circling vultures and his dry mouth. His eyes shot open, quickly adjusting to the light.

         The world was distorted. I’m on my side. His face rested on the sand and the hot winds blew over his body. Why couldn’t he move his limbs? He glanced at his feet and saw they were bound tightly by a coiled rope, as were his hands. He immediately realized the direness of his situation when he noticed he was almost naked, save for his loincloth, and his weapons were gone.

         He struggled to free himself, but the knots wouldn’t give. Voices in the distance caught his attention and Aidan lifted his head up to investigate. The voices were of a strange language, but one that Aidan recognized. Danthian. It was one of a dozen languages he had been forced to study and memorize, another tool to shape him into a skilled killer.

         Two men stood engaged in conversation, humped beasts beside them. At their feet, Aidan saw a large sack, a black cloth jutting from it trailing in the wind. My robes. From their dark brown skin, Aidan knew at once they were natives of Danthia.

         One of the men was huge, his thick bulk bulging against a tight leather tunic, and carried a large warhammer strapped to his back. But the other man, while much smaller, Aidan saw as much more dangerous. He had wiry muscles and stood on his fight lightly. This man was deadly. Aidan again tried to free his hands, this time much more quietly so he wouldn’t garner their attention.

***

         “I was wrong yesterday,” said Roroq, as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “I will follow you to the ends of the world to help Hak-el.”

         Innes smiled, sure not to take his friends words lightly. Apologies from Roroq were rare, and sentimentality was even rarer.

         “I fear for the man responsible when he crosses your path,” said Innes.

         “Aye,” said Roroq, “and you know damn well who that man is.”

         Their moods sobered. They both knew the likely culprit for the caravan’s disappearance-- Zidosa. If he was directly involved, this would be an arduous mission indeed.

         “But, let’s not forgot about the foreigner. He may be of use yet.” Roroq pointed into the distance, and then stammered. “What the . . .”

         Innes noticed why Roroq’s skin had paled. The foreigner was gone, only untied ropes remaining where they had left him. Innes looked back to his friend and took a step back.



         “Don’t move,” said Aidan, as he pressed his sword into the large man’s throat, “neither of you.” The lanky man drew his blade immediately, and he drove the blade deeper into the man’s flesh to reinforce his point.

         But, the fear of death was something no Padir had ever known. Roroq sent an elbow into the foreigner’s stomach and slid from under the blade, drawing his warhammer. Innes stepped to his friend’s side.

         “No,” said Roroq, holding up a hand, “this dog is mine.”

         Innes sheathed his blade and smiled. “He’s yours.” Innes then addressed the foreigner, still naked save for the loincloth and blade, “you’ve made a grave mistake, outlander. And I’m afraid it’s your last. Roroq stepped forward and raised his mighty weapon, veins jutting from his thick forearms.



         Aidan stood perplexed. Neither man had hesitated or shown fear even for a moment. He figured the infamy of his sect would hold no weight to these men, as they were far removed from Caldera culture and customs, but the threat of a blade is a fear that all men understood. Yet, these men hadn’t batted an eyelash.

         Before Aidan had time to think further, the huge Danthian swung his weapon down. Aidan sidestepped the blow and jumped away. The man charged forward and struck sideways with so much force it would have taken off Aidan’s head, but he rolled out of the way at the last moment. 

         Aidan resigned to himself. He didn’t doubt that he could kill both of these men in seconds. But, there had been enough killing. He scampered away from the hulking man, kicking up sand with his bare feet. He scooped up the bag of his gear and ran off.



         Innes could hear his friend gasping for breath behind him. He loosed another arrow before raising a hand to hold Roroq.

         “What?” Roroq roared, the strain forcing his words out in a loud burst.

         “He’s gone,” said Innes as he watched the foreigner fleeing in the distance.

         “Damn,” said Roroq in between breaths, “how could we let the coward get away?”          

         The foreigner was fast, faster even than Innes, and he had somehow freed himself, grabbed a blade, and slipped it under Roroq’s neck without making a sound. Whoever the man was, Innes had no doubt that he was dangerous. He saw in the stranger’s blank expression that he was unperturbed by death and killing. The hand that held the dagger didn’t shake, and he had hardly blinked when he looked at Innes. Why then, had he not killed the two of them when he had the chance?

         “Come,” said Innes, “let’s hurry back to Hak-el and tell him of our findings . . . and our failure.”

         Roroq, his blood boiling with rage, cast one final glance at the coward’s disappearing figure, scoffed, and then followed Innes back to the camels.