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maderrIt's crappy. Still playing with it. Just a test run prologue.If I have to suffer, so do the rest of you. Now must get back to other shit. MUST STOP STARTING NEW STUFF WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!?!?!
“Saa, what a disappointment. I thought you said you needed my help, Ikram. These men were not much of a challenge at all.” Sahayl grimaced at the men in question, a group of nearly fifty-odd soldiers in the red and gold uniform of one of the western countries. He did not bother to recall which one. Sometimes it seemed they took turns making war on the East, ostensibly for trade but Sahayl half-wondered if they were merely bored. Why could they not simply fight each other as the deserts did?
Ikram, a many of forty years who did not look anywhere close to that even with the gray in his beard and hair, chuckled softly. “I think it more likely they are not used to ghosts. Certainly they have given us plenty of trouble before. Their commander is no fool…” His eyes flicked to a man who had been separated from the rest, bound and secured to a dark gray horse.
“He was a challenge, I will give you that. A pity he is white.” Very white. Even among the pale skinned westerners, who always looked either like old cream or red meat, this one was extraordinarliy white. Like bleached bone. He might have been handsome, but for that skin. Eyes the color of the sky, they had briefly distracted him, a moment that had nearly cost him his arm. Sahayl grunted at the memory. “Saaa, you shall have to tell me what your King does with that one.”
“I do not share the King’s business with rowdy desert tribes,” Ikram replied with a taunting smirk.
Sahayl let out a sharp bark of laughter. “But you will beg us for favors when your problems creep into our deserts?” He grinned, all teeth, at the man beside him. “It is fortunate for you and your King that our tribe is willing to indulge him and lend our assistance.”
“It is fortunate for your purse that our King is more than willing to pay for your assistance,” Ikram responded dryly. “And that he indulges you in your desire for independence.”
“Your Kings have tried before to take the Lady into their fold. None have succeeded. Your current King is the wiser for never trying, and that is why the Ghosts, at least, are willing to help.” Sahayl laughed again, a soft, rolling sound like distant thunder.
Ikram rolled his eyes. “As you like it, son of Hashim. You have changed little from the boy who picked fights simply for something to do.”
“And you are still the stuffy know-it-all who tried to make me behave. I do not pity the King who has taken you for an advisor. Does he send you out here to get some peace and quiet?”
“Ha! I am not the one he complains about, so take that!” Ikram chortled at some private amusement. He gathered his horses reigns. “On that note, have you taken up all these duties so that your father might find peace in camp?”
Sahayl gave another of his toothy grins. “He is too busy plotting revenge.”
Ikram quirked a brow. “How do the winds blow these days? Once out of the Lady’s sight, it is hard to keep track of who is killing who for what.”
“Not that you ever kept track anyway.”
“Do you want me to demonstrate just how much I used to know?”
Sahayl rolled his eyes. “No, thank you. You are no longer my tutor, I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Not that you ever did.”
Laughing, Sahayl motioned to himself. His dark robes looked no different than those of the men behind him, but the glinting red jewel in his sword matched the one on his ring, and he had a bearing about him the others lacked. “Do I look as though I suffered for it?”
“A question I should put to those who live with you,” Ikram murmured. “Do they still call you Sandstorm, Sahayl.”
“Perhaps,” Sahayl said, still grinning. “But I warn you to watch your tongue, for it was the Sandstorm who captured your prisoners.”
Ikram rolled his eyes. “A job for which you were amply paid, in gold and amusement, as I have already said. As you clearly have nothing of interest left to say, I believe we will be on our way. Prisoners, even exhausted ones, will only be quiet for so long. His Majesty thanks you, Sahayl, son of Hashim, son of Ghosts, son of the Lady of the Sands.” He pressed the fingers of his right hand to his left shoulder and bowed from the waist.
Sahayl threw his head back and laughed, startling the captured soldiers and earning several shaking heads from the two dozen men waiting patiently a short distance off. “His Majesty is most welcome, Ikram, son of Sabbar, former son of Cobras, former son of the Lady of the Sands.” Smiling, Sahayl touched two fingers of his right hand to his forehead, then to his lips, then to the space over his heart. “Mind, body, soul.”
“In all find strength,” Ikram said, miming the gesture.
Holding his right hand to his left shoulder, Sahayl bowed. “To the Lady and your King. Safe travel and peaceful night. Farewell.”
“Until next time,” Ikram said, and then urged his horse forward to rejoin his own men.
Sahayl wheeled his horse around and immediately raced off, his men falling in easily around and behind him. Across the white sand of the desert they raced, chased by the setting sun. Twenty-five men dressed all in black, riding horses that barely seemed to touch the sands they raced across. The horses were just as dark as their masters, save Sahayl’s, which was a rich, dark red.
In seconds both groups had vanished, one further into the desert, the other away from it. In the lengthening shadows of evening, it almost looked as though no one had ever been there.
Sandstorm
Prologue
Prologue
“Saa, what a disappointment. I thought you said you needed my help, Ikram. These men were not much of a challenge at all.” Sahayl grimaced at the men in question, a group of nearly fifty-odd soldiers in the red and gold uniform of one of the western countries. He did not bother to recall which one. Sometimes it seemed they took turns making war on the East, ostensibly for trade but Sahayl half-wondered if they were merely bored. Why could they not simply fight each other as the deserts did?
Ikram, a many of forty years who did not look anywhere close to that even with the gray in his beard and hair, chuckled softly. “I think it more likely they are not used to ghosts. Certainly they have given us plenty of trouble before. Their commander is no fool…” His eyes flicked to a man who had been separated from the rest, bound and secured to a dark gray horse.
“He was a challenge, I will give you that. A pity he is white.” Very white. Even among the pale skinned westerners, who always looked either like old cream or red meat, this one was extraordinarliy white. Like bleached bone. He might have been handsome, but for that skin. Eyes the color of the sky, they had briefly distracted him, a moment that had nearly cost him his arm. Sahayl grunted at the memory. “Saaa, you shall have to tell me what your King does with that one.”
“I do not share the King’s business with rowdy desert tribes,” Ikram replied with a taunting smirk.
Sahayl let out a sharp bark of laughter. “But you will beg us for favors when your problems creep into our deserts?” He grinned, all teeth, at the man beside him. “It is fortunate for you and your King that our tribe is willing to indulge him and lend our assistance.”
“It is fortunate for your purse that our King is more than willing to pay for your assistance,” Ikram responded dryly. “And that he indulges you in your desire for independence.”
“Your Kings have tried before to take the Lady into their fold. None have succeeded. Your current King is the wiser for never trying, and that is why the Ghosts, at least, are willing to help.” Sahayl laughed again, a soft, rolling sound like distant thunder.
Ikram rolled his eyes. “As you like it, son of Hashim. You have changed little from the boy who picked fights simply for something to do.”
“And you are still the stuffy know-it-all who tried to make me behave. I do not pity the King who has taken you for an advisor. Does he send you out here to get some peace and quiet?”
“Ha! I am not the one he complains about, so take that!” Ikram chortled at some private amusement. He gathered his horses reigns. “On that note, have you taken up all these duties so that your father might find peace in camp?”
Sahayl gave another of his toothy grins. “He is too busy plotting revenge.”
Ikram quirked a brow. “How do the winds blow these days? Once out of the Lady’s sight, it is hard to keep track of who is killing who for what.”
“Not that you ever kept track anyway.”
“Do you want me to demonstrate just how much I used to know?”
Sahayl rolled his eyes. “No, thank you. You are no longer my tutor, I don’t have to listen to you.”
“Not that you ever did.”
Laughing, Sahayl motioned to himself. His dark robes looked no different than those of the men behind him, but the glinting red jewel in his sword matched the one on his ring, and he had a bearing about him the others lacked. “Do I look as though I suffered for it?”
“A question I should put to those who live with you,” Ikram murmured. “Do they still call you Sandstorm, Sahayl.”
“Perhaps,” Sahayl said, still grinning. “But I warn you to watch your tongue, for it was the Sandstorm who captured your prisoners.”
Ikram rolled his eyes. “A job for which you were amply paid, in gold and amusement, as I have already said. As you clearly have nothing of interest left to say, I believe we will be on our way. Prisoners, even exhausted ones, will only be quiet for so long. His Majesty thanks you, Sahayl, son of Hashim, son of Ghosts, son of the Lady of the Sands.” He pressed the fingers of his right hand to his left shoulder and bowed from the waist.
Sahayl threw his head back and laughed, startling the captured soldiers and earning several shaking heads from the two dozen men waiting patiently a short distance off. “His Majesty is most welcome, Ikram, son of Sabbar, former son of Cobras, former son of the Lady of the Sands.” Smiling, Sahayl touched two fingers of his right hand to his forehead, then to his lips, then to the space over his heart. “Mind, body, soul.”
“In all find strength,” Ikram said, miming the gesture.
Holding his right hand to his left shoulder, Sahayl bowed. “To the Lady and your King. Safe travel and peaceful night. Farewell.”
“Until next time,” Ikram said, and then urged his horse forward to rejoin his own men.
Sahayl wheeled his horse around and immediately raced off, his men falling in easily around and behind him. Across the white sand of the desert they raced, chased by the setting sun. Twenty-five men dressed all in black, riding horses that barely seemed to touch the sands they raced across. The horses were just as dark as their masters, save Sahayl’s, which was a rich, dark red.
In seconds both groups had vanished, one further into the desert, the other away from it. In the lengthening shadows of evening, it almost looked as though no one had ever been there.
