Happy Birthday!!!
May. 16th, 2006 06:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrFirst to my splendiferous Sammie-chan, aka ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rykaine. ^____^
Also the wondertasticskylark97
Your stories aren't quite finished, I apologize. Worst case scenario, you will have them this weekend.
Until then, snippets anyone?
And all still need way too much work, I apologize =_=
Damsel in Distress
Von’s mother had often said she wished he’d been born a girl. Not because she thought it would be easier on anyone – no, his mother often and frequently said that girls had a miserable time of life – but because she had mostly come to hate men.
Not that he could completely blame her, but it did sting a bit when your mother, on some level, vehemently disliked you.
It wasn’t overt. She loved him, and didn’t even entirely hate Thorley – though Thorley felt otherwise, and with good reason – but she meant it when she said she wished her younger son had been born a girl. A daughter she could have loved fully, without reservation.
She hadn’t been happy when he’s declared his intention of following Thorley. But she hadn’t worked too hard to stop him either.
He’d never told Thorley that. Knowing his brother, the idiot would just blame himself for that as well.
Von raked a hand through his blue-black hair, wishing he hadn’t lost the thong to hold it back. Another reason his mother mourned his gender – apparently his hair and lashes and blue eyes were utterly wasted on a man.
Sighing softly at the mixed feelings thoughts of home always brought – guilt, some homesickness, mostly relief he wasn’t there – Von paused as he reached the stream that made an informal border between the land used by the village and farmers and the area where beasts became more prevalent.
It was always quiet here, and quiet he definitely needed. He and Thorley had been traveling for years; it was strange to be in one location again. Not that he minded – he’d never enjoyed watching his brother fight with anything that so much as looked at him wrong. He lifted a hand to his right upper arm, feeling the phantom pain of where a rock wyrm had bitten him.
It had rather effectively put him off wyrms for awhile. Even now, he still felt sick whenever he saw one of their nests. Like the one not too far off. A water wyrm, though – unlikely to stir from its nest unless something really pissed it off.
Sitting down, Von toyed with a stone but avoided throwing it into the stream – wyrms weren’t the only thing that might be waiting for some idiot to make it angry. He tossed it back and forth in his hands, watching but not really seeing, thoughts wandering over plans for the next few weeks.
Geoffrey and Thorley were working on building a new house; something that had room for them and all the customers that came seeking Geoffrey’s cures. Something far better than the rundown cabin Geoffrey had been making the best of.
Something that had room for a goblin who seemed to fill even the largest rooms.
And there was, of course, room for Von. But he rather thought he’d just take the abandoned cabin; give his brother and Geoffrey some room. If he was lucky, some night a stranger would come wandering in and he’d be set.
Von contemplated the possible consequences of disturbing the water and reluctantly conceded he wasn’t that stupid. Instead of being a gloomy little boy, he could go find something constructive to do and work off his strange mood that way.
His good intentions were shattered by a shriek piercing enough to put banshees to shame. Von started to cover his ears, then realized he hadn’t let go of the rock. Before he could do anything, the source of the shriek came flying over the hill to the east and streaked toward him.
The shriek only got worse the closer she got. A peasant girl of some sort – then Von saw why she was screaming.
Gremlins. Nasty little bastards, with more teeth and claws than any creature really needed. Ugly too, a weird mottled brown-green skin that always looked wet. They looked more like someone’s meal had not been agreeable than a living creature.
Von lobbed the rock in his hand at the nearer of the six gremlins, smirking when he hit dead on and the ugly thing tumbled back, balanced lost.
“Help help help help!” the girl managed to say, just barely avoiding crashing into him, hiding close behind him.
“Get back,” Von said calmly. “I can’t fight if you’re clinging to me.”
“Yes, sir!” the girl said and dashed to hide behind an old log.
Something about her accent nagged, but Von’s attention was only for the gremlins. They were ugly, and angry, but they weren’t stupid. He fought off one but in the interim the rest found a way to send him reeling back and with a loud, wet plop the neat and tidy sword fight he’d wanted turned into a chaotic mud-and-blood fight.
Von cursed loudly, colorfully and with energy when he finally killed the last one, then turned to confront the girl. She couldn’t be more than ten or so. Finally able to get a good look at her, he pegged what was off about her accent.
She was dressed in simple clothes – a long brown skirt and white blouse, both of which had seen better times. An apron, also old, and a mass of hairpins and a simple cotton ribbon to keep her hair up.
But that hair was a fine gold, rich and almost shiny-looking. There was a health to it that no peasant girl would ever achieve. It had been washed with expensive soap, not the coarse, homemade kind. Her skin too had a healthy sheen to it, and there was no worker’s tan to darken it. There were countless of other small signs. Whoever this girl was, she did a poor imitation of a peasant.
“Thank you, sir.” she said, her smile sweet.
“Always a pleasure to help a lady,” Von said, and ineffectually began to try and scrape mud from his face, clothes and sword. Muttering more curses, not particularly caring if he offended delicate ears or not, he gave up trying to scrape it off and decided to risk being eaten by something in the river. Several dunkings later he was still a mess but at least his mouth didn’t taste like mud – and he hadn’t been eaten. “Might I ask, fair damsel, what you’re doing all the way out here?”
The girl giggled at being called a ‘fair damsel’ as he’d known she would, and beamed at him. Von wondered how often that smile and those pretty, cinnamon-colored eyes got her out of trouble. Probably a great deal, if she made a habit of playing peasant. “I wanted to play in the flower field,” the girl said. “Nobody ever lets me.”
Von glanced at the flowers he hadn’t until then noticed she was clutching. Butterfly roses – known in other circles as gremlin bait. “That’s probably because gremlins think those things are pretty tasty.” He frowned. “Didn’t anyone get rid of the gremlins?”
“Those nasty things?” the girl asked, pointing at the bodies that looked like little more than massive lumps of mud now.
“Yes,” Von said slowly. “Those nasty things. Those nasty things that would have eaten you along with the flowers if they’d caught you.”
“Oh,” the girl said, eyes going wide. “No wonder Kit gets so mad at me.”
Von started to clean his sword. “Who’s Kit? Better question – who are you, fair damsel?”
Her worry over almost being eaten faded immediately under the delight of being called ‘fair damsel’ again and the girl swept him a remarkably graceful curtsy. “Abigail Elizabeth Holbrook,” she said politely, with a ring of much recitation. “A pleasure to meet you.” Then she broke from her recital smile and giggled. “Thank you for saving me, Sir Knight.”
Von snorted and sheathed his sword, then gave an exaggerated bow. “Sir Von of the Mud Hole at your service, milady.”
“Everyone calls me Abby,” Abby said, then dissolved into giggles again. “You should come back to the house, Sir Von. How would my nurse put it?” She shifted her stance, spreading her legs and putting her hands on her hips, lips turned down in a deep frown – in danger of turning back into a grin – and said in a deep, stern voice. “After all the trouble that girl has caused, the least she can do is give you a place to clean up, some food. You come along right now and we’ll get you taken are of. Don’t you argue with me, I get enough of that from the girl.”
Throwing his head back, Von laughed until his sides began to hurt. “How can I refuse an offer like that? Very well, fair damsel, I would like a decent bath after that last battle. I might have defeated the gremlins, but I would say the mud hole won the day.” Not than anyone with sense would let him anywhere near the house where this girl lived, but he could use the pretext of agreeing to ensure she got safely home.
Giggling, Abby took his hand, oblivious to the mud and water, and led him out of the field. “Just wait until you meet Nurse. Oh! And Kit should be home soon! I’m sure he’ll yell at me, but you’ll get praised. He likes knights.” She grinned at Von like she was telling a secret.
“I see,” Von said, completely lost. “Who’s Kit?”
Abby beamed. “My big brother! He’s the best, even though he’s always growling about how I shouldn’t be allowed outside ever.” She leaned in closer and said in a low, confidential voice. “He’s just mad that I’ve fallen in love.”
“Well, that is a serious matter.” Von fought not to grin. “No brother likes to see his pretty little sister go off with another man.”
Abby sniffed. “He’s just jealous I’m in love and he’s not,” she said knowingly. She tugged Von’s hand. “Come on! I bet we can get cook to make us apple dumplings!” Dragging him along as she ran, Abby managed to keep up a steady stream of conversation the whole time.
The Legend of the Black Mountain
This story was told to me by an old man who claimed to be the last to know the truth, other than the ogre dwelling high in the Black Mountain. I do not the truth of it, but if pressed I would state the tale is false, told by a lonely old man who might at one point in his life must have been a fine storyteller. Certainly, the tale he told me was worth the effort of penning.
The notorious Ogre of the Black Mountain is so familiar a tale that no one bothers to tell it anymore. From time to time interest resurrects, and knights attempt to go after it only to return home injured and occasionally dead. He is the Ogre, he has always lurked on the Black Mountain. Until the old man spoke to me, I never gave thought as to why the Ogre was there. Upon later reflection, I realized never had I heard tales of other Ogres. This makes it tempting to believe the old man’s tale, but it is my expert opinion that while a splendid tale, it is nothing more than that.
However, all good tales deserve to be told. More than that, he seemed a good man. And so I will recount the story he told me, of how the Ogre of the Black Mountain came to be…
Many years ago, so many that the time is all but forgotten in present day, the royal palace was not where it currently stands, several miles away from the base of the Black Mountain. Once it was in the Black Mountains, tucked into a deep valley, safe from all who might threaten the kingdom. The path has long since been lost, ravaged by time and the fury of the Ogre.
It was a beautiful palace, a brilliant golden color, bright banners flying from the turrets, nestled in a valley filled with the pale violet flowers known as Mountain Lady. Throughout the valley knights in silver armor and scarlet tunics patrolled, keeping safe the inhabitants of the palace. Their most precious duty was to guard the royal family. The Queen had died several years before this tale begins, but she left behind a strong and noble King and their twelve beautiful daughters.
The kingdom was a strong one, a good one, so wonderful it was said that all who visited could not bring themselves to ever leave. Banquets, festivals, and balls were never lacking, fine food and finer wine always available. Never did the palace lack for smiles and laughter, never was a shadow permitted to linger long.
Most famous of all were the balls, held nearly every night for the entertainment of all who wanted to attend, for it was at the balls when the Twelve Princesses were at their finest. All were beautiful; half with their mother’s fair and pretty looks, the other half with their father’s dark coloring and noble visage. If they possessed flaws, no one could be found who would point them out.
Every night they danced and danced, leaving their partners entranced, dazzled. Sometimes they would dance just the twelve of them, oldest to youngest, moving in rhythms and patterns that none could duplicate no matter how hard they tried. The Twelve Dancing Princesses were famous throughout many kingdoms, in lands far away, drawing in hundreds, thousands, knights and lords, princes and even kings.
But one night the princesses did not appear, and rumors flew that they had exhausted themselves dancing the previous night. Such a thing had never been heard of before, and rumors flew as to what the truth of the matter could be.
Gradually the truth came to light, as the king fell into anger and despair.
Each night his beloved daughters were locked into their suite, with no way in or out save the hallway door. All the windows were too small, even for the youngest and most delicate princess, and long ago court wizards had bespelled the place to prevent attacks of that nature. There was no way for the princesses to leave, yet each morning the princesses could not leave their beds, moaning in pain and crying from the sheer weight of their exhaustion.
And on the floor of each room were their discarded clothes; fine silk and satin dressed stained with sweat, wrinkled from being worn all night; beautiful jewels and hair ornaments discarded amongst the folds of tired silk, all of it piled on top of their dancing shoes, which had been used so long and so hard that there were holes in the bottom of them.
Though many tried – the King himself, handmaids, ladies-in-waiting, sweethearts and hopeful suitors, none could learn the reason that the princesses vanished every night to dance themselves to the point of pain. Their smiles, always sweet and kind and playful, turned into tight frowns that depressed all those around them. Eyes once sparkling with mirth and joy turned dark with agony.
Furious, helpless, the King watched his daughters in growing despair. Anxious to help them, he set one knight after another to learn the secret, set suitors and anyone else who would volunteer. But each attempt ended in failure, and the King feel deeper into his black despair. Consumed by it, he ordered that whosoever failed, after three nights, was to be executed.
Still men tried, from the bravest knight to the finest prince to the poorest farmer. All failed.
The last man to attempt it was a soldier, and like all the rest he was locked in with the princesses every night, and every morning he was made to report what he had learned. On the fourth morning, when he would either answer or die, the King commanded the door unbarred.
But when he ventured into the suite and called for his beloved daughters, he heard no reply. Exploration of their rooms revealed that all were empty. The princesses were gone. Enraged, anguished, the King went mad.
For days those who yet remained at the palace tried to save him to restore him to reason, but he would not, or could not, hear them. His madness turned wild, dangerous, deadly, until at last he killed the servants who had been attempting to calm him. In terror those who had remained finally fled, leaving the castle empty, silent, a sad imitation of its former glory.
The last to leave said that in the end, so great was the king’s anguish and rage that it turned him into an Ogre.
Over the years the castle fell to ruin, and the roads to it were destroyed by the Ogre, lost to time. Ever since he has prowled the Black Mountain, searching always for his lost Dancing Princesses.
Miles slowed as he drew closer to the city, both relieved to find a place to rest that wasn’t the ground and dreading interacting with so many people. Normal people. Not soldiers or shaken survivors or enraged prisoners.
He tugged at the hood of his cloak, making sure it covered his face. Two decades of his life had been spent in the distant war, and they hadn’t been kind years. His arm broken once, nose at least three times, possibly four – it was hard to remember some of those nights – scars all over his body. The most prominent were the one slashing down his right cheek, another across his nose. Smaller marks on the underside of his chin, a thin line across his collar bone. Never mind the ones on his torso, back, arms and legs. A friend had once said he had fine eyes, the color of maple candy, but Miles didn’t think they’d make up for his otherwise horrifying features. Nor would his graying red hair impress anyone. Miles tugged at his hood again, loathe to attract stares before he absolutely had to.
But no matter what stares he did get, he wasn’t sorry to be here. Even if he felt like a stranger in his own homeland. The point was that he was home.
The wind stirred and made Miles smile ever so faintly .It smelled like food, flowers, trees and grass. Not blood and steel, sweat and fear. Even if he felt an outcast, it was indeed good to be back in his homeland.
Everything was noise when he finally reached the city, as charming as it was overwhelming – shrieks of children, shouting mothers, men calling to each other as they escaped the shouting wives by ducking into taverns. Another faint smile tricked its way on Miles’ face, even though he tensed for an attack every time he heard a scream or shout.
The streets were packed as people traveled home in the fading light of late evening, shouting mothers rounding up their children, cursing their husbands while other people and couples went about their own business. Taverns opened their doors wide while shopkeepers locked theirs tight, shutters thudding into place as windows were shut up, and people scurried and ran through the narrow, winding, cobble-stone streets.
Miles continued on, passing by several taverns in search of one that was less crowded, less rowdy. He wanted a place to enjoy an ale or two in relative quiet, a chance to get himself reacquainted with normal life.
Turning off onto a smaller street, hoping to find what he wanted in a more out of the way place, Miles was brought up short by the group of men about halfway down. Their voices were loud, but not so loud their words carried – only the cruel, violent tone.
There were four of them, gathered around something – more likely, someone – Miles couldn’t see. They had their backs to him, and Miles used that to draw closer, more than a decade fighting for his life lending him soundless movement.
“What did we tell you, ogre-boy?”
An attempted reply was cut off as one of the men kicked the mysterious victim, and Miles heard the unfortunate gasp in pain.
“You were supposed to have finished our notes by this morning, ogre-boy. You know the penalty for letting us down.”
“But I—“
“No excuses,” another one of the four said, and kicked the ‘ogre-boy’ himself.
Then the man who was the ringleader, near as Mile could tell, reached down and hauled their victim to his feet then began to shake him hard before suddenly turning and throwing him – straight into Miles, knocking his hood off.
The group of men faltered.
Miles awkwardly caught the boy they’d thrown, and made sure he was steady before launching himself at the leader, grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt and shaking him twice as hard as he’d shaken the boy – then threw him hard into the others, sending them all to the cobblestones.
He didn’t relax until they’d run off, rolling his eyes at the threats hurled over their shoulders. Bullies never changed. Once they were gone, he took a closer look at his surroundings, noticing for the first time the mess scattered across the stones. Books, rolls of paper, a shattered ink jar and ruined quills. He turned around, already knowing what he’d see – this was a situation nearly as old as time – and was proven correct.
The boy, a young man really, stood looking at the ground as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. His hair, which to judge from the ribbon hanging over one shoulder, had been pulled back at some point. Now it fell in tangled disarray around his shoulders, dirt and what looked liked ink making a further mess of the rich, honey-colored strands. It wasn’t very long, just barely to his shoulders, but enough to indicate this man didn’t spend his time at hard labor.
That impression was further enhanced by his too-skinny frame, evident even in the over-large clothes he wore – loose brown breeches tucked into low-cut boots, the too-long sleeves of his faded brown shirt rolled up to his elbows. Over all of it was a dark, gold-brown tunic with a simple hawk stitched in the space over the heart.
A scholar, one who was about halfway through his studies, which – unless things had changed – would put the man at twenty-some years of age.
Ink was smeared across half his face, and judging from the spilled ink on the pavement, it was not hard to deduce what had happened. Dirt and grim covered the whole of his face as well as his clothes. But beneath it all, even a fool could see that the lad was easy on the eyes. His features were the sort too delicate for a man, too strong for a woman. Miles couldn’t see his eyes, but he didn’t doubt they were as fair as the rest, and at least fine as those full lips, which sadly were currently turned down in an expression of shame and misery.
Miles was annoyed with himself for looking. Obviously he had lost all his manners on the battlefield. “All right, lad?” he asked, wishing he knew how to sound kinder.
“Fine,” the young man muttered, then dared a quick look up. “Thank you.” The words sounded as if they’d had to be dragged out, and Miles couldn’t really blame him.
His size had always ensured such things weren’t a problem for him, especially when he put it to use as a soldier. He towered over nearly everyone, and even in the army he had not often seen a man his equal in size. It had always served him well, at least after he’d grown into it. War had only improved upon what he’d been born with, though sometime Miles felt it more a curse. He wasn’t the type people harassed.
Miles moved on before he damaged the young man’s pride further, not offering to help retrieve his scattered belongings. “Don’t know a quiet place for a man to find a meal and bed, do you? I’m afraid this town is beyond me.”
The young man shrugged as he finished shoving the last of his ruined papers into a worn and much-patched brown satchel. “Town is pretty crowded right now, what with the celebration beginning tomorrow to celebrate the birth of King Gail’s son.” He narrowed his eyes at Miles. “You’re a soldier.”
“Retired,” Miles said, disconcerted by the way the man stared at him without staring.
“From the Redlands?”
Miles nodded. “Yes.”
“You can come with me,” the man said abruptly, then turned and began to stride up the steep, curving street. He turned back to Miles. “Coming?”
Confused, but willing to go along with anything that might end in food and a bed, Miles nodded and trotted after him. They winded their way through the cramped, crowded streets, the young man weaving about with the expertise of a resident while Miles merely used his size to plow through. At last they stopped at a small, run-down looking place at the far edge of town. Here there were no crowds, no noise except that of birds and a couple of mangy dogs.
The young man stopped outside of a tired-looking building and unlocked the door, then motioned for Miles to follow him inside. The building smelled of dust and mold, old wood and things long-neglected. From a few of the doors they passed he could hear the sounds of other inhabitants, but in the hallway there was no life except for one mouse which was quick to flee at the sound of men.
Inside a room as sad looking as the rest of the house, the young man dropped his satchel with a sigh on a rickety table that looked as though it had been put together from parts of at least two tables. He struggled to light a small lamp, muttering curses until at last it sputtered to life. Fiddling with it for a moment, and then with his satchel, the young man finally looked up at Miles. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so hasty. I just didn’t want to be out when it got dark. Um…my name is Skylar” He ran a hand nervously through his hair, grimacing as it came away soaked in ink that had not yet dried. “Thank you for helping me.” He looked at the floor again, hands closing and unclosing.
“Name is Miles. Thank you for taking me in.”
Skylar shrugged. “Not much here, I think I may be doing you a disservice.” He flashed a brief, shy smile. “But I have food and ale, and you can have the bed…such as it.” Skylark motioned to the sad arrangement of straw and threadbare blankets. “It’s all clean, I promise. Just…” he shrugged and looked away. “Being a student doesn’t leave much room for comforts. If you want to go elsewhere, I understand. I just thought…” he didn’t finish the sentence, but instead moved his bag from the table to the floor. “Let me get cleaned up, I’ll be right back.” He vanished back out the door, leaving Miles feeling severely out of place.
To distract himself, he took a closer look at the small room. He’d always thought students were better off than this…soldier’s were supposed to be the poor ones. Didn’t the lad have family to help him? Friends to board with? How did he stay warm in the winter?
Why in the world was he concerning himself?
Though if the lad was this poor off, Miles shouldn’t be taking what little he had. He should go before he got back. But just as he turned to leave, the door creaked open and Skylar slipped inside. His hair was damp, the honey strands clinging to his head. A quick, shy smile and Miles finally was able to tell the color of his eyes – a fine, honey gold to match his hair. A desire to touch, to taste, to see what he could do to make those eyes brighten slammed through him.
Miles silently cursed himself, disgusted. The boy was more than a decade younger, and too many years alone and those at war, did not excuse Miles’ thoughts. That they were only thoughts did excuse them either. Obviously he needed a bit more than an ale and bed, if he thinking and acting so shamefully. “I don’t want to be putting you to any trouble,” Miles finally managed.
“You’re not,” Skylar said, his smile fading. “I…just wanted to thank you. Most people don’t even notice anymore.” He shrugged awkwardly and looked away. “But like I said, I understand if you want to go.” He moved to rifle through an old cupboard which, unlike the table and bed, looked in relatively good condition. But then, if it were in poor shape, the mice would get to the food.
Miles swung his pack off his shoulders and set it on the floor.. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he said.
Another brief, shy smile and then Skylar returned to frowning as he set out food – a small jug of ale, a loaf of bread and a small rind of cheese. He knelt to riffle through his satchel and then added a medium-sized red apple. From the cupboard he pulled out an old knife, then motioned for Miles to take the chair.
“I think I’ll manage with the floor,” Miles said. “If I sit in that, I’ll break it.”
Skylar laughed, a short, sweet sound that made Miles smile all the more. “That’s entirely possible – I’m nearly too much for it, and a good breeze knocks me over.”
Miles surprised himself by laughing, and he could see it startled Skylar as well.
Flushing, muttering something Miles couldn’t understand, Skylar grabbed hold of the table and moved it until it was closer to the bed, then set to work slicing the bread and cheese, then cut the apple into several slices. Pulling the stopper from the jug, he held it out. “No cups, I’m afraid.”
Though he had one in his pack, a small tin cup kept from his time in the service, Miles didn’t bother to fetch it. He took the jug gratefully and downed a healthy swallow. The ale was cheap, watered down, but the best thing he’d tasted in days. Since reaching port he’d traveled where there were few to no people, not feeling ready to handle civilization quite yet. But water grew boring after several weeks of travel, and this was the first time he’d had anything but. He handed it over to Skylar. “Thank you.”
And the last is really really rough, so pardon errors
One
Six years later
“Your father is going to kill us.”
Sahayl rolled his eyes. “He’s already busy trying to kill everyone else. We’ll be so far down on his agenda that he’ll forget we’re even on it.” He flicked the air with his fingers, as if knocking away an annoying insect. “Saa, but I am his blood. Perhaps that will move me to the top of the list. Who but the Lady can say?”
“The Lady laughs at you, I swear she does.”
“Of that I have no doubt. What do you suppo—“ His words were cut off by a cry of warning, and he drew his sword without thought, swinging it up to meet the blade of his attack. Throwing the man off, Sahayl struck, long, crescent sword flashing, slicing open the man’s throat. He wheeled around and met the next one, just able to see that there were at least six more. Every last one of them Falcon. Bastards. So much for negotiations. With renewed fervor, Sahayl cut down the next man and moved on to a third.
Then another flash of movement as someone else joined the fray, helping the two men fight off their attacks.
As the fighting ceased, leaving only the stench of blood to mingle with the smell of wind and sand, Sahayl shared a brief puzzled look with his friend, then looked again at the man who had assisted them.
His clothing bore no distinctive markings. They were stark black – no embroidery, no jewels, nothing. Nor did his horse give any indication of his tribe. Strangest of all, his eyes were covered by a thin veil – no doubt he could see them quiet clearly, but they could not see a single clue as to the man’s identity. “Declare yourself.”
“My identity is my own,” the man replied. Sahayl was thrown by his accent – it was perfectly native to the Desert. He had expected a foreigner of some sort, or someone from Tavamara exploring what they called the Wild Desert. “And you’re welcome, Ghosts. He lifted his right hand, gloved in black leather, and pressed two fingers to his forehead, the space over his mouth, the space over his heart. “Mind, body, soul. Lady guard you on your journey, Ghosts.” With that, the man wheeled around and raced off.
“Leave it, Wafai.” Sahayl said, when his friend made to give chase. “Is that who I think it was?”
Wafai grunted. “The shadow skulking about the Desert? You should have let me kill or follow him, and we could have rid this place of at least one problem.”
“Saa, there are so many problems, what is one more?” Sahayl glanced distastefully at the bodies on the ground. “This will not help negotiations.” He narrowed his eyes. “Lady of the Sands…” Dismounting, Sahayl cleaned his sword on the robe of the nearest dead man and then sheathed it. “Wafai, take a look. These men are not Falcon.”
“Do you have sand in your eyes, Sahayl?” Wafai dismounted and moved to kneel beside him, yanking away the cloth covering his mouth and nose. “Lady of the Sands! What game is this?”
Sahayl tugged down his own mouth cover, revealing full lips pulled into a grim frown. “A good imitation, right down to the feather even. But those aren’t falcon feathers. At least, not any falcon I’ve ever seen. Nor is the silver quite right. Perfect for a glance…”
“I wonder what the game is this time,” Wafai said with a long sigh. Covering his mouth and nose again, he then began yanking off feathers and small, silver medallions from the robes of the dead men. “They carry no identifying marks, either. These men could literally be anyone.”
“Not anyone,” Sahayl said pensively, pulling off the head cloth of all three man and tossing them aside. “They’re not native. Half-breeds?”
Wafai shrugged. “More likely from Tavamara, though I couldn’t begin to tell you why they’re out here playing desert savage.”
Sahayl snorted. “I would like to know how they came to know so much about Falcon they managed a fair imitation of their markings. Saa, I sense more trouble than ever on the winds. The Lady tests us.”
“I wonder more about the shadow, and what he did to incur the wrath of fake Falcon.” He glared at Sahayl. “Lady keep me from ever scouting with you again.”
Snickering, Sahayl mounted his horse and turned around. “You would be bored out of your mind, brother of my soul, if you scouted with anyone else.”
“Lady grant me the gift of being bored,” Wafai muttered. “Let us hurry. We are already late, and this delay will not help any cause but grief’s. Ketcha!”
“Ketcha!” Sahayl repeated and they raced off back across the sands, following a path that was not there.
They arrived at camp an hour later. The camp in question was simple; just enough for a group of fifty men to be reasonably comfortable as they traveled to talk peace with old enemies. The tents were all the color of the sand around them, dyed irregularly to better blend. Along one end the horses were tethered, all but one black, all the fleet-footed, agile steeds that had long ago made the desert their home. Their value to other nations kept more than a few tribes in enough gold to continue waging private wars. Around the camp men tended to various chores, other helping to ready those who would shortly be moving out to attend the peace talks.
Dismounting, Sahayl handed his horse off to waiting hands, followed quickly by Wafai, and headed for the tent at the back of the camp. The only indications that it was for someone important was its larger size and the guards stationed on either side of the entrance.
“Do not even enter,” a voice like shattered glass barked from the depths of the tent. “You have thirty minutes, my son, to get ready or I will carry your head to the meeting and offer it as a gift of peace. I think it would go over well.”
Sahayl hid a wince and swooped into a low bow. “As you command, father.” Turning sharply around, he shared a look with Wafai before they went their separate ways to prepare for the pending meeting.
In his own tent, he scrubbed quickly in a tub full of water that had probably been hot at some point. Climbing out, he combed fingers through his hair, working out the worst of the tangles in the thick, short curls. “Saa, what a day this will be.”
“Assistance, Amir?” A man stood in the entrance, waiting politely.
Sahayl nodded and allowed the man to help him dress, slipping first into thin, lightweight pants, over which went a much sturdier pair dyed black. A lightweight, sleeveless white shirt, over which went a thick vest, the clasps invisible once it was fastened. The front and back were stitched heavily with white and silver thread forming a pattern that gave the impression of whirling sands. Next he shrugged into a black robe, and the servant pulled it loosely shut, leaving it gaping just enough to show the the white and silver stitching of the vest beneath, which matched the sash used to keep the robe closed.
On his right hand was a large silver ring set with a fat, red gem. It matched the stone gleaming in the pommel of his large, curving sword, which Sahayl belted on once the servant was finished dressing him. Fingers combed through his hair, some tsking noises coming from the servant. “Amir, your hair.”
“Is hopeless. Comb it if you like, else I had best get to my father’s tent.”
“Of course, Amir.” The servant bowed and departed.
Wafai appeared at his side halfway back to his father’s tent. His skin was the same dark, dusky gold as Sahayl’s, but slightly more weathered. Where Sahayl had pale gold eyes, Wafai’s were like wet sand. His hair was long and straight, still damp from a bath and neatly braided, falling just past his neck. He was dressed exactly like Sahayl, the only difference the patterning on his vest and a plain silver band on the middle finger of his right hand. “Lady spare us the wrath of your father.”
“She hasn’t spared anyone else,” Sahayl muttered. “Why should we be special? Saa, I will be content if the night goes well.”
“May the Lady will it so,” Wafai said, then both fell silent as they were admitted to the tent of the Ghost Sheik.
Sheik Hashim glared at them. “Sahayl, just once could you be bothered to do exactly as your told? We have enough problems without the Ghost being unable to rely upon their Amir.”
Sahayl bowed low. “I beg forgiveness of the Lady and my noble sire. Events unexpected slowed our return. I offer my most humble apologies.”
Hashim grunted. “Your mother taught you pretty words, my son, but that is about all she taught you. What occurred that would spare you a well-deserved beating?”
Quickly Sahayl related all that had occurred, presenting the feathers and medallions that Wafai handed to him.
“Gentlelanders playing desert savage,” Hashim said with a grunt. “Hardly worth my time.”
“But how—“
Hashim cut him off with a short motion of his hand. “People travel to and from the Desert more than any of us like. If a man will leave the Sands, he will say more of them than he should to the first pretty face that asks. I do not care. They are dead, that is what matters. No doubt they wish they had stayed safely curled against their mothers’ breasts. Gentlelanders and shadows are not our concern; our concern are real Falcons and you have very nearly succeeded in making us late! I do not have time to punish either of you know,” he looked briefly at Wafai, the only acknowledgement he’d noticed the man at all, “but you can be sure you will be dealt with later. Tetcha.” He stormed from the tent, barking orders once he was outside.
“Saa…” Sahayl said, making a face at his father’s back.
“All will be well eventually, Sandstorm Amir.” Wafai gripped his shoulder briefly, then began to pull his head wrap into place, hiding all but his light brown eyes.
Sahayl sighed. “Eventually, I sense, will not come soon enough. Lady prove me wrong.” With another sigh he led the way from the tent, accepting the reigns of his horse and swinging smoothly up into the saddle. Seven other men would accompany them to the appointed meeting place, a small Oasis two hours ride from their camp.
They were riding out to meet with enemies. Lady willing, they would return with news of new allies. Sahayl watched his father as Hashim barked orders to his men, absently pulling up and arranging his headdress, hiding his thick curls from sight, tugging up the fabric that would protect his face from the sands. Only his gold eyes were visible when he finished, still locked on his father, dark with worries so familiar he could not remember not having them.
Gold eyes and a height of over just six feet were the only obvious features he and his father had in common. His father tended toward large and wide; Sahayl had just enough bulk that he was not sneered at for being skinny. His curly hair had come from his mother, as had his long, slender hands and less severe, handsome features. There was nothing of the intimidating Crusher in him – but plenty of the Sandstorm
With that his father had always been content, even pleased. Lately nothing pleased, and more frequently everything displeased. Sliding his eyes away from his father, Sahayl shared a look with Wafai, who gave a minute shrug.
Saa, it would have to be dealt with later. First they must attempt to avoid more fighting.
Lady keep his father from ruining everything.
rykaine. ^____^Also the wondertastic
skylark97Your stories aren't quite finished, I apologize. Worst case scenario, you will have them this weekend.
Until then, snippets anyone?
And all still need way too much work, I apologize =_=
Damsel in Distress
Von’s mother had often said she wished he’d been born a girl. Not because she thought it would be easier on anyone – no, his mother often and frequently said that girls had a miserable time of life – but because she had mostly come to hate men.
Not that he could completely blame her, but it did sting a bit when your mother, on some level, vehemently disliked you.
It wasn’t overt. She loved him, and didn’t even entirely hate Thorley – though Thorley felt otherwise, and with good reason – but she meant it when she said she wished her younger son had been born a girl. A daughter she could have loved fully, without reservation.
She hadn’t been happy when he’s declared his intention of following Thorley. But she hadn’t worked too hard to stop him either.
He’d never told Thorley that. Knowing his brother, the idiot would just blame himself for that as well.
Von raked a hand through his blue-black hair, wishing he hadn’t lost the thong to hold it back. Another reason his mother mourned his gender – apparently his hair and lashes and blue eyes were utterly wasted on a man.
Sighing softly at the mixed feelings thoughts of home always brought – guilt, some homesickness, mostly relief he wasn’t there – Von paused as he reached the stream that made an informal border between the land used by the village and farmers and the area where beasts became more prevalent.
It was always quiet here, and quiet he definitely needed. He and Thorley had been traveling for years; it was strange to be in one location again. Not that he minded – he’d never enjoyed watching his brother fight with anything that so much as looked at him wrong. He lifted a hand to his right upper arm, feeling the phantom pain of where a rock wyrm had bitten him.
It had rather effectively put him off wyrms for awhile. Even now, he still felt sick whenever he saw one of their nests. Like the one not too far off. A water wyrm, though – unlikely to stir from its nest unless something really pissed it off.
Sitting down, Von toyed with a stone but avoided throwing it into the stream – wyrms weren’t the only thing that might be waiting for some idiot to make it angry. He tossed it back and forth in his hands, watching but not really seeing, thoughts wandering over plans for the next few weeks.
Geoffrey and Thorley were working on building a new house; something that had room for them and all the customers that came seeking Geoffrey’s cures. Something far better than the rundown cabin Geoffrey had been making the best of.
Something that had room for a goblin who seemed to fill even the largest rooms.
And there was, of course, room for Von. But he rather thought he’d just take the abandoned cabin; give his brother and Geoffrey some room. If he was lucky, some night a stranger would come wandering in and he’d be set.
Von contemplated the possible consequences of disturbing the water and reluctantly conceded he wasn’t that stupid. Instead of being a gloomy little boy, he could go find something constructive to do and work off his strange mood that way.
His good intentions were shattered by a shriek piercing enough to put banshees to shame. Von started to cover his ears, then realized he hadn’t let go of the rock. Before he could do anything, the source of the shriek came flying over the hill to the east and streaked toward him.
The shriek only got worse the closer she got. A peasant girl of some sort – then Von saw why she was screaming.
Gremlins. Nasty little bastards, with more teeth and claws than any creature really needed. Ugly too, a weird mottled brown-green skin that always looked wet. They looked more like someone’s meal had not been agreeable than a living creature.
Von lobbed the rock in his hand at the nearer of the six gremlins, smirking when he hit dead on and the ugly thing tumbled back, balanced lost.
“Help help help help!” the girl managed to say, just barely avoiding crashing into him, hiding close behind him.
“Get back,” Von said calmly. “I can’t fight if you’re clinging to me.”
“Yes, sir!” the girl said and dashed to hide behind an old log.
Something about her accent nagged, but Von’s attention was only for the gremlins. They were ugly, and angry, but they weren’t stupid. He fought off one but in the interim the rest found a way to send him reeling back and with a loud, wet plop the neat and tidy sword fight he’d wanted turned into a chaotic mud-and-blood fight.
Von cursed loudly, colorfully and with energy when he finally killed the last one, then turned to confront the girl. She couldn’t be more than ten or so. Finally able to get a good look at her, he pegged what was off about her accent.
She was dressed in simple clothes – a long brown skirt and white blouse, both of which had seen better times. An apron, also old, and a mass of hairpins and a simple cotton ribbon to keep her hair up.
But that hair was a fine gold, rich and almost shiny-looking. There was a health to it that no peasant girl would ever achieve. It had been washed with expensive soap, not the coarse, homemade kind. Her skin too had a healthy sheen to it, and there was no worker’s tan to darken it. There were countless of other small signs. Whoever this girl was, she did a poor imitation of a peasant.
“Thank you, sir.” she said, her smile sweet.
“Always a pleasure to help a lady,” Von said, and ineffectually began to try and scrape mud from his face, clothes and sword. Muttering more curses, not particularly caring if he offended delicate ears or not, he gave up trying to scrape it off and decided to risk being eaten by something in the river. Several dunkings later he was still a mess but at least his mouth didn’t taste like mud – and he hadn’t been eaten. “Might I ask, fair damsel, what you’re doing all the way out here?”
The girl giggled at being called a ‘fair damsel’ as he’d known she would, and beamed at him. Von wondered how often that smile and those pretty, cinnamon-colored eyes got her out of trouble. Probably a great deal, if she made a habit of playing peasant. “I wanted to play in the flower field,” the girl said. “Nobody ever lets me.”
Von glanced at the flowers he hadn’t until then noticed she was clutching. Butterfly roses – known in other circles as gremlin bait. “That’s probably because gremlins think those things are pretty tasty.” He frowned. “Didn’t anyone get rid of the gremlins?”
“Those nasty things?” the girl asked, pointing at the bodies that looked like little more than massive lumps of mud now.
“Yes,” Von said slowly. “Those nasty things. Those nasty things that would have eaten you along with the flowers if they’d caught you.”
“Oh,” the girl said, eyes going wide. “No wonder Kit gets so mad at me.”
Von started to clean his sword. “Who’s Kit? Better question – who are you, fair damsel?”
Her worry over almost being eaten faded immediately under the delight of being called ‘fair damsel’ again and the girl swept him a remarkably graceful curtsy. “Abigail Elizabeth Holbrook,” she said politely, with a ring of much recitation. “A pleasure to meet you.” Then she broke from her recital smile and giggled. “Thank you for saving me, Sir Knight.”
Von snorted and sheathed his sword, then gave an exaggerated bow. “Sir Von of the Mud Hole at your service, milady.”
“Everyone calls me Abby,” Abby said, then dissolved into giggles again. “You should come back to the house, Sir Von. How would my nurse put it?” She shifted her stance, spreading her legs and putting her hands on her hips, lips turned down in a deep frown – in danger of turning back into a grin – and said in a deep, stern voice. “After all the trouble that girl has caused, the least she can do is give you a place to clean up, some food. You come along right now and we’ll get you taken are of. Don’t you argue with me, I get enough of that from the girl.”
Throwing his head back, Von laughed until his sides began to hurt. “How can I refuse an offer like that? Very well, fair damsel, I would like a decent bath after that last battle. I might have defeated the gremlins, but I would say the mud hole won the day.” Not than anyone with sense would let him anywhere near the house where this girl lived, but he could use the pretext of agreeing to ensure she got safely home.
Giggling, Abby took his hand, oblivious to the mud and water, and led him out of the field. “Just wait until you meet Nurse. Oh! And Kit should be home soon! I’m sure he’ll yell at me, but you’ll get praised. He likes knights.” She grinned at Von like she was telling a secret.
“I see,” Von said, completely lost. “Who’s Kit?”
Abby beamed. “My big brother! He’s the best, even though he’s always growling about how I shouldn’t be allowed outside ever.” She leaned in closer and said in a low, confidential voice. “He’s just mad that I’ve fallen in love.”
“Well, that is a serious matter.” Von fought not to grin. “No brother likes to see his pretty little sister go off with another man.”
Abby sniffed. “He’s just jealous I’m in love and he’s not,” she said knowingly. She tugged Von’s hand. “Come on! I bet we can get cook to make us apple dumplings!” Dragging him along as she ran, Abby managed to keep up a steady stream of conversation the whole time.
The Legend of the Black Mountain
This story was told to me by an old man who claimed to be the last to know the truth, other than the ogre dwelling high in the Black Mountain. I do not the truth of it, but if pressed I would state the tale is false, told by a lonely old man who might at one point in his life must have been a fine storyteller. Certainly, the tale he told me was worth the effort of penning.
The notorious Ogre of the Black Mountain is so familiar a tale that no one bothers to tell it anymore. From time to time interest resurrects, and knights attempt to go after it only to return home injured and occasionally dead. He is the Ogre, he has always lurked on the Black Mountain. Until the old man spoke to me, I never gave thought as to why the Ogre was there. Upon later reflection, I realized never had I heard tales of other Ogres. This makes it tempting to believe the old man’s tale, but it is my expert opinion that while a splendid tale, it is nothing more than that.
However, all good tales deserve to be told. More than that, he seemed a good man. And so I will recount the story he told me, of how the Ogre of the Black Mountain came to be…
Many years ago, so many that the time is all but forgotten in present day, the royal palace was not where it currently stands, several miles away from the base of the Black Mountain. Once it was in the Black Mountains, tucked into a deep valley, safe from all who might threaten the kingdom. The path has long since been lost, ravaged by time and the fury of the Ogre.
It was a beautiful palace, a brilliant golden color, bright banners flying from the turrets, nestled in a valley filled with the pale violet flowers known as Mountain Lady. Throughout the valley knights in silver armor and scarlet tunics patrolled, keeping safe the inhabitants of the palace. Their most precious duty was to guard the royal family. The Queen had died several years before this tale begins, but she left behind a strong and noble King and their twelve beautiful daughters.
The kingdom was a strong one, a good one, so wonderful it was said that all who visited could not bring themselves to ever leave. Banquets, festivals, and balls were never lacking, fine food and finer wine always available. Never did the palace lack for smiles and laughter, never was a shadow permitted to linger long.
Most famous of all were the balls, held nearly every night for the entertainment of all who wanted to attend, for it was at the balls when the Twelve Princesses were at their finest. All were beautiful; half with their mother’s fair and pretty looks, the other half with their father’s dark coloring and noble visage. If they possessed flaws, no one could be found who would point them out.
Every night they danced and danced, leaving their partners entranced, dazzled. Sometimes they would dance just the twelve of them, oldest to youngest, moving in rhythms and patterns that none could duplicate no matter how hard they tried. The Twelve Dancing Princesses were famous throughout many kingdoms, in lands far away, drawing in hundreds, thousands, knights and lords, princes and even kings.
But one night the princesses did not appear, and rumors flew that they had exhausted themselves dancing the previous night. Such a thing had never been heard of before, and rumors flew as to what the truth of the matter could be.
Gradually the truth came to light, as the king fell into anger and despair.
Each night his beloved daughters were locked into their suite, with no way in or out save the hallway door. All the windows were too small, even for the youngest and most delicate princess, and long ago court wizards had bespelled the place to prevent attacks of that nature. There was no way for the princesses to leave, yet each morning the princesses could not leave their beds, moaning in pain and crying from the sheer weight of their exhaustion.
And on the floor of each room were their discarded clothes; fine silk and satin dressed stained with sweat, wrinkled from being worn all night; beautiful jewels and hair ornaments discarded amongst the folds of tired silk, all of it piled on top of their dancing shoes, which had been used so long and so hard that there were holes in the bottom of them.
Though many tried – the King himself, handmaids, ladies-in-waiting, sweethearts and hopeful suitors, none could learn the reason that the princesses vanished every night to dance themselves to the point of pain. Their smiles, always sweet and kind and playful, turned into tight frowns that depressed all those around them. Eyes once sparkling with mirth and joy turned dark with agony.
Furious, helpless, the King watched his daughters in growing despair. Anxious to help them, he set one knight after another to learn the secret, set suitors and anyone else who would volunteer. But each attempt ended in failure, and the King feel deeper into his black despair. Consumed by it, he ordered that whosoever failed, after three nights, was to be executed.
Still men tried, from the bravest knight to the finest prince to the poorest farmer. All failed.
The last man to attempt it was a soldier, and like all the rest he was locked in with the princesses every night, and every morning he was made to report what he had learned. On the fourth morning, when he would either answer or die, the King commanded the door unbarred.
But when he ventured into the suite and called for his beloved daughters, he heard no reply. Exploration of their rooms revealed that all were empty. The princesses were gone. Enraged, anguished, the King went mad.
For days those who yet remained at the palace tried to save him to restore him to reason, but he would not, or could not, hear them. His madness turned wild, dangerous, deadly, until at last he killed the servants who had been attempting to calm him. In terror those who had remained finally fled, leaving the castle empty, silent, a sad imitation of its former glory.
The last to leave said that in the end, so great was the king’s anguish and rage that it turned him into an Ogre.
Over the years the castle fell to ruin, and the roads to it were destroyed by the Ogre, lost to time. Ever since he has prowled the Black Mountain, searching always for his lost Dancing Princesses.
Miles slowed as he drew closer to the city, both relieved to find a place to rest that wasn’t the ground and dreading interacting with so many people. Normal people. Not soldiers or shaken survivors or enraged prisoners.
He tugged at the hood of his cloak, making sure it covered his face. Two decades of his life had been spent in the distant war, and they hadn’t been kind years. His arm broken once, nose at least three times, possibly four – it was hard to remember some of those nights – scars all over his body. The most prominent were the one slashing down his right cheek, another across his nose. Smaller marks on the underside of his chin, a thin line across his collar bone. Never mind the ones on his torso, back, arms and legs. A friend had once said he had fine eyes, the color of maple candy, but Miles didn’t think they’d make up for his otherwise horrifying features. Nor would his graying red hair impress anyone. Miles tugged at his hood again, loathe to attract stares before he absolutely had to.
But no matter what stares he did get, he wasn’t sorry to be here. Even if he felt like a stranger in his own homeland. The point was that he was home.
The wind stirred and made Miles smile ever so faintly .It smelled like food, flowers, trees and grass. Not blood and steel, sweat and fear. Even if he felt an outcast, it was indeed good to be back in his homeland.
Everything was noise when he finally reached the city, as charming as it was overwhelming – shrieks of children, shouting mothers, men calling to each other as they escaped the shouting wives by ducking into taverns. Another faint smile tricked its way on Miles’ face, even though he tensed for an attack every time he heard a scream or shout.
The streets were packed as people traveled home in the fading light of late evening, shouting mothers rounding up their children, cursing their husbands while other people and couples went about their own business. Taverns opened their doors wide while shopkeepers locked theirs tight, shutters thudding into place as windows were shut up, and people scurried and ran through the narrow, winding, cobble-stone streets.
Miles continued on, passing by several taverns in search of one that was less crowded, less rowdy. He wanted a place to enjoy an ale or two in relative quiet, a chance to get himself reacquainted with normal life.
Turning off onto a smaller street, hoping to find what he wanted in a more out of the way place, Miles was brought up short by the group of men about halfway down. Their voices were loud, but not so loud their words carried – only the cruel, violent tone.
There were four of them, gathered around something – more likely, someone – Miles couldn’t see. They had their backs to him, and Miles used that to draw closer, more than a decade fighting for his life lending him soundless movement.
“What did we tell you, ogre-boy?”
An attempted reply was cut off as one of the men kicked the mysterious victim, and Miles heard the unfortunate gasp in pain.
“You were supposed to have finished our notes by this morning, ogre-boy. You know the penalty for letting us down.”
“But I—“
“No excuses,” another one of the four said, and kicked the ‘ogre-boy’ himself.
Then the man who was the ringleader, near as Mile could tell, reached down and hauled their victim to his feet then began to shake him hard before suddenly turning and throwing him – straight into Miles, knocking his hood off.
The group of men faltered.
Miles awkwardly caught the boy they’d thrown, and made sure he was steady before launching himself at the leader, grabbing him by the scruff of his shirt and shaking him twice as hard as he’d shaken the boy – then threw him hard into the others, sending them all to the cobblestones.
He didn’t relax until they’d run off, rolling his eyes at the threats hurled over their shoulders. Bullies never changed. Once they were gone, he took a closer look at his surroundings, noticing for the first time the mess scattered across the stones. Books, rolls of paper, a shattered ink jar and ruined quills. He turned around, already knowing what he’d see – this was a situation nearly as old as time – and was proven correct.
The boy, a young man really, stood looking at the ground as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. His hair, which to judge from the ribbon hanging over one shoulder, had been pulled back at some point. Now it fell in tangled disarray around his shoulders, dirt and what looked liked ink making a further mess of the rich, honey-colored strands. It wasn’t very long, just barely to his shoulders, but enough to indicate this man didn’t spend his time at hard labor.
That impression was further enhanced by his too-skinny frame, evident even in the over-large clothes he wore – loose brown breeches tucked into low-cut boots, the too-long sleeves of his faded brown shirt rolled up to his elbows. Over all of it was a dark, gold-brown tunic with a simple hawk stitched in the space over the heart.
A scholar, one who was about halfway through his studies, which – unless things had changed – would put the man at twenty-some years of age.
Ink was smeared across half his face, and judging from the spilled ink on the pavement, it was not hard to deduce what had happened. Dirt and grim covered the whole of his face as well as his clothes. But beneath it all, even a fool could see that the lad was easy on the eyes. His features were the sort too delicate for a man, too strong for a woman. Miles couldn’t see his eyes, but he didn’t doubt they were as fair as the rest, and at least fine as those full lips, which sadly were currently turned down in an expression of shame and misery.
Miles was annoyed with himself for looking. Obviously he had lost all his manners on the battlefield. “All right, lad?” he asked, wishing he knew how to sound kinder.
“Fine,” the young man muttered, then dared a quick look up. “Thank you.” The words sounded as if they’d had to be dragged out, and Miles couldn’t really blame him.
His size had always ensured such things weren’t a problem for him, especially when he put it to use as a soldier. He towered over nearly everyone, and even in the army he had not often seen a man his equal in size. It had always served him well, at least after he’d grown into it. War had only improved upon what he’d been born with, though sometime Miles felt it more a curse. He wasn’t the type people harassed.
Miles moved on before he damaged the young man’s pride further, not offering to help retrieve his scattered belongings. “Don’t know a quiet place for a man to find a meal and bed, do you? I’m afraid this town is beyond me.”
The young man shrugged as he finished shoving the last of his ruined papers into a worn and much-patched brown satchel. “Town is pretty crowded right now, what with the celebration beginning tomorrow to celebrate the birth of King Gail’s son.” He narrowed his eyes at Miles. “You’re a soldier.”
“Retired,” Miles said, disconcerted by the way the man stared at him without staring.
“From the Redlands?”
Miles nodded. “Yes.”
“You can come with me,” the man said abruptly, then turned and began to stride up the steep, curving street. He turned back to Miles. “Coming?”
Confused, but willing to go along with anything that might end in food and a bed, Miles nodded and trotted after him. They winded their way through the cramped, crowded streets, the young man weaving about with the expertise of a resident while Miles merely used his size to plow through. At last they stopped at a small, run-down looking place at the far edge of town. Here there were no crowds, no noise except that of birds and a couple of mangy dogs.
The young man stopped outside of a tired-looking building and unlocked the door, then motioned for Miles to follow him inside. The building smelled of dust and mold, old wood and things long-neglected. From a few of the doors they passed he could hear the sounds of other inhabitants, but in the hallway there was no life except for one mouse which was quick to flee at the sound of men.
Inside a room as sad looking as the rest of the house, the young man dropped his satchel with a sigh on a rickety table that looked as though it had been put together from parts of at least two tables. He struggled to light a small lamp, muttering curses until at last it sputtered to life. Fiddling with it for a moment, and then with his satchel, the young man finally looked up at Miles. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have been so hasty. I just didn’t want to be out when it got dark. Um…my name is Skylar” He ran a hand nervously through his hair, grimacing as it came away soaked in ink that had not yet dried. “Thank you for helping me.” He looked at the floor again, hands closing and unclosing.
“Name is Miles. Thank you for taking me in.”
Skylar shrugged. “Not much here, I think I may be doing you a disservice.” He flashed a brief, shy smile. “But I have food and ale, and you can have the bed…such as it.” Skylark motioned to the sad arrangement of straw and threadbare blankets. “It’s all clean, I promise. Just…” he shrugged and looked away. “Being a student doesn’t leave much room for comforts. If you want to go elsewhere, I understand. I just thought…” he didn’t finish the sentence, but instead moved his bag from the table to the floor. “Let me get cleaned up, I’ll be right back.” He vanished back out the door, leaving Miles feeling severely out of place.
To distract himself, he took a closer look at the small room. He’d always thought students were better off than this…soldier’s were supposed to be the poor ones. Didn’t the lad have family to help him? Friends to board with? How did he stay warm in the winter?
Why in the world was he concerning himself?
Though if the lad was this poor off, Miles shouldn’t be taking what little he had. He should go before he got back. But just as he turned to leave, the door creaked open and Skylar slipped inside. His hair was damp, the honey strands clinging to his head. A quick, shy smile and Miles finally was able to tell the color of his eyes – a fine, honey gold to match his hair. A desire to touch, to taste, to see what he could do to make those eyes brighten slammed through him.
Miles silently cursed himself, disgusted. The boy was more than a decade younger, and too many years alone and those at war, did not excuse Miles’ thoughts. That they were only thoughts did excuse them either. Obviously he needed a bit more than an ale and bed, if he thinking and acting so shamefully. “I don’t want to be putting you to any trouble,” Miles finally managed.
“You’re not,” Skylar said, his smile fading. “I…just wanted to thank you. Most people don’t even notice anymore.” He shrugged awkwardly and looked away. “But like I said, I understand if you want to go.” He moved to rifle through an old cupboard which, unlike the table and bed, looked in relatively good condition. But then, if it were in poor shape, the mice would get to the food.
Miles swung his pack off his shoulders and set it on the floor.. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he said.
Another brief, shy smile and then Skylar returned to frowning as he set out food – a small jug of ale, a loaf of bread and a small rind of cheese. He knelt to riffle through his satchel and then added a medium-sized red apple. From the cupboard he pulled out an old knife, then motioned for Miles to take the chair.
“I think I’ll manage with the floor,” Miles said. “If I sit in that, I’ll break it.”
Skylar laughed, a short, sweet sound that made Miles smile all the more. “That’s entirely possible – I’m nearly too much for it, and a good breeze knocks me over.”
Miles surprised himself by laughing, and he could see it startled Skylar as well.
Flushing, muttering something Miles couldn’t understand, Skylar grabbed hold of the table and moved it until it was closer to the bed, then set to work slicing the bread and cheese, then cut the apple into several slices. Pulling the stopper from the jug, he held it out. “No cups, I’m afraid.”
Though he had one in his pack, a small tin cup kept from his time in the service, Miles didn’t bother to fetch it. He took the jug gratefully and downed a healthy swallow. The ale was cheap, watered down, but the best thing he’d tasted in days. Since reaching port he’d traveled where there were few to no people, not feeling ready to handle civilization quite yet. But water grew boring after several weeks of travel, and this was the first time he’d had anything but. He handed it over to Skylar. “Thank you.”
And the last is really really rough, so pardon errors
One
Six years later
“Your father is going to kill us.”
Sahayl rolled his eyes. “He’s already busy trying to kill everyone else. We’ll be so far down on his agenda that he’ll forget we’re even on it.” He flicked the air with his fingers, as if knocking away an annoying insect. “Saa, but I am his blood. Perhaps that will move me to the top of the list. Who but the Lady can say?”
“The Lady laughs at you, I swear she does.”
“Of that I have no doubt. What do you suppo—“ His words were cut off by a cry of warning, and he drew his sword without thought, swinging it up to meet the blade of his attack. Throwing the man off, Sahayl struck, long, crescent sword flashing, slicing open the man’s throat. He wheeled around and met the next one, just able to see that there were at least six more. Every last one of them Falcon. Bastards. So much for negotiations. With renewed fervor, Sahayl cut down the next man and moved on to a third.
Then another flash of movement as someone else joined the fray, helping the two men fight off their attacks.
As the fighting ceased, leaving only the stench of blood to mingle with the smell of wind and sand, Sahayl shared a brief puzzled look with his friend, then looked again at the man who had assisted them.
His clothing bore no distinctive markings. They were stark black – no embroidery, no jewels, nothing. Nor did his horse give any indication of his tribe. Strangest of all, his eyes were covered by a thin veil – no doubt he could see them quiet clearly, but they could not see a single clue as to the man’s identity. “Declare yourself.”
“My identity is my own,” the man replied. Sahayl was thrown by his accent – it was perfectly native to the Desert. He had expected a foreigner of some sort, or someone from Tavamara exploring what they called the Wild Desert. “And you’re welcome, Ghosts. He lifted his right hand, gloved in black leather, and pressed two fingers to his forehead, the space over his mouth, the space over his heart. “Mind, body, soul. Lady guard you on your journey, Ghosts.” With that, the man wheeled around and raced off.
“Leave it, Wafai.” Sahayl said, when his friend made to give chase. “Is that who I think it was?”
Wafai grunted. “The shadow skulking about the Desert? You should have let me kill or follow him, and we could have rid this place of at least one problem.”
“Saa, there are so many problems, what is one more?” Sahayl glanced distastefully at the bodies on the ground. “This will not help negotiations.” He narrowed his eyes. “Lady of the Sands…” Dismounting, Sahayl cleaned his sword on the robe of the nearest dead man and then sheathed it. “Wafai, take a look. These men are not Falcon.”
“Do you have sand in your eyes, Sahayl?” Wafai dismounted and moved to kneel beside him, yanking away the cloth covering his mouth and nose. “Lady of the Sands! What game is this?”
Sahayl tugged down his own mouth cover, revealing full lips pulled into a grim frown. “A good imitation, right down to the feather even. But those aren’t falcon feathers. At least, not any falcon I’ve ever seen. Nor is the silver quite right. Perfect for a glance…”
“I wonder what the game is this time,” Wafai said with a long sigh. Covering his mouth and nose again, he then began yanking off feathers and small, silver medallions from the robes of the dead men. “They carry no identifying marks, either. These men could literally be anyone.”
“Not anyone,” Sahayl said pensively, pulling off the head cloth of all three man and tossing them aside. “They’re not native. Half-breeds?”
Wafai shrugged. “More likely from Tavamara, though I couldn’t begin to tell you why they’re out here playing desert savage.”
Sahayl snorted. “I would like to know how they came to know so much about Falcon they managed a fair imitation of their markings. Saa, I sense more trouble than ever on the winds. The Lady tests us.”
“I wonder more about the shadow, and what he did to incur the wrath of fake Falcon.” He glared at Sahayl. “Lady keep me from ever scouting with you again.”
Snickering, Sahayl mounted his horse and turned around. “You would be bored out of your mind, brother of my soul, if you scouted with anyone else.”
“Lady grant me the gift of being bored,” Wafai muttered. “Let us hurry. We are already late, and this delay will not help any cause but grief’s. Ketcha!”
“Ketcha!” Sahayl repeated and they raced off back across the sands, following a path that was not there.
They arrived at camp an hour later. The camp in question was simple; just enough for a group of fifty men to be reasonably comfortable as they traveled to talk peace with old enemies. The tents were all the color of the sand around them, dyed irregularly to better blend. Along one end the horses were tethered, all but one black, all the fleet-footed, agile steeds that had long ago made the desert their home. Their value to other nations kept more than a few tribes in enough gold to continue waging private wars. Around the camp men tended to various chores, other helping to ready those who would shortly be moving out to attend the peace talks.
Dismounting, Sahayl handed his horse off to waiting hands, followed quickly by Wafai, and headed for the tent at the back of the camp. The only indications that it was for someone important was its larger size and the guards stationed on either side of the entrance.
“Do not even enter,” a voice like shattered glass barked from the depths of the tent. “You have thirty minutes, my son, to get ready or I will carry your head to the meeting and offer it as a gift of peace. I think it would go over well.”
Sahayl hid a wince and swooped into a low bow. “As you command, father.” Turning sharply around, he shared a look with Wafai before they went their separate ways to prepare for the pending meeting.
In his own tent, he scrubbed quickly in a tub full of water that had probably been hot at some point. Climbing out, he combed fingers through his hair, working out the worst of the tangles in the thick, short curls. “Saa, what a day this will be.”
“Assistance, Amir?” A man stood in the entrance, waiting politely.
Sahayl nodded and allowed the man to help him dress, slipping first into thin, lightweight pants, over which went a much sturdier pair dyed black. A lightweight, sleeveless white shirt, over which went a thick vest, the clasps invisible once it was fastened. The front and back were stitched heavily with white and silver thread forming a pattern that gave the impression of whirling sands. Next he shrugged into a black robe, and the servant pulled it loosely shut, leaving it gaping just enough to show the the white and silver stitching of the vest beneath, which matched the sash used to keep the robe closed.
On his right hand was a large silver ring set with a fat, red gem. It matched the stone gleaming in the pommel of his large, curving sword, which Sahayl belted on once the servant was finished dressing him. Fingers combed through his hair, some tsking noises coming from the servant. “Amir, your hair.”
“Is hopeless. Comb it if you like, else I had best get to my father’s tent.”
“Of course, Amir.” The servant bowed and departed.
Wafai appeared at his side halfway back to his father’s tent. His skin was the same dark, dusky gold as Sahayl’s, but slightly more weathered. Where Sahayl had pale gold eyes, Wafai’s were like wet sand. His hair was long and straight, still damp from a bath and neatly braided, falling just past his neck. He was dressed exactly like Sahayl, the only difference the patterning on his vest and a plain silver band on the middle finger of his right hand. “Lady spare us the wrath of your father.”
“She hasn’t spared anyone else,” Sahayl muttered. “Why should we be special? Saa, I will be content if the night goes well.”
“May the Lady will it so,” Wafai said, then both fell silent as they were admitted to the tent of the Ghost Sheik.
Sheik Hashim glared at them. “Sahayl, just once could you be bothered to do exactly as your told? We have enough problems without the Ghost being unable to rely upon their Amir.”
Sahayl bowed low. “I beg forgiveness of the Lady and my noble sire. Events unexpected slowed our return. I offer my most humble apologies.”
Hashim grunted. “Your mother taught you pretty words, my son, but that is about all she taught you. What occurred that would spare you a well-deserved beating?”
Quickly Sahayl related all that had occurred, presenting the feathers and medallions that Wafai handed to him.
“Gentlelanders playing desert savage,” Hashim said with a grunt. “Hardly worth my time.”
“But how—“
Hashim cut him off with a short motion of his hand. “People travel to and from the Desert more than any of us like. If a man will leave the Sands, he will say more of them than he should to the first pretty face that asks. I do not care. They are dead, that is what matters. No doubt they wish they had stayed safely curled against their mothers’ breasts. Gentlelanders and shadows are not our concern; our concern are real Falcons and you have very nearly succeeded in making us late! I do not have time to punish either of you know,” he looked briefly at Wafai, the only acknowledgement he’d noticed the man at all, “but you can be sure you will be dealt with later. Tetcha.” He stormed from the tent, barking orders once he was outside.
“Saa…” Sahayl said, making a face at his father’s back.
“All will be well eventually, Sandstorm Amir.” Wafai gripped his shoulder briefly, then began to pull his head wrap into place, hiding all but his light brown eyes.
Sahayl sighed. “Eventually, I sense, will not come soon enough. Lady prove me wrong.” With another sigh he led the way from the tent, accepting the reigns of his horse and swinging smoothly up into the saddle. Seven other men would accompany them to the appointed meeting place, a small Oasis two hours ride from their camp.
They were riding out to meet with enemies. Lady willing, they would return with news of new allies. Sahayl watched his father as Hashim barked orders to his men, absently pulling up and arranging his headdress, hiding his thick curls from sight, tugging up the fabric that would protect his face from the sands. Only his gold eyes were visible when he finished, still locked on his father, dark with worries so familiar he could not remember not having them.
Gold eyes and a height of over just six feet were the only obvious features he and his father had in common. His father tended toward large and wide; Sahayl had just enough bulk that he was not sneered at for being skinny. His curly hair had come from his mother, as had his long, slender hands and less severe, handsome features. There was nothing of the intimidating Crusher in him – but plenty of the Sandstorm
With that his father had always been content, even pleased. Lately nothing pleased, and more frequently everything displeased. Sliding his eyes away from his father, Sahayl shared a look with Wafai, who gave a minute shrug.
Saa, it would have to be dealt with later. First they must attempt to avoid more fighting.
Lady keep his father from ruining everything.
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Date: 2006-05-16 10:56 am (UTC)Oh, I love your fic.
Even snippets make me feel all warm and satisfied.
I feel as if I should light up a cigarette. *grin*
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Date: 2006-05-16 11:28 am (UTC)I like what you've done with Black Mountain so far. Totally awesome tie in with Twelve Dancing Princesses. Truely.
And there's rarely ever anything wrong with desert, sand, and sun
though I usually prefer it come equipped with cowboys.Awesome birthday readings, even if they aren't yet finished (and only one of them was for me). Thanks. *hearts*
*tackle glomps*
Date: 2006-05-16 12:02 pm (UTC)1) Von is so adorable. XD Abby's a cutie too. And I love the way she insists that Von come with her to meet her older brother. ;3
2) AHHHHHH!!!!! *flying tackle glomps* So COOL!!! I have a total soft spot for The Ogre of Black Mountain, so I can't tell you how thrilled I am to see more on it!! *bounces around* I love how gruff and war weary Miles is. (Heee! I want to snuggle him to bits. ^_^;;) And Skylar! *bounces around* Poor guy! I love how he just takes Miles home with him and then starts reconsidering once he gets there on account of how little he has. I can't wait to see how they tie in with the legend. (And I LOVE how you worked in the twelve dancing princesses. *hearts*)
3) Poor Sahayl. ;_; *kicks the father* I love the world you've created for them, and eieee!! Want to know what's up with the Shadow. *______*
4) You rock. You just do. ^_____^ *tackle glomps* Thank you!
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Date: 2006-05-16 03:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 11:04 pm (UTC)Hee hee. I'm glad you approve of the second ^_~ Mwahahaha. You'll see soon enough! Wheee!
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Date: 2006-05-17 06:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 04:58 pm (UTC)And Black Mountain has a very interesting start as well. I look forward to seeing how you tie it all together. Miles and Skyler are adorable, esp. since neither seems to realize it. *sigh* I just love imperfect people in love.
Of the third, I contritely admit I missed the Prologue last week, and have yet to rectify the situation. Gives me something to look forward to!^^
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Date: 2006-05-16 05:28 pm (UTC)*bouncebouncebounce* Wai! ^.^ You're continuing things and making new things and oh so entrancing and... and.... *flail* Can't wait for more. *.* Especially of the desert one, since a certain someone got me back on an Oded Fehr kick... ;)
Now I must go off and re-read the story that set the stage for that first snippit, as soon as I remember what it's called.... >.>;;