Sandstorm - rough for all of chapter one
May. 16th, 2006 10:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI should let my betas at this, but I want to play for a few more chapters to make sure this pans out first. Kinda like Never Afraid, I'm content to rough it for awhile (if that's all right with my poor readers ^^;;)
One
Six years later
“Your father is going to kill us.”
Sahayl sighed. “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. That tends to move me to the top of the list.”
“Some days I think the Lady favors you, other days I think She merely laughs.”
“I think She laughs everyday. What do you suppo—“ His words were cut off by a cry of warning from Wafai, 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 quite 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.” 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. “I guess we don’t need to worry about being late now.” 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 as he yanked off the head covering of one. His skin was dusky, but too light and smooth for the dead man to have been in the Desert long. “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.” 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 an evening 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 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 the ring on his finger – a thick silver band set with a large amber. “Lady spare us the wrath of your father.”
“She never has before,” Sahayl muttered. “Why should today 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 you’re 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 delayed you?”
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 should be for real Falcons and you have very nearly succeeded in making us late! I do not have time to punish either of you now,” 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. 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.
Ten men, dressed in varying combinations of brown and black, waited for them at the small oasis, their horses drinking from the small pool. As they approached, the few who had been sitting stood, hands moving automatically to swords before relaxing.
At the head of a group was a man who could compete with his horse in size, swathed in a pattern of light and dark browns that no doubt meant a great deal to his tribe. More distinctive than the patterned robe was the array of feathers and silver medallions. Feathers of gold, brown, white and black were bundled together in seeming haphazard fashion, secured with string and silver medallions with strange patterns. To most, the feathers and medallions only meant the wearer was of the Falcon Tribe. Their true meanings were known only to Falcon. This man, Sheik Jabbar, wore finer feathers and medallions than the rest. Some things were obvious no matter who you were.
But the feathers and robes paled in comparison to the creatures that gave the Falcon their name. This group had brought five, all with the familiar brown, gold and black patterning of Desert Falcons. No other tribe in the Desert was able to train the birds as this Tribe could.
The talent had made the Falcon tribe one of the most powerful in the desert, at least among those tribes with whom they dealt.
Sahayl dismounted smoothly and moved to stand alongside his father. Though he wanted to, he did not tug his mouth-cover free. Where the Falcon had their feathers and medallions, the Cobras their scales and strange tattoos, the Horses their carefully carved charms, and all the other Tribes each their precious signatures….the Ghosts wore only the rings on their hands. To outsiders they would be a dizzying array of metals and jewels. If they ever saw them. But Ghosts wore gloves at all times when outside of camp. The utter lack of distinction was what made them distinct.
“Talasa,” Hashim said, nodding his head in a slight bow.
Jabbar returned the gesture. “Salata. Sheik Hashim, it is good to greet you on clean sands.”
“It gladdens me to greet you beneath clear skies,” Hashim returned. “May the Lady keep it so and lead us to peace and harmony.”
“Mind, body, soul,” Jabbar responded, completing the formal greetings. “Why have you suddenly decided to shift toward peace?” His face showed the wear of a lifetime in the desert, skin dark and lined by the climate, a scar across one cheek, just cutting into his upper lip. His eyes were the color of the rich brown feathers decorating his robes, and as sharp as the bird on his shoulder. Sheik Jabbar was no small part of the reason Falcon was Ghost’s greatest rival.
Should the reconciliation begun here tonight hold, the power of both Tribes would be enough no other Tribe could even begin to compete. Over time, Sahayl knew, his father wanted to use that power to gain control over as many Tribes as could be located and made to obey.
Such was the way of life in the Desert.
Sheik Hashim gave another small bow. “We go in circles with our fighting, Sheik Jabbar. I see no point in continuing the struggle. An alliance would be more beneficial than hostilities.”
“Hostility is the way of the Sands,” Jabbar said, unmoved. “It is also the way of the Crusher.” He slid his eyes to Sahayl. “Nor do I trust that the Sandstorm seeks peace.”
It was only the thought of what would happen to him if he did that kept Sahayl from rolling his eyes. His nickname had spread out across the Sands, but the reason for it had been lost to them. Only those who had raised him, and grown up beside him, knew that he’d been called thus as a child because he was forever causing messes and losing things.
Everyone else seemed to think it was because he’d learned to put his propensity for causing trouble into fighting. It helped the Tribe, and had once made his father happy. Otherwise he would be glad if no one but Wafai ever said it again. He starred back at Jabbar for several seconds, then respectfully dropped his eyes, head dipping politely. When Jabbar shifted attention back to his father, Sahayl allowed his gaze to wander.
Some of the men he recognized; familiar faces from skirmishes that had not ended as bloodily as most encounters. Others he did not.
His gaze landed on a man to the far right, standing just behind the rest of the men on Jabbar’s right side. That one he didn’t recognize, but he knew him on sight anyway from the descriptions of his men.
Slight build, obvious even under the disfiguring robes, an array of feathers and medallions that seemed completely random, though a few Sahayl had started to pick out as possibly marks of battle. This man had few of those. They didn’t really matter. It was the eyes that his men were always describing. They hadn’t exaggerated.
As blue as the sky, startling and bright in a place where shades of brown were prevalent. Western eyes, set against skin that was glaringly not Western. That dusky gold color, only hints of hit visible above the mouth-covering, was something no Westerner would ever achieve.
They were beautiful eyes. Truly the color of the sky.
He was snapped to attention by the too-familiar sound of growing tension in his father’s voice. Until the blue eyes, he’d been listening to the negotiations just enough to keep apace. He wondered what crucial bit he missed, and cursed himself, and hoped he was not the only one who had heard the slight change in tone.
His father’s anger built slowly, usually, but when it finally flared…Sahayl stifled a sigh and twitched his fingers at his side. The movement was slight, little more than a show of restlessness in having to stand for so long. But Wafai would know the signal immediately, and would sign to the others. The men would be on guard.
Sahayl curled his fingers back into a loose fist, and send up a silent prayer that his father did not ruin everything. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to wear his father down, convince Hashim that the idea to reconcile had been the Sheik’s idea, get him to believe that reconciling with the Falcon would get him more power faster than simply trying to kill them.
What tipped the scale, he didn’t know, but suddenly his father exploded into action, sword drawn even as he hurled epithets in retaliation of a slight that was probably all in his head.
He should have paid closer attention! Ultimately, however, he could have paid all the attention in the world and it would have done nothing except to show just how unstable the Sheik of the Ghost Tribe truly was. Bad enough what would happen in the tent later. If Sahayl had tried to speak to his father here, he would have turned a private matter into a public one, and that would have ruined Ghost’s position in the desert.
There was no time to think on it now. The sound of swords being drawn filled the oasis, and Sahayl shoved his father aside as steel flashed, catching the blade against his own barely in time.
He stared into blue eyes. For a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Here was a chance for distraction, to draw them away from his father, give everyone a chance to break it up, get away. There would be no chance for peace now, but perhaps he could avoid bloodshed this time. With a savage cry, Sahayl pressed an attack, his movements fast and brutal. He knew to most if not all of the Falcon, wild. A Sandstorm sweeping threw the oasis. It was just enough that no one else would interfere – especially as the blue-eyed man had been the first to attack.
Hashim would not thank his son for stealing the fight, but Sahayl had resigned himself to that before he’d drawn his sword.
The blue-eyed man was good. Very good. It was no wonder his men had encountered him again and again. But he wasn’t used to Sahayl’s wild style, and Sahayl pressed that advantage ruthlessly, finally knocking the man off balance, knocking him down with enough force that as he struggled to sit up, the blue-eyed man lost his head and face coverings.
Sahayl blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “What’s this?” he asked loudly. “The Falcon is so desperate for soldiers they’ve begun enlisting women?” He sneered at the man crouched in the sand. Those blue eyes, blazing with rage, were set in a fine-boned, elegantly sculpted his face. There were further hints of his western blood in the lines of that face, more still in hair that was true black, almost blue where the sun hit it. The man was, quite literally, beautiful. Sweat beaded on his upper lips, blood staining them where the man’s teeth had scraped them at some point in the fight.
Silence had fallen as Sahayl spoke, and he continued speaking, striving to bury his father’s behavior beneath his own. “What sort of men bring a desert rose into the world of men?” He leered. “Where you a peace offering, my desert rose?”
With a snarl of rage the man threw himself up and forward, and Sahayl felt the sting as steel whispered along his cheek, could feel the blood being to seep. Still laughing, he returned the favor and watched smugly as blood blossomed on the man’s right cheek.
“Setcha!” Sheik Jabbar’s voice thundered out across the oasis, forceful enough that even Sahayl stopped moving. Jabbar motioned to his men, to the blue-eyed man. “We are going. Tetcha. Now.”
Obediently the blue-eyed man relaxed his fighting stance, watching Sahayl cautiously as he retrieved his head wrap and then stalked to a horse the color of smoke.
In seconds the Falcon was gone, leaving the ten members of Ghost alone in the oasis.
Sahayl steeled himself as his father stormed toward him. He dropped his sword, lest he react without thinking and did something he and the rest of Ghost would regret.
“How dare you!” Hashim bellowed, fist flying, crashing into Sahayl’s jaw. If he had not learned long ago how to take his father’s blows, Sahayl would not be alive. He weathered the hits and let his father rage, biting back cries of pain and stifling his urge to fight back, knowing it would do more harm than good. At last the storm of anger abated, leaving them both panting heavily, Sahayl on his knees in the sand. “Be certain I do not see your face anytime soon,” Hashim said, then turned away and mounted his horse, curtly ordering the men to follow.
Laughing bitterly, Sahayl wiped blood from his lip with the back of his fist and allowed Wafai to help him up. “Saa, that could have been much worse.”
“Yes,” Wafai said quietly. “And one day it will be, if he is not stopped.”
“But who would stop him? I think half the Tribes in the Desert must hate us, yet none of them can manage to kill him…and I do not like the options left to us.” He laughed again, and for a moment it sounded more like a sob. “I do not know how much more of this I can take, brother of my soul.”
Wafai embraced him tightly. “We will find a way, my Sandstorm Amir. Until then…”
“We continue to improvise.” Sahayl grimaced as they reached his horse, and groaned in pain as he mounted. “It makes me tired, Wafai. Saa, so very tired indeed.”
One
Six years later
“Your father is going to kill us.”
Sahayl sighed. “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. That tends to move me to the top of the list.”
“Some days I think the Lady favors you, other days I think She merely laughs.”
“I think She laughs everyday. What do you suppo—“ His words were cut off by a cry of warning from Wafai, 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 quite 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.” 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. “I guess we don’t need to worry about being late now.” 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 as he yanked off the head covering of one. His skin was dusky, but too light and smooth for the dead man to have been in the Desert long. “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.” 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 an evening 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 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 the ring on his finger – a thick silver band set with a large amber. “Lady spare us the wrath of your father.”
“She never has before,” Sahayl muttered. “Why should today 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 you’re 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 delayed you?”
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 should be for real Falcons and you have very nearly succeeded in making us late! I do not have time to punish either of you now,” 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. 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.
Ten men, dressed in varying combinations of brown and black, waited for them at the small oasis, their horses drinking from the small pool. As they approached, the few who had been sitting stood, hands moving automatically to swords before relaxing.
At the head of a group was a man who could compete with his horse in size, swathed in a pattern of light and dark browns that no doubt meant a great deal to his tribe. More distinctive than the patterned robe was the array of feathers and silver medallions. Feathers of gold, brown, white and black were bundled together in seeming haphazard fashion, secured with string and silver medallions with strange patterns. To most, the feathers and medallions only meant the wearer was of the Falcon Tribe. Their true meanings were known only to Falcon. This man, Sheik Jabbar, wore finer feathers and medallions than the rest. Some things were obvious no matter who you were.
But the feathers and robes paled in comparison to the creatures that gave the Falcon their name. This group had brought five, all with the familiar brown, gold and black patterning of Desert Falcons. No other tribe in the Desert was able to train the birds as this Tribe could.
The talent had made the Falcon tribe one of the most powerful in the desert, at least among those tribes with whom they dealt.
Sahayl dismounted smoothly and moved to stand alongside his father. Though he wanted to, he did not tug his mouth-cover free. Where the Falcon had their feathers and medallions, the Cobras their scales and strange tattoos, the Horses their carefully carved charms, and all the other Tribes each their precious signatures….the Ghosts wore only the rings on their hands. To outsiders they would be a dizzying array of metals and jewels. If they ever saw them. But Ghosts wore gloves at all times when outside of camp. The utter lack of distinction was what made them distinct.
“Talasa,” Hashim said, nodding his head in a slight bow.
Jabbar returned the gesture. “Salata. Sheik Hashim, it is good to greet you on clean sands.”
“It gladdens me to greet you beneath clear skies,” Hashim returned. “May the Lady keep it so and lead us to peace and harmony.”
“Mind, body, soul,” Jabbar responded, completing the formal greetings. “Why have you suddenly decided to shift toward peace?” His face showed the wear of a lifetime in the desert, skin dark and lined by the climate, a scar across one cheek, just cutting into his upper lip. His eyes were the color of the rich brown feathers decorating his robes, and as sharp as the bird on his shoulder. Sheik Jabbar was no small part of the reason Falcon was Ghost’s greatest rival.
Should the reconciliation begun here tonight hold, the power of both Tribes would be enough no other Tribe could even begin to compete. Over time, Sahayl knew, his father wanted to use that power to gain control over as many Tribes as could be located and made to obey.
Such was the way of life in the Desert.
Sheik Hashim gave another small bow. “We go in circles with our fighting, Sheik Jabbar. I see no point in continuing the struggle. An alliance would be more beneficial than hostilities.”
“Hostility is the way of the Sands,” Jabbar said, unmoved. “It is also the way of the Crusher.” He slid his eyes to Sahayl. “Nor do I trust that the Sandstorm seeks peace.”
It was only the thought of what would happen to him if he did that kept Sahayl from rolling his eyes. His nickname had spread out across the Sands, but the reason for it had been lost to them. Only those who had raised him, and grown up beside him, knew that he’d been called thus as a child because he was forever causing messes and losing things.
Everyone else seemed to think it was because he’d learned to put his propensity for causing trouble into fighting. It helped the Tribe, and had once made his father happy. Otherwise he would be glad if no one but Wafai ever said it again. He starred back at Jabbar for several seconds, then respectfully dropped his eyes, head dipping politely. When Jabbar shifted attention back to his father, Sahayl allowed his gaze to wander.
Some of the men he recognized; familiar faces from skirmishes that had not ended as bloodily as most encounters. Others he did not.
His gaze landed on a man to the far right, standing just behind the rest of the men on Jabbar’s right side. That one he didn’t recognize, but he knew him on sight anyway from the descriptions of his men.
Slight build, obvious even under the disfiguring robes, an array of feathers and medallions that seemed completely random, though a few Sahayl had started to pick out as possibly marks of battle. This man had few of those. They didn’t really matter. It was the eyes that his men were always describing. They hadn’t exaggerated.
As blue as the sky, startling and bright in a place where shades of brown were prevalent. Western eyes, set against skin that was glaringly not Western. That dusky gold color, only hints of hit visible above the mouth-covering, was something no Westerner would ever achieve.
They were beautiful eyes. Truly the color of the sky.
He was snapped to attention by the too-familiar sound of growing tension in his father’s voice. Until the blue eyes, he’d been listening to the negotiations just enough to keep apace. He wondered what crucial bit he missed, and cursed himself, and hoped he was not the only one who had heard the slight change in tone.
His father’s anger built slowly, usually, but when it finally flared…Sahayl stifled a sigh and twitched his fingers at his side. The movement was slight, little more than a show of restlessness in having to stand for so long. But Wafai would know the signal immediately, and would sign to the others. The men would be on guard.
Sahayl curled his fingers back into a loose fist, and send up a silent prayer that his father did not ruin everything. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to wear his father down, convince Hashim that the idea to reconcile had been the Sheik’s idea, get him to believe that reconciling with the Falcon would get him more power faster than simply trying to kill them.
What tipped the scale, he didn’t know, but suddenly his father exploded into action, sword drawn even as he hurled epithets in retaliation of a slight that was probably all in his head.
He should have paid closer attention! Ultimately, however, he could have paid all the attention in the world and it would have done nothing except to show just how unstable the Sheik of the Ghost Tribe truly was. Bad enough what would happen in the tent later. If Sahayl had tried to speak to his father here, he would have turned a private matter into a public one, and that would have ruined Ghost’s position in the desert.
There was no time to think on it now. The sound of swords being drawn filled the oasis, and Sahayl shoved his father aside as steel flashed, catching the blade against his own barely in time.
He stared into blue eyes. For a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Here was a chance for distraction, to draw them away from his father, give everyone a chance to break it up, get away. There would be no chance for peace now, but perhaps he could avoid bloodshed this time. With a savage cry, Sahayl pressed an attack, his movements fast and brutal. He knew to most if not all of the Falcon, wild. A Sandstorm sweeping threw the oasis. It was just enough that no one else would interfere – especially as the blue-eyed man had been the first to attack.
Hashim would not thank his son for stealing the fight, but Sahayl had resigned himself to that before he’d drawn his sword.
The blue-eyed man was good. Very good. It was no wonder his men had encountered him again and again. But he wasn’t used to Sahayl’s wild style, and Sahayl pressed that advantage ruthlessly, finally knocking the man off balance, knocking him down with enough force that as he struggled to sit up, the blue-eyed man lost his head and face coverings.
Sahayl blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “What’s this?” he asked loudly. “The Falcon is so desperate for soldiers they’ve begun enlisting women?” He sneered at the man crouched in the sand. Those blue eyes, blazing with rage, were set in a fine-boned, elegantly sculpted his face. There were further hints of his western blood in the lines of that face, more still in hair that was true black, almost blue where the sun hit it. The man was, quite literally, beautiful. Sweat beaded on his upper lips, blood staining them where the man’s teeth had scraped them at some point in the fight.
Silence had fallen as Sahayl spoke, and he continued speaking, striving to bury his father’s behavior beneath his own. “What sort of men bring a desert rose into the world of men?” He leered. “Where you a peace offering, my desert rose?”
With a snarl of rage the man threw himself up and forward, and Sahayl felt the sting as steel whispered along his cheek, could feel the blood being to seep. Still laughing, he returned the favor and watched smugly as blood blossomed on the man’s right cheek.
“Setcha!” Sheik Jabbar’s voice thundered out across the oasis, forceful enough that even Sahayl stopped moving. Jabbar motioned to his men, to the blue-eyed man. “We are going. Tetcha. Now.”
Obediently the blue-eyed man relaxed his fighting stance, watching Sahayl cautiously as he retrieved his head wrap and then stalked to a horse the color of smoke.
In seconds the Falcon was gone, leaving the ten members of Ghost alone in the oasis.
Sahayl steeled himself as his father stormed toward him. He dropped his sword, lest he react without thinking and did something he and the rest of Ghost would regret.
“How dare you!” Hashim bellowed, fist flying, crashing into Sahayl’s jaw. If he had not learned long ago how to take his father’s blows, Sahayl would not be alive. He weathered the hits and let his father rage, biting back cries of pain and stifling his urge to fight back, knowing it would do more harm than good. At last the storm of anger abated, leaving them both panting heavily, Sahayl on his knees in the sand. “Be certain I do not see your face anytime soon,” Hashim said, then turned away and mounted his horse, curtly ordering the men to follow.
Laughing bitterly, Sahayl wiped blood from his lip with the back of his fist and allowed Wafai to help him up. “Saa, that could have been much worse.”
“Yes,” Wafai said quietly. “And one day it will be, if he is not stopped.”
“But who would stop him? I think half the Tribes in the Desert must hate us, yet none of them can manage to kill him…and I do not like the options left to us.” He laughed again, and for a moment it sounded more like a sob. “I do not know how much more of this I can take, brother of my soul.”
Wafai embraced him tightly. “We will find a way, my Sandstorm Amir. Until then…”
“We continue to improvise.” Sahayl grimaced as they reached his horse, and groaned in pain as he mounted. “It makes me tired, Wafai. Saa, so very tired indeed.”
no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 03:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 03:32 am (UTC)You make my brain explode. ^.^
no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 04:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 12:59 pm (UTC)*___________* You so rock. I swear. I love reading your stories and I love seeing where you take these things. You never fail to develop the most wonderful and intricate worlds and the most interesting characters to plop down in them. *fangirls*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-17 03:42 pm (UTC)“Some days I think the Lady favors you, other days I think She merely laughs.”
Love this… not sure why. It really sucked me right into the chapter.
brother of my soul
Mm, such a lovely way of stating, without bulky explanation, exactly the nature of their relationship. Beautiful.
following a path that was not there.
Oh, nice, bringing the desert in almost as a character again, and showing their familiarity with how to navigate in the desert.
The utter lack of distinction was what made them distinct.
Ooh, I like that better than all the gaudy what-nots of the other tribes. Seems more distinguished. Or something.
Yes, yummy words. If you happen to find that you are missing any, it could be I licked them up!^^
Also, the whole business with his father going a little nutty is really cool… can’t wait to see what happens next!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 10:24 pm (UTC)A few corrections:
"He starred back at Jabbar for several seconds," (stared)
"“Where you a peace offering, my desert rose?”" (Were)
"That dusky gold color, only hints of hit visible above the mouth-covering," (hints of it?)
That's all I caught. I LOOOOVVVVEEE THIS STORY!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-29 07:28 am (UTC)cheers,
Avalon13
no subject
Date: 2006-06-29 09:37 am (UTC)Fantasy, yeah? I steal elements, but not the entire culture. They worship a goddess, their Lady of the Sands. ^__^
no subject
Date: 2006-09-04 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-04 01:59 am (UTC)Thankee! I hope you continue to like it. I love Desert stories, and this one is coming along better than I could have hoped.