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maderrJust for kicks. I'm nearly done with chapter 15, which makes me happy. This is seven and eight.
Seven
“What happened here?” Sahayl asked, unable to completely hide his dismay and horror. “It looks like a massacre. Fox should have been much stronger than this.” He shook his head. “Who did this?”
“At least it looks like it was only a small encampment,” Wafai said, though he didn’t sound as though he thought that much of a reassurance.
Sahayl turned to look at the man on his left, the tall and slender Sheik of Cobra, most of his body covered in the scale tattoo worn by the men of the tribe. It made him look much like his Tribe’s namesake. He stared grimly at the mess before them.
Most of the camp had been reduced to ashes; the smoke was what had alerted surrounding Tribes. The fires had burned out, but there was enough left to tell what had occurred. Not all the bodies had burned completely away, and here and there were bits of the camp that had somehow escaped the flame. Metal was charred, disfigured. The horses had undoubtedly been taken by the raiders. “Who did this?” Sahayl repeated, then shook his head. “Who could do this?”
“Ghost,” the Cobra Sheik said, “except that you’ve no cause to do so. I do not think Falcon had any quarrel with them, but the Sands are ever shifting…” He shrugged. “It looks as though they were preparing a raid themselves…but they made no mention of it to us.” He frowned in thought. “What they are doing this far east I could not say. Fox’s home is, I believe, farther west of here. He slid a thoughtful glance toward Sahayl. “Are you certain Ghost had no quarrel?”
From any other Tribe the question would have been regarded as an insult and dealt with accordingly. Sheik Zulfiqar, however, knew Hashim well. Cobra was one of the few Tribes that still maintained a full alliance with Ghost, not merely a silent agreement to ignore each other.
“I am certain,” Sahayl said. “If had angered another Tribe, I would know about it.” He shoved away thoughts of the recent attack on Cat. Dwelling on what was over and done with would only cause needless frustration. The sands would shift; Cat would not be their enemy forever.
Zulfiqar grunted, clearly unconvinced, but did not press the matter. “So we are left with a mystery.”
“Saa, I wonder.” Sahayl urged Bloodmoon forward, drawing the slightest bit closer to the still hot remains of the encampment. “I think more and more that someone is in the Desert who does not belong here. And who means it only harm.”
“What do you mean?” Zulfiqar demanded. He listened with a deep frown as Wafai explained their suspicions that someone was seeking to cause chaos and war amongst the Tribes. “Nothing like that has been reported to me,” he said finally. “I think I would have noticed false Tribesmen, but then again, if they knew what they were about…” He shrugged. “But it is little wonder I am lost in the Desert on this matter.” He held out an arm, turning it back and forth to show off the scale pattern running the entirety of it. “Cobra would be hard to imitate. It makes me wonder, suddenly, if perhaps we will end up like this,” he motioned to the burned encampment, “if what you say is true.”
Sahayl turned back toward them, face troubled. “We have little evidence to stand upon, sadly. Ghost supports me, but for obvious reasons it is hard to know what is happening to other Tribes.” He left unsaid that his father thought his ideas foolish. “If you have heard nothing, then perhaps the problem is not as great as it seems to me.”
“I would not discount it,” Zulfiqar said thoughtfully. “I will see what I can learn from those Tribes which will speak with me of such matters. If it is true, then our unknown enemy knows what he is about. I hope you are wrong.”
“Saa, wrong would be a nice thing to be, in this instance.” Sahayl looked once more over the charred remains of the camp. “Who, besides you, did the Fox call ally? I wonder if the rest of the Tribe is aware. A hard strike, this…”
Wafai nodded, expression grim. “To judge, they brought a sizeable raiding force. It would have been composed of many of their best soldiers. Our new enemy, if there is one, knows his game very well indeed…”
Sahayl flicked his gaze to Zulfiqar. “We will keep an ear to the wind for word of who might have done this. We will send word at once if we hear before you of what transpired here.”
“Cobra thanks you, Ghost. Sandstorm Amir.” Zulfiqar fell silent as they left, waiting until they were well away to speak again. “How is my daughter?”
“Well, honored Sheik and father-in-law. Her spirit and opinions remain strong as ever.”
Zulfiqar laughed, the sound loud in the quiet desert. “Be grateful she is not as bad as her mother. Who is beginning to inquire after grandchildren.”
Sahayl smiled briefly. “She will have to be patient a little longer. I have no desire to raise children to go to war.”
“Then you will have to raise them outside the Desert,” Zulfiqar said, tone matter of fact. “Here in the Sands, the best we can do is teach our children how to fight for their lives. I had not thought you so naïve, Sandstorm Amir.” His eyes were sharp, piercing, as he regarded Sahayl.
Sahayl shrugged the words off. “Saa, perhaps I will find the solution no one else has.”
“If only because no one else has bothered to look, my Sandstorm Amir,” Wafai said, coming up alongside Sahayl’s right side, watching the Cobra Sheik as intently as Zulfiqar watched Sahayl.
Zulfiqar gave a sharp, short bark of laughter. “Are you hoping to stop the Tribal wars?”
“I am tired of violence,” Sahayl said. The words were softly spoken, his face expressionless, but they stopped Zulfiqar short.
The Cobra Sheik finally shrugged and turned away. “To my memory, sandstorms do not exist to save. Do not get my daughter killed with your foolishness. Keep your ears to the wind for words of why the Lady struck so cruel a blow to the Fox.”
“Of course,” Sahayl replied. “Telese, Cobra Sheik. Body, mind and soul.” He gestured, then bowed his head low.
“In all find strength,” Zulfiqar said. “Tell my daughter I send my greetings. Selete.” He turned his horse in the direction of his own camp and raced off.
Sahayl and Wafai watched him go, and turned in the direction of their own camp when he vanished over a dune. Then shouts and the sound of clashing steel shattered the air, and with a glance at each other, they raced off in the direction Zulfiqar had gone, tugging up the protective cloth to cover the lower half of their faces.
“Falcon!” Sahayl said, drawing his sword and racing down a dune, meeting the man who charged him and parrying the swing, wheeling around to counter, noting from the corner of his eye as Wafai moved to help Zulfiqar. He focused his full attention on the man before him as a swing jarred his arm, cost him a moment’s balance. Rearing back, he held his sword at the ready and considered his opponent, whose eyes blazed as blue as the sky. “We meet again, my desert rose. Are you purposely seeking me out?”
A snarl of rage came from the blue-eyed man and he launched once more into a full-fledge attack, and Sahayl could not help but be impressed by his utter ruthlessness. The man attacked with single-minded focus – unlike Sahayl, who was letting himself be distracted. Which wasn’t like him.
“Enough!” Zulfiqar bellowed. “Stand down immediately, Falcon! Ghost!” He surged between them as they broke momentarily apart, and both men were forced to halt. “Falcon! I demand to know why you attacked me without heed. Cobra has no quarrel with you.”
The blue-eyed man yanked down his mouth cover. “Survivors stumbled into our camp a few hours ago. They spoke of snakes and fire. Hearing their story, we came to see for ourselves what occurred and what do I find here but a snake.” His eyes flicked past Zulfiqar to Sahayl. “And Ghost. I am not surprised. Not content to slaughter Cat?”
“It is nothing to do with you!” Wafai snapped.
“Yes, because you threw away a chance for peace!” The blue-eyed man snarled back.
Sahayl shook his head. “I didn’t mean for things to go that way—“
“Well they did, Ghost Amir. Why have you attacked Fox?”
“We didn’t,” Zulfiqar answered. “Cobra saw the smoke and came to investigate. When I saw what had happened, I brought in Ghost to assist with solving the mystery. We had nothing to do with this.”
“And why should I believe you?” The blue-eyed man spat.
Zulfiqar regarded him coolly. “I am the Cobra Sheik, he is the Sandstorm Amir. We are perfectly within our rights to kill you, Falcon. Who are you to demand answers of us?” He hefted his sword in warning. “You with the eyes of a foreign bastard.”
Another Falcon answered, moving protectively to the blue-eyed man’s side. “He is the honored nephew of the Falcon Sheik. We were ordered to scout the remains of the Fox camp and determine what happened.”
“We seek the same,” Sahayl said. “There is no need for all this violence.”
“A laughable statement coming from a Ghost!” the blue-eyed man snapped. “What proof have you to offer that you did not slaughter Fox?”
“What proof have you?” Zulfiqar asked. “Cobra claims alliance with Fox and Ghost. We gain nothing by killing Fox. Falcon claims none of us as comrades, so if anyone is under suspicion here, it is you.”
“Enough!” Sahayl said. “That’s enough.”
“Sandstorm Amir…” Wafai said, concern in his voice.
Sahayl ignored him. “Tribes don’t attack like this. What is the sense in burning that which could be still put to use? You know I’m right!”
“I know what Fox told me,” Isra said coldly. “Men with snake tattoos attacked the camp, slaughtered them all and then set everything aflame. Cobra is the only Tribe in the Desert with such markings.”
Zulfiqar frowned, then yanked back his sleeve to reveals the inked scales covering the entirety of it. “Like this?” he demanded, then yanked free his head and face covers, baring a face that would have been handsome except for the scale pattern which gave him a strange, menacing air. “Exactly like this?”
Isra narrowed his eyes, mouth pulled down in a tight frown.
“No,” the man beside him said, sounding startled. “Isra…”
“I know,” Isra said, shooting him a warning look. He turned back to Zulfiqar and Sahayl. “They described a pattern slightly different. Smaller scales, and not on the face….they also said some of them were completely inked in.”
“That is not possible!” Zulfiqar said. “It cannot be!”
“Viper?” Sahayl asked. “What would Viper be doing in this part of the desert?”
“Viper is dead!” Zulfiqar said. “Cobra killed them all centuries ago.”
Sahayl looked at him, eyes over his mouth cover quietly reproving. “With all due respect, honored Sheik of Cobra, have you traveled the entirety of the Desert? Do you know for a fact which Tribes live and which have been taken into the Lady’s embrace?”
“How does Ghost know?” Zulfiqar asked, his tone one of barely-contained rage. “Cobra despised Viper as much as Ghost despises Falcon, yet you kept from us that they live?”
“Rumors only,” Sahayl said. “Ghost is under no obligation to share with you everything we know. The important thing is that I do not think it was real Viper doing this.”
“Bah!” Zulfiqar replied. “Are we back to your theory of a mysterious enemy of the Desert?”
“Saa, it seems you no longer have any faith in my theory,” Sahayl said, gold eyes dimming.
“Ghost gains itself another enemy,” Isra sneered. “I believe we have seen enough.” His eyes blazed as he looked at Sahayl. “Until next time, Ghost Amir. And I promise you will not survive the encounter lest the Lady takes pity on you.”
Sahayl was silent until the Falcon departed, then tugged down his mouth cover. His right cheek was heavily bruised, bottom lip split and once more beginning to bleed, strained by all the talking and the recent skirmish. He reached up briefly to touch the scar running the length of his right cheek. “Saa, that could have gone better,” he said softly, then looked at Zulfiqar. “Please do not tell me you intend to make us enemies over this? The rumors on the wind only ever said that a Tribe called Viper lives far to the northwest end of the Desert. Whether they are the same as your old enemy or merely a group that took up the name and marking….saa, who is to say? We did not mention it because it was not important. Until now…most likely, they were only impostors anyway.”
“For my daughter’s sake, and for the sake of our long alliance, I will not hold this against you, Sandstorm Amir. But I will remember it.” Without another word, he turned his horse and raced off, vanishing swiftly from sight.
“Saa,” Sahayl said softly. “All I want is to end the violence, Wafai. Why must the Lady always cast me as the villain?”
“Perhaps she is strengthening you, my Sandstorm Amir.” Wafai rest a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Ghost will stand by you, no matter what fate the Lady has in store. Do not give up, my Sandstorm Amir. You are nearly the only one who has not.”
Sahayl covered the hand on his shoulder with his own, closing his eyes for several minutes. Then he let his hand slide away, tugged up his mouth cover and nodded. “Saa, then we have much work to do. I will prove there are outside forces at work here if it costs me my life. The Desert minds its own business and we will teach others to do the same.” He spurred his horse. “Ketcha!”
Dark had fallen by the time they returned to camp. Wearily Sahayl dismounted, handing his horse off to the first person to approach.
“Sandstorm Amir…” the man, a young soldier, said hesitantly.
“Yes?” Sahayl asked, longing for his bed but resigned to the hours of work still before him. He would have to discuss all this with his father, then with his men, and there were plans to be made to begin an investigation of what precisely was occurring in the Desert. Waiting for the next sign was no longer sufficient.
“Your father requested that you see him immediately upon your return.”
“Of course,” Sahayl said, puzzled. He always reported immediately to his father. Since when was being ordered to do so…oh no… “Why?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.
The soldier looked at him, a wealth of misery in his face. “He wants to know why the other camps are not moving according to the orders he gave. We’ve tried to calm him…”
Sahayl gripped the man’s shoulder comfortingly. “I thank you,” he said, “but my father is best left to me. See that Bloodmoon is taken care of. Wafai…”
“I will not leave you, my Sandstorm Amir,” Wafai folded his arms across his chest and glared, expression barely visible in the dim light of a nearby torch.
Sahayl waved the words aside, the ruby of his ring glinting in the torchlight. “There is a good chance I will not be able to spread my thoughts and requests to the men by the time he is finished. You must pass on what we discussed.”
“I am meant to guard you, my Sandstorm Amir.”
“Saa, brother of my soul, you are what keeps me trying. You do far more than guard me. I’ll be all right. Carry out my orders, and in the name of the Lady do not let my father find out.” His voice had dropped to a strained whisper as he spoke.
Wafai nodded and then walked away, beckoning to several of the men who had appeared as they noticed the return of their Sandstorm Amir.
Sahayl took a deep breath as he drew close to his father’s tent. He nodded at the guards on either side as he passed them, stepping into the cool of his father’s brightly lit tent. “Honored father,” he said, watching Hashim warily. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Why did you change the pattern orders I gave?” Hashim demanded, setting down the wine dish he’d been holding and rising to his feet.
“There was no way the women and children could have kept up such a demanding pace. It would have killed the youngest and the eldest. We have enemies trying to kill us; we don’t need to kill ourselves. I tried to tell you, but you—“ The backhand was fast and brutal, hard enough to make him dizzy, sway and stumbled back, and Sahayl had barely recovered before the next blow landed, followed immediately by another and another, until pain and dizziness finally drove him to the floor. Pain flared with every gasp as he struggled to breath, blood dripping from his nose and pouring from his lips. “Honored father…”
Hashim smacked him again, starring pitilessly as Sahayl fell completely over and struggled to sit back up. “You’re too much like your mother, Sahayl. Such promise you showed early on. Then suddenly you turn out just like her, wanting the Desert to be like the pathetic nations surrounding it, scurrying around like mice, talking instead of fighting. I gave you orders. You failed to carry them out. Worse, you coerced my men to disobey me. I am Sheik, not you. If you persist in such behavior, you never will be. Would that I had other choices available to me.”
Sahayl finally sat up, arms curling around his aching chest and stomach. “I live for the good of the Tribe, honored father, nothing else. If we had forced two and four to move to Rainfall, the strain would have killed many of the women and children. It is too grueling a pace for them. I set three and five to move at double pace to compensate. I was not seeking to disobey you!”
“How can I trust a son who sees fit to change my orders on his whim?” Hashim kicked him hard in the back, sending Sahayl sprawling, then turned him over with his foot and looked at him in disgust. “By slowing down the pace, you have put them in greater danger of being discovered.”
“Send them home, then!” Sahayl gasped out, curling up in pain for a moment before struggling to his feet. His body still ached from the beating two days ago, when he’d ordered his men to set a handful of captives free. Usually the beatings were further apart, giving him a real chance to recover. “No one will ever find the palace. Has not Ghost worked hard to ensure that? I can lead them! They will be safe, and we can---“ He bit back a cry of pain as his father punched him hard in the stomach., and fell once more to his knees. “Why?” he asked.
“To prove a point,” Hashim said coldly. “Talking accomplishes nothing. You talk and talk, yet here I am still in control. Just like your mother, nothing but empty words. Sandstorm. Bah! My son is nothing more than a half-hearted breeze.” He hauled Sahayl roughly to his feet and threw him toward the entrance. “Get out,” he said, “and tomorrow you will carry my true orders to all encampments. Should I find myself disobeyed a second time, you will not be the only one to suffer.”
Sahayl nodded. “Yes, honored father.” He stumbled from the tent, and immediately recognized the arms that caught him outside. “Wafai…”
“Let me kill him,” Wafai said softly. “I don’t care if that means I must be put to death as well. He’ll kill you, Sahayl.”
“No, brother of my soul. Murdering the Sheik would cause more problems than its worth. He won’t live forever.” Sahayl reluctantly pulled away, standing up on his own. “Have my horse brought. I want to go for a ride. Alone.”
“Alone?” Wafai repeated. “My Sandstorm Amir, I cannot permit such a thing.”
“It’s not for you to permit or forbid,” Sahayl said, smiling faintly, the expression painfully sad behind the blood and bruises covering his face. “I need some time alone. I’ll be back, I promise.”
Wafai grimaced but nodded. “If you are not back within a day, my Sandstorm Amir, I will come and drag you back myself.”
“I will return. We have to figure out how to get around my father’s orders, and plan what to do about the problem of the impostors – even if no one else believes us. I’ll be back shortly. I just…need some peace.” He slowly and painfully mounted Bloodmoon, then with a last nod turned and rode out of camp.
Eight
“Isra, Isra, whatever am I going to do with you?” Jabbar shook his head and sighed. “A simple scouting mission and you have quite neatly managed to worsen matters.”
Isra glowered at the food he was picking apart. “I ruined nothing. Ghost creates their own problems. I had every right to act as I did.”
“No, nephew, you did not.” Jabbar sighed again. “Attacking Cobra was unwarranted. When will I finally knock all the sand out of your head? When will you listen to me? From what you have told me, there was a chance for an alliance --- at least a brief one. Yet you tried to kill not only the Cobra Sheik but also the Ghost Amir. If you had succeeded, we would have had both Tribes out for our blood and I think we have enough problems as is!” Jabbar looked at him. “Is that what you want? Would that make you happy, Isra? A massacre?”
“No, honored Uncle,” Isra said. “I merely saw a threat and sought to exterminate it.”
“The only threat you need concern yourself with is your own head,” Jabbar said. “My orders were to scout. If you had stuck to that, instead of seeking a fight, you might have been surprised. Not everyone is out for blood.”
“It was the Ghost Amir!” Isra said, slamming his fist down on the table.
“You attacked Cobra first,” Jabbar reminded him, unmoved by the show of temper.
“Fox was slaughtered by a group of men bearing what we all thought were Cobra marks,” Isra said, but quieted down. “I saw that encampment, how brutally those men were wounded. Did any…?”
Jabbar shook his head, looking grim. “They all died of their wounds. I wish I knew how to send word to Fox.” He sighed again. “More importantly, you mentioned they made mention of intruders in the desert?”
“Yes,” Isra said reluctantly. “He seemed to share our thoughts that someone is purposely setting the Tribes against each other.”
“Interesting,” Jabbar murmured, staring into his dish of dark wine. “Ghost has noticed the same thing.” He slid a glance at Isra. “A pity we cannot speak of the matter to them.”
Isra turned away, glaring across the tent. “Like we can trust anything a Ghost might say?”
“Why do you hate them so much?”
“Have we not always hated Ghost? They are the most brutal Tribe in the desert – look at how their Sheik behaved when we attempted to establish peace! And yet you sit here and reprimand me for trying to kill their Amir?” Isra buried his face in his hands, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling at it in frustration.
“When I was a child, my father was killed in a battle against Ghost. My mother did nothing but weep for days and day. I tried to comfort her but what does a boy really know about anything? I told her father had died fighting, that it was noble, but she only cried that much harder. I didn’t understand. We were supposed to fight, I thought. Even so young, I was already familiar with the basics of swordsmanship, other arts of war…” Jabbar sighed softly, and held up a hand in warning when Isra tried to speak. “I am one of the best warriors in this village and for years that fact made me happy. I could fight. Defend. Be a brave warrior just like my father, and gain revenge for his death.”
Jabbar fell silent a moment, and poured more wine. “Then, when I was not much younger than you are now, I met the woman who was to be my wife. I looked into her eyes and realized something – I did not want to ever see her cry. It distressed me greatly that should I die one day, this woman might be what my mother had become – a mere shadow. In that single moment, I wanted nothing more than her happiness, and I knew quite suddenly that mindless violence would not bring that. I have been trying to reduce the number of Tribes I call enemy ever since.” He shook his head slowly back and forth, then stared somberly at Isra. “I keep hoping such a moment might come to you, dear nephew, because I fear what you will become otherwise.”
“The Desert is not a land of peace. Those that think so are destined only to die that much more swiftly. Everyone knows this. How can you have peace in a land where you do not even know who your neighbors are and whether they are plotting to attack you? You saw what was done to Fox, we know what Ghost did to Cat.”
“Yes,” Jabbar murmured. “But we only heard Cat’s version of the tale.”
“You doubt what Cat says?”
“No,” Jabbar said. “I am merely curious as to what Ghost would have said.”
Isra stood up. “You make no sense. Ghost is our enemy, why should we care what they think?”
Jabbar heaved another sigh. “You are confined to your tent until I say otherwise, nephew. I do not think I will let you out until you prove to me you have some sense. I will not trust a man who goes against my orders, especially one who does so to kill. Is there not enough death in the desert? I thought you were raised better than this.”
“When Ghost gives me a reason not to regard them as enemies, then perhaps I will display this ‘sense’ you’re forever going on about, honored Uncle. Body, mind, soul.” He stormed from the tent, not waiting to hear the reply, but when he reached his tent he paused only long enough to gather up a few things then blew out of it again, all but running toward the horses, saddling his rapidly and fleeing camp before he could be stopped.
He’d suffer additional punishment when he returned but right now remaining in his confining tent was more than he could bear. Ghost had pushed for peace, then turned on them. Ghost has slaughtered an entire Cat encampment, and it was Ghost who had been with Cobra at the ruined Fox camp. Against his will, his fingers reached up to trace the scar running the length of his right cheek.
The sky was slowly beginning to lighten above him, shifting from the black of night to the hazy gray of morning as the sun slowly began to rise. Isra loosed the reigns, letting his horse choose their direction, not caring where he went except away.
It was an hour or so after sunrise when he reached the oasis, and Isra bit back the bitter feelings that rose as he recalled the last time he’d been this way – the day Ghost has proven they had no real interest in peace. Dismounting, exhausted to the bone, dreading his return home now that his anger had expended itself, he walked his horse through the thin copse of trees to the small pool of water near the center.
He saw the horse first, and his hand went immediately to his sword. His eyes sought for the rider of the blood-red horse, but what he saw brought him up short.
A man stared back at him, one who might have been handsome except for the wealth of bruises marring his dusky skin, the split lips that looked ready to start bleeding at the slightest movement. His hair came just to his chin, colored the dark brown-black common to Desert people – but it fell in thick, twisting curls, drawing the gaze to his deep gold eyes. Ruby glinted on his right hand, and Isra could not believe that of all people to encounter…
“I believe you promised to kill me when next we met, my desert rose.”
“It would appear you are much in need of the Lady’s pity,” Isra replied, and led his horse to drink. It would be so easy, so very easy indeed, to draw his sword and rid the Desert of the Ghost Amir. It would be a hard blow to the Ghost Tribe, and out here with no one else around, there would be no way to prove Falcon was responsible. He could do it. The Ghost Amir looked more exhausted then he. But his Jabbar’s words still echoed in his head, and Isra didn’t doubt that if he went against his Uncle’s orders, he would find himself without a Tribe. “So if you will keep your sword sheathed, I will return the favor – this time.”
The Ghost Amir regarded him distrustfully, but then slowly nodded. “I have no desire to hurt anyone, Falcon.”
Isra snorted. “Yet to judge from your face, I would say you were recently in quite the fight.” He pulled off his head and face covering and dipped his hands into the water, washing his face, soaking his hair, sighing at the blessed cool. “Unless you just stood there and did nothing.” He frowned at the way the Ghost Amir said nothing, merely stared into the rippling water – but his hand tightened into a fist before an obvious effort was made to relax it. “Where is your protector, Ghost Amir? Am I to be stabbed in the back?”
“Wafai would never do such a thing,” the Ghost Amir replied, voice hardening. “Nor would I ever permit it. I came here for peace, Falcon. Kill me or go away, I have had enough fighting for a time.”
“I want to kill you,” Isra said. “Badly. Yet time and again I am told not to, and if I do so here I will most likely find myself in more trouble than you are worth. Still, I am tempted.” His fingers went to the scar on his cheek. “I do not appreciate that you mocked my Tribe with your farcical offer of peace, nor do I like the way your mockery has made me a laughing stock in my own Tribe.” His hand fell away. “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”
“That is not for me to say. If you want to kill me, do so. I’m in no condition to stop you.” Gold eyes fastened on blue, and Isra drew a breath at the pain in them. More startling was that the Ghost Amir would allow an enemy to see it.
Isra shrugged. “I’ve no interest in killing someone who already looks like he’s well on his way to death. I’ll kill you when you can put up a fight, Ghost Amir.”
“Sahayl,” the Ghost Amir replied. “You’re the only one to ever mark me in battle.” Fingers dusted along the scar on Sahayl’s right cheek. “So call me Sahayl.”
“Isra, then,” Isra said with a grunt, more than a little surprised that the Ghost Amir used the old custom – to use a man’s name so casually was rare. Always there was a form of address when speaking to others, especially those of higher position. Even within the Ghost Tribe, precious few probably ever used the Ghost Amir’s name. It was a high courtesy, and not something he would have expected from a Ghost. “If you call me desert rose again, this strange truce is over.”
Sahayl laughed softly, and Isra was struck by what it did to his eyes. He looked away, down at the rippling water, wishing he wasn’t so exhausted and could actually think clearly.
A heavy silence fell, and Isra struggled for something to say though he wasn’t certain why he thought something needed to be said. Without a fight, there was nothing to say. Suddenly unable to take it, Isra stood and mounted his horse. “Another day, Ghost Amir…Sahayl.”
“Isra,” Sahayl replied, looking at him, gold eyes once again dark. “Mind, body, soul,” he said softly.
Isra didn’t reply, merely turned and raced off back toward home.
The sounds reached him first, and he could not believe what he was hearing. Chest tightening with fear, Isra urged his horse to a gallop. As they cleared the last of the dunes before the Desert spilled into the encampment. His eyes widened at the chaos he saw below.
Screaming in rage, drawing his sword, Isra spurred his horse forward and raced down into the chaos, catching one assailant across the stomach, knocking another from his horse, slashing open the neck of a third as he raced by. He continued to attack, defend, searching all the while for any survivors, his Uncle.
“Isra!”
“Uncle!” he said in relief, fighting his way toward the Sheik’s tent. He turned his horse sharply around to stand beside Jabbar. “What’s happening?”
“Ghost,” Jabbar said grimly. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“Ghost?” Isra repeated, taking another look at their attacks as one raced toward him. He cut the man down easily, horse rearing as it spun around to resume its place beside Jabbar. “Where is the Ghost Sheik? The Amir?” Because he would kill the bastard himself.
Except.
He’d just seen the Ghost Amir. “Where is the Ghost Amir? Where!”
“There,” Jabbar said, and pointed at a man who did indeed look the part.
“That’s not his horse,” Isra said softly, barely able to comprehend what he was saying. “That is not…Sahayl.” Screaming a battle cry he charged through the camp, cutting down whoever stood in his way, snarling at his men to keep clear. “Ghost Amir,” he said. “Why do you attack us?”
Seated on a dark-red horse, but not quite the color he had seen only a few hours before, the man did at a glance seem very much to be the Ghost Amir. He didn’t reply to Isra’s demand, but simply sprung forward, long curving sword flashing in the afternoon sunlight
Steel clashed as Isra met the blow, and if he had not already known, the way this man fought would have told him this man was the Sandstorm. “Impostor,” he snarled, urging his horse to move, sword sliding away, and metal glinted briefly before he thrust the dagger into the man’s side, then knocked the sword away and shoved the man from his horse. Dismounting, he yanked his dagger free and pressed it to the man’s throat as he pulled off the head wrap.
“You are not of the Desert,” he said to the dying man. “And most definitely not the Ghost Amir. Who are you?”
“You’re half-breed too,” the man said.
“By the Lady…” Isra whispered, then spun around a shadow fell, shoving his sword into the stomach of his would-be assailant, jerking it free and attacking the next. Shoving aside the problem of the dead impersonator, he returned to the matter of saving his Tribe.
“This was not Ghost,” Isra said wearily. “Upon my life.”
Jabbar and the other men around the Sheik’s table regarded him with surprise. “I would not expect to hear that from you, nephew. Indeed, I thought I would have to restrain you at battle’s end.”
“If I must be restrained, it is because I left camp without permission,” Isra said quietly. “I apologize that I was not here.”
“You will be punished, but not now. Tell me why you, of all people, so staunchly believe it was not Ghost who attacked us.”
Isra’s expression grew distant as he recalled his fight with the false Amir. “I was upset with the reprimand administered by my honored uncle,” he said, “and left camp to vent my frustration. I found myself at the oasis where we had hoped to find peace with Ghost. I was not alone.” He stared at the table, not certain how to go on, still not quite sure of what he’d seen.
“Isra,” his uncle said quietly, urging him on.
“The Ghost Amir was there…if not for his horse, and the ring he wore, I do not think I would have recognized him.” Isra grimaced. “He had been badly beaten, and was in too much pain to do more than call me ‘desert rose’. If I had attempted to kill him, I do not think he would have resisted.” He glowered at the way his uncle looked at him. “What? That is all that occurred. As soon as my horse was rested, I left to return home.”
Jabbar quirked a brow, looking torn between amusement and annoyance. “You are leaving something out of your tale, nephew.”
Isra shrugged. “At one point he told me to call him Sahayl.” He touched his scar. “It did not seem important.” He shook his head. “It’s not simply that, uncle. There’s a more obvious reason.”
“Oh?”
“When I killed the impersonator, and accused him of being so, he told me I was a half-breed as well.”
“So what?” Jabbar said. “You are. That has never mattered.”
Isra glared. “He said it in the language of Hadge.”
Silence fell heavy around the table as the ramifications of Isra’s words struck them.
“So it would seem the Desert is indeed under attack, and that they are destroying us by turning us even more thoroughly against each other. But why send impostor Ghost after Falcon? We already regard them as enemies. It would have been more effective to send someone we consider an ally, if they are seeking to create further strife.”
“More importantly,” said a tall, thin man at the far end of the table, stroking his beard agitatedly, “how did they know where to find us? This is not one of our stationary encampments. Only a handful of men knew the precise location of this encampment.
“Treachery,” Isra said flatly. “To undermine the Desert Tribes, you must first get inside them. There is a traitor within Falcon.”
Another man, heavyset with a livid scar running through one eye, slammed his hand on the table. “Where is that western friend of yours, Isra? He has not been seen for quite some time.”
“Simon would never betray me,” Isra said coldly. “If you dare to suggest such a thing again, more blood will be spilled this night.”
“Peace,” Jabbar said levelly. “In light of recent events their suspicions are fair. We’ve suffered many losses, nephew.”
Isra nodded but said nothing.
“So what do we do now?” A short, thick man asked irritably.
“We head for home,” Jabbar said. “If they knew the location of this camp, then we must assume they know the place we call home.”
Isra shook his head. “Then what? We wait for them to come? If they know the location of our home, then we’re not safe. If Hadge has infiltrated the Tribes, then we’re not safe anywhere.”
“At least we will be on familiar territory,” another man said, as slender as Isra but not as tall. “What do you suggest we do, Isra?”
“Fight,” Isra snapped. “Not run and hide.”
The heavyset man rolled his eyes. “Isra, if the Tribes did not excel at hiding, we would have killed one another off long ago. You speak like the child you are.”
“Then sit here and talk like the adults you are!” Isra snapped, storming to his feet. “But do not ask me for help when friends come to the oasis and murder you in your sleep.”
Jabbar slammed his hands down on the table, spilling the wine from more than a few dishes. “You will sit, nephew! We have enough problems; I will not tolerate insolence at my table. Isra, I agree that we should fight – but who are we fighting?”
“Hadge,” Isra said flatly. “It does not surprise me, though the methods do.”
“Why does it not surprise you?” Jabbar asked, staring intently at his nephew.
“You sent me to Tavamara to learn, and so I did. I try to keep up with what goes on there. One year ago Tavamara agreed to talks with Hadge, and invited several representatives to visit Tavamara. The talks did not go well. I do not know how much you know of the politics…”
“Not nearly enough, it would seem. Start at the beginning, nephew.”
Isra nodded, suddenly discomfited by the way all of his uncle’s advisor so intently watched him. “Solleran is the largest continent in the world. To the south is Tavamara, famous throughout the world for its port cities – most notably Yella and Tasca, two of the greatest centers of trade in the world. Tavamara relies heavily on imports, on the tariffs it levies on all who wish to trade here. Tavamara exports a great deal of wine, pottery, silks, and spices brought down from the Great Mountains. Other things. But Tavamara is powerful because it has made itself a center for trade. Inland you will not see many foreigners, but along the coast life is…an interesting mix.
“To the north of Solleran are three nations that come close to Tavamara in strength – Gollen, Lavarre, and Hadge. They are separated from Tavamara by the Desert and the Great Mountains. The three countries have long made war on Tavamara, hoping to grab hold of the ports. Of the three, Hadge is the closest and the most persistent threat. Naval wars have often been fought, but not with any real success because no one wishes to destroy the ports that are the source of Tavamara’s wealth. Land wars have gone back and forth across the mountains, occasionally straying into the Desert.”
“Not a very effective way to go about war,” the short man said. “What is the point in attacking a country so far away?”
“Tavamara is the second most powerful nation in the world,” Isra said softly. “If the King felt like it, he could probably become the most powerful. If anyone with enough ambition were to take Tavamara…”
Jabbar grunted. “Surely Tavamara is used to dealing with these nations then.”
“Yes,” Isra said. “Except the struggle has only ever strayed to the edges of the Desert before. This is the first time, so far as I am aware, that the western nations have purposely attacked the Desert. Always before it has been an insurmountable obstacle. We are probably the only thing that has kept the western nations from more aggressively attacking. Only the Tribes understand the Desert…or at least that is how it used to be.”
“That is bad news,” Jabbar said.
Isra shook his head slowly back and forth. “Until I heard him speak Hadge, it never really occurred to me the west might be behind all this. No one cares about the Desert but the Tribes. If anything, I thought one or two Tribes were contriving something.” He looked at his uncle. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Jabbar said. “My experience is in wars between Tribes, not wars between nations. For now, we pack up and head home.” He pointed at Isra. “And when we get there, you are confined to your tent.”
Isra sighed. “Yes, honored uncle.” Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Isra bowed to the assembled, making the forehead-mouth-chest gesture, then turned and strode from the Sheik’s tent, picking his way through their improvised camp to his own tent.
The Desert was caught in the middle of the struggle for Tavamara.
Hadge…it didn’t surprise him. On top of myriad political reasons, they said Hadge’s King had very personal reasons for disliking the King of Tavamara. Namely, that one of the finest commanders to ever grace the Hadge military, a man they said held the Hadge King’s favor, was now a member of King Shahjahan’s harem. Isra had never spent time in the palace but he’d heard all the stories from Shihab when they were at school together.
Stripping out of his clothes, slipping into a light sleeping robe, Isra curled up in his bed and willed himself to sleep, but it was a long time before his thoughts settled enough he was able to do so.
Seven
“What happened here?” Sahayl asked, unable to completely hide his dismay and horror. “It looks like a massacre. Fox should have been much stronger than this.” He shook his head. “Who did this?”
“At least it looks like it was only a small encampment,” Wafai said, though he didn’t sound as though he thought that much of a reassurance.
Sahayl turned to look at the man on his left, the tall and slender Sheik of Cobra, most of his body covered in the scale tattoo worn by the men of the tribe. It made him look much like his Tribe’s namesake. He stared grimly at the mess before them.
Most of the camp had been reduced to ashes; the smoke was what had alerted surrounding Tribes. The fires had burned out, but there was enough left to tell what had occurred. Not all the bodies had burned completely away, and here and there were bits of the camp that had somehow escaped the flame. Metal was charred, disfigured. The horses had undoubtedly been taken by the raiders. “Who did this?” Sahayl repeated, then shook his head. “Who could do this?”
“Ghost,” the Cobra Sheik said, “except that you’ve no cause to do so. I do not think Falcon had any quarrel with them, but the Sands are ever shifting…” He shrugged. “It looks as though they were preparing a raid themselves…but they made no mention of it to us.” He frowned in thought. “What they are doing this far east I could not say. Fox’s home is, I believe, farther west of here. He slid a thoughtful glance toward Sahayl. “Are you certain Ghost had no quarrel?”
From any other Tribe the question would have been regarded as an insult and dealt with accordingly. Sheik Zulfiqar, however, knew Hashim well. Cobra was one of the few Tribes that still maintained a full alliance with Ghost, not merely a silent agreement to ignore each other.
“I am certain,” Sahayl said. “If had angered another Tribe, I would know about it.” He shoved away thoughts of the recent attack on Cat. Dwelling on what was over and done with would only cause needless frustration. The sands would shift; Cat would not be their enemy forever.
Zulfiqar grunted, clearly unconvinced, but did not press the matter. “So we are left with a mystery.”
“Saa, I wonder.” Sahayl urged Bloodmoon forward, drawing the slightest bit closer to the still hot remains of the encampment. “I think more and more that someone is in the Desert who does not belong here. And who means it only harm.”
“What do you mean?” Zulfiqar demanded. He listened with a deep frown as Wafai explained their suspicions that someone was seeking to cause chaos and war amongst the Tribes. “Nothing like that has been reported to me,” he said finally. “I think I would have noticed false Tribesmen, but then again, if they knew what they were about…” He shrugged. “But it is little wonder I am lost in the Desert on this matter.” He held out an arm, turning it back and forth to show off the scale pattern running the entirety of it. “Cobra would be hard to imitate. It makes me wonder, suddenly, if perhaps we will end up like this,” he motioned to the burned encampment, “if what you say is true.”
Sahayl turned back toward them, face troubled. “We have little evidence to stand upon, sadly. Ghost supports me, but for obvious reasons it is hard to know what is happening to other Tribes.” He left unsaid that his father thought his ideas foolish. “If you have heard nothing, then perhaps the problem is not as great as it seems to me.”
“I would not discount it,” Zulfiqar said thoughtfully. “I will see what I can learn from those Tribes which will speak with me of such matters. If it is true, then our unknown enemy knows what he is about. I hope you are wrong.”
“Saa, wrong would be a nice thing to be, in this instance.” Sahayl looked once more over the charred remains of the camp. “Who, besides you, did the Fox call ally? I wonder if the rest of the Tribe is aware. A hard strike, this…”
Wafai nodded, expression grim. “To judge, they brought a sizeable raiding force. It would have been composed of many of their best soldiers. Our new enemy, if there is one, knows his game very well indeed…”
Sahayl flicked his gaze to Zulfiqar. “We will keep an ear to the wind for word of who might have done this. We will send word at once if we hear before you of what transpired here.”
“Cobra thanks you, Ghost. Sandstorm Amir.” Zulfiqar fell silent as they left, waiting until they were well away to speak again. “How is my daughter?”
“Well, honored Sheik and father-in-law. Her spirit and opinions remain strong as ever.”
Zulfiqar laughed, the sound loud in the quiet desert. “Be grateful she is not as bad as her mother. Who is beginning to inquire after grandchildren.”
Sahayl smiled briefly. “She will have to be patient a little longer. I have no desire to raise children to go to war.”
“Then you will have to raise them outside the Desert,” Zulfiqar said, tone matter of fact. “Here in the Sands, the best we can do is teach our children how to fight for their lives. I had not thought you so naïve, Sandstorm Amir.” His eyes were sharp, piercing, as he regarded Sahayl.
Sahayl shrugged the words off. “Saa, perhaps I will find the solution no one else has.”
“If only because no one else has bothered to look, my Sandstorm Amir,” Wafai said, coming up alongside Sahayl’s right side, watching the Cobra Sheik as intently as Zulfiqar watched Sahayl.
Zulfiqar gave a sharp, short bark of laughter. “Are you hoping to stop the Tribal wars?”
“I am tired of violence,” Sahayl said. The words were softly spoken, his face expressionless, but they stopped Zulfiqar short.
The Cobra Sheik finally shrugged and turned away. “To my memory, sandstorms do not exist to save. Do not get my daughter killed with your foolishness. Keep your ears to the wind for words of why the Lady struck so cruel a blow to the Fox.”
“Of course,” Sahayl replied. “Telese, Cobra Sheik. Body, mind and soul.” He gestured, then bowed his head low.
“In all find strength,” Zulfiqar said. “Tell my daughter I send my greetings. Selete.” He turned his horse in the direction of his own camp and raced off.
Sahayl and Wafai watched him go, and turned in the direction of their own camp when he vanished over a dune. Then shouts and the sound of clashing steel shattered the air, and with a glance at each other, they raced off in the direction Zulfiqar had gone, tugging up the protective cloth to cover the lower half of their faces.
“Falcon!” Sahayl said, drawing his sword and racing down a dune, meeting the man who charged him and parrying the swing, wheeling around to counter, noting from the corner of his eye as Wafai moved to help Zulfiqar. He focused his full attention on the man before him as a swing jarred his arm, cost him a moment’s balance. Rearing back, he held his sword at the ready and considered his opponent, whose eyes blazed as blue as the sky. “We meet again, my desert rose. Are you purposely seeking me out?”
A snarl of rage came from the blue-eyed man and he launched once more into a full-fledge attack, and Sahayl could not help but be impressed by his utter ruthlessness. The man attacked with single-minded focus – unlike Sahayl, who was letting himself be distracted. Which wasn’t like him.
“Enough!” Zulfiqar bellowed. “Stand down immediately, Falcon! Ghost!” He surged between them as they broke momentarily apart, and both men were forced to halt. “Falcon! I demand to know why you attacked me without heed. Cobra has no quarrel with you.”
The blue-eyed man yanked down his mouth cover. “Survivors stumbled into our camp a few hours ago. They spoke of snakes and fire. Hearing their story, we came to see for ourselves what occurred and what do I find here but a snake.” His eyes flicked past Zulfiqar to Sahayl. “And Ghost. I am not surprised. Not content to slaughter Cat?”
“It is nothing to do with you!” Wafai snapped.
“Yes, because you threw away a chance for peace!” The blue-eyed man snarled back.
Sahayl shook his head. “I didn’t mean for things to go that way—“
“Well they did, Ghost Amir. Why have you attacked Fox?”
“We didn’t,” Zulfiqar answered. “Cobra saw the smoke and came to investigate. When I saw what had happened, I brought in Ghost to assist with solving the mystery. We had nothing to do with this.”
“And why should I believe you?” The blue-eyed man spat.
Zulfiqar regarded him coolly. “I am the Cobra Sheik, he is the Sandstorm Amir. We are perfectly within our rights to kill you, Falcon. Who are you to demand answers of us?” He hefted his sword in warning. “You with the eyes of a foreign bastard.”
Another Falcon answered, moving protectively to the blue-eyed man’s side. “He is the honored nephew of the Falcon Sheik. We were ordered to scout the remains of the Fox camp and determine what happened.”
“We seek the same,” Sahayl said. “There is no need for all this violence.”
“A laughable statement coming from a Ghost!” the blue-eyed man snapped. “What proof have you to offer that you did not slaughter Fox?”
“What proof have you?” Zulfiqar asked. “Cobra claims alliance with Fox and Ghost. We gain nothing by killing Fox. Falcon claims none of us as comrades, so if anyone is under suspicion here, it is you.”
“Enough!” Sahayl said. “That’s enough.”
“Sandstorm Amir…” Wafai said, concern in his voice.
Sahayl ignored him. “Tribes don’t attack like this. What is the sense in burning that which could be still put to use? You know I’m right!”
“I know what Fox told me,” Isra said coldly. “Men with snake tattoos attacked the camp, slaughtered them all and then set everything aflame. Cobra is the only Tribe in the Desert with such markings.”
Zulfiqar frowned, then yanked back his sleeve to reveals the inked scales covering the entirety of it. “Like this?” he demanded, then yanked free his head and face covers, baring a face that would have been handsome except for the scale pattern which gave him a strange, menacing air. “Exactly like this?”
Isra narrowed his eyes, mouth pulled down in a tight frown.
“No,” the man beside him said, sounding startled. “Isra…”
“I know,” Isra said, shooting him a warning look. He turned back to Zulfiqar and Sahayl. “They described a pattern slightly different. Smaller scales, and not on the face….they also said some of them were completely inked in.”
“That is not possible!” Zulfiqar said. “It cannot be!”
“Viper?” Sahayl asked. “What would Viper be doing in this part of the desert?”
“Viper is dead!” Zulfiqar said. “Cobra killed them all centuries ago.”
Sahayl looked at him, eyes over his mouth cover quietly reproving. “With all due respect, honored Sheik of Cobra, have you traveled the entirety of the Desert? Do you know for a fact which Tribes live and which have been taken into the Lady’s embrace?”
“How does Ghost know?” Zulfiqar asked, his tone one of barely-contained rage. “Cobra despised Viper as much as Ghost despises Falcon, yet you kept from us that they live?”
“Rumors only,” Sahayl said. “Ghost is under no obligation to share with you everything we know. The important thing is that I do not think it was real Viper doing this.”
“Bah!” Zulfiqar replied. “Are we back to your theory of a mysterious enemy of the Desert?”
“Saa, it seems you no longer have any faith in my theory,” Sahayl said, gold eyes dimming.
“Ghost gains itself another enemy,” Isra sneered. “I believe we have seen enough.” His eyes blazed as he looked at Sahayl. “Until next time, Ghost Amir. And I promise you will not survive the encounter lest the Lady takes pity on you.”
Sahayl was silent until the Falcon departed, then tugged down his mouth cover. His right cheek was heavily bruised, bottom lip split and once more beginning to bleed, strained by all the talking and the recent skirmish. He reached up briefly to touch the scar running the length of his right cheek. “Saa, that could have gone better,” he said softly, then looked at Zulfiqar. “Please do not tell me you intend to make us enemies over this? The rumors on the wind only ever said that a Tribe called Viper lives far to the northwest end of the Desert. Whether they are the same as your old enemy or merely a group that took up the name and marking….saa, who is to say? We did not mention it because it was not important. Until now…most likely, they were only impostors anyway.”
“For my daughter’s sake, and for the sake of our long alliance, I will not hold this against you, Sandstorm Amir. But I will remember it.” Without another word, he turned his horse and raced off, vanishing swiftly from sight.
“Saa,” Sahayl said softly. “All I want is to end the violence, Wafai. Why must the Lady always cast me as the villain?”
“Perhaps she is strengthening you, my Sandstorm Amir.” Wafai rest a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Ghost will stand by you, no matter what fate the Lady has in store. Do not give up, my Sandstorm Amir. You are nearly the only one who has not.”
Sahayl covered the hand on his shoulder with his own, closing his eyes for several minutes. Then he let his hand slide away, tugged up his mouth cover and nodded. “Saa, then we have much work to do. I will prove there are outside forces at work here if it costs me my life. The Desert minds its own business and we will teach others to do the same.” He spurred his horse. “Ketcha!”
Dark had fallen by the time they returned to camp. Wearily Sahayl dismounted, handing his horse off to the first person to approach.
“Sandstorm Amir…” the man, a young soldier, said hesitantly.
“Yes?” Sahayl asked, longing for his bed but resigned to the hours of work still before him. He would have to discuss all this with his father, then with his men, and there were plans to be made to begin an investigation of what precisely was occurring in the Desert. Waiting for the next sign was no longer sufficient.
“Your father requested that you see him immediately upon your return.”
“Of course,” Sahayl said, puzzled. He always reported immediately to his father. Since when was being ordered to do so…oh no… “Why?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.
The soldier looked at him, a wealth of misery in his face. “He wants to know why the other camps are not moving according to the orders he gave. We’ve tried to calm him…”
Sahayl gripped the man’s shoulder comfortingly. “I thank you,” he said, “but my father is best left to me. See that Bloodmoon is taken care of. Wafai…”
“I will not leave you, my Sandstorm Amir,” Wafai folded his arms across his chest and glared, expression barely visible in the dim light of a nearby torch.
Sahayl waved the words aside, the ruby of his ring glinting in the torchlight. “There is a good chance I will not be able to spread my thoughts and requests to the men by the time he is finished. You must pass on what we discussed.”
“I am meant to guard you, my Sandstorm Amir.”
“Saa, brother of my soul, you are what keeps me trying. You do far more than guard me. I’ll be all right. Carry out my orders, and in the name of the Lady do not let my father find out.” His voice had dropped to a strained whisper as he spoke.
Wafai nodded and then walked away, beckoning to several of the men who had appeared as they noticed the return of their Sandstorm Amir.
Sahayl took a deep breath as he drew close to his father’s tent. He nodded at the guards on either side as he passed them, stepping into the cool of his father’s brightly lit tent. “Honored father,” he said, watching Hashim warily. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Why did you change the pattern orders I gave?” Hashim demanded, setting down the wine dish he’d been holding and rising to his feet.
“There was no way the women and children could have kept up such a demanding pace. It would have killed the youngest and the eldest. We have enemies trying to kill us; we don’t need to kill ourselves. I tried to tell you, but you—“ The backhand was fast and brutal, hard enough to make him dizzy, sway and stumbled back, and Sahayl had barely recovered before the next blow landed, followed immediately by another and another, until pain and dizziness finally drove him to the floor. Pain flared with every gasp as he struggled to breath, blood dripping from his nose and pouring from his lips. “Honored father…”
Hashim smacked him again, starring pitilessly as Sahayl fell completely over and struggled to sit back up. “You’re too much like your mother, Sahayl. Such promise you showed early on. Then suddenly you turn out just like her, wanting the Desert to be like the pathetic nations surrounding it, scurrying around like mice, talking instead of fighting. I gave you orders. You failed to carry them out. Worse, you coerced my men to disobey me. I am Sheik, not you. If you persist in such behavior, you never will be. Would that I had other choices available to me.”
Sahayl finally sat up, arms curling around his aching chest and stomach. “I live for the good of the Tribe, honored father, nothing else. If we had forced two and four to move to Rainfall, the strain would have killed many of the women and children. It is too grueling a pace for them. I set three and five to move at double pace to compensate. I was not seeking to disobey you!”
“How can I trust a son who sees fit to change my orders on his whim?” Hashim kicked him hard in the back, sending Sahayl sprawling, then turned him over with his foot and looked at him in disgust. “By slowing down the pace, you have put them in greater danger of being discovered.”
“Send them home, then!” Sahayl gasped out, curling up in pain for a moment before struggling to his feet. His body still ached from the beating two days ago, when he’d ordered his men to set a handful of captives free. Usually the beatings were further apart, giving him a real chance to recover. “No one will ever find the palace. Has not Ghost worked hard to ensure that? I can lead them! They will be safe, and we can---“ He bit back a cry of pain as his father punched him hard in the stomach., and fell once more to his knees. “Why?” he asked.
“To prove a point,” Hashim said coldly. “Talking accomplishes nothing. You talk and talk, yet here I am still in control. Just like your mother, nothing but empty words. Sandstorm. Bah! My son is nothing more than a half-hearted breeze.” He hauled Sahayl roughly to his feet and threw him toward the entrance. “Get out,” he said, “and tomorrow you will carry my true orders to all encampments. Should I find myself disobeyed a second time, you will not be the only one to suffer.”
Sahayl nodded. “Yes, honored father.” He stumbled from the tent, and immediately recognized the arms that caught him outside. “Wafai…”
“Let me kill him,” Wafai said softly. “I don’t care if that means I must be put to death as well. He’ll kill you, Sahayl.”
“No, brother of my soul. Murdering the Sheik would cause more problems than its worth. He won’t live forever.” Sahayl reluctantly pulled away, standing up on his own. “Have my horse brought. I want to go for a ride. Alone.”
“Alone?” Wafai repeated. “My Sandstorm Amir, I cannot permit such a thing.”
“It’s not for you to permit or forbid,” Sahayl said, smiling faintly, the expression painfully sad behind the blood and bruises covering his face. “I need some time alone. I’ll be back, I promise.”
Wafai grimaced but nodded. “If you are not back within a day, my Sandstorm Amir, I will come and drag you back myself.”
“I will return. We have to figure out how to get around my father’s orders, and plan what to do about the problem of the impostors – even if no one else believes us. I’ll be back shortly. I just…need some peace.” He slowly and painfully mounted Bloodmoon, then with a last nod turned and rode out of camp.
Eight
“Isra, Isra, whatever am I going to do with you?” Jabbar shook his head and sighed. “A simple scouting mission and you have quite neatly managed to worsen matters.”
Isra glowered at the food he was picking apart. “I ruined nothing. Ghost creates their own problems. I had every right to act as I did.”
“No, nephew, you did not.” Jabbar sighed again. “Attacking Cobra was unwarranted. When will I finally knock all the sand out of your head? When will you listen to me? From what you have told me, there was a chance for an alliance --- at least a brief one. Yet you tried to kill not only the Cobra Sheik but also the Ghost Amir. If you had succeeded, we would have had both Tribes out for our blood and I think we have enough problems as is!” Jabbar looked at him. “Is that what you want? Would that make you happy, Isra? A massacre?”
“No, honored Uncle,” Isra said. “I merely saw a threat and sought to exterminate it.”
“The only threat you need concern yourself with is your own head,” Jabbar said. “My orders were to scout. If you had stuck to that, instead of seeking a fight, you might have been surprised. Not everyone is out for blood.”
“It was the Ghost Amir!” Isra said, slamming his fist down on the table.
“You attacked Cobra first,” Jabbar reminded him, unmoved by the show of temper.
“Fox was slaughtered by a group of men bearing what we all thought were Cobra marks,” Isra said, but quieted down. “I saw that encampment, how brutally those men were wounded. Did any…?”
Jabbar shook his head, looking grim. “They all died of their wounds. I wish I knew how to send word to Fox.” He sighed again. “More importantly, you mentioned they made mention of intruders in the desert?”
“Yes,” Isra said reluctantly. “He seemed to share our thoughts that someone is purposely setting the Tribes against each other.”
“Interesting,” Jabbar murmured, staring into his dish of dark wine. “Ghost has noticed the same thing.” He slid a glance at Isra. “A pity we cannot speak of the matter to them.”
Isra turned away, glaring across the tent. “Like we can trust anything a Ghost might say?”
“Why do you hate them so much?”
“Have we not always hated Ghost? They are the most brutal Tribe in the desert – look at how their Sheik behaved when we attempted to establish peace! And yet you sit here and reprimand me for trying to kill their Amir?” Isra buried his face in his hands, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling at it in frustration.
“When I was a child, my father was killed in a battle against Ghost. My mother did nothing but weep for days and day. I tried to comfort her but what does a boy really know about anything? I told her father had died fighting, that it was noble, but she only cried that much harder. I didn’t understand. We were supposed to fight, I thought. Even so young, I was already familiar with the basics of swordsmanship, other arts of war…” Jabbar sighed softly, and held up a hand in warning when Isra tried to speak. “I am one of the best warriors in this village and for years that fact made me happy. I could fight. Defend. Be a brave warrior just like my father, and gain revenge for his death.”
Jabbar fell silent a moment, and poured more wine. “Then, when I was not much younger than you are now, I met the woman who was to be my wife. I looked into her eyes and realized something – I did not want to ever see her cry. It distressed me greatly that should I die one day, this woman might be what my mother had become – a mere shadow. In that single moment, I wanted nothing more than her happiness, and I knew quite suddenly that mindless violence would not bring that. I have been trying to reduce the number of Tribes I call enemy ever since.” He shook his head slowly back and forth, then stared somberly at Isra. “I keep hoping such a moment might come to you, dear nephew, because I fear what you will become otherwise.”
“The Desert is not a land of peace. Those that think so are destined only to die that much more swiftly. Everyone knows this. How can you have peace in a land where you do not even know who your neighbors are and whether they are plotting to attack you? You saw what was done to Fox, we know what Ghost did to Cat.”
“Yes,” Jabbar murmured. “But we only heard Cat’s version of the tale.”
“You doubt what Cat says?”
“No,” Jabbar said. “I am merely curious as to what Ghost would have said.”
Isra stood up. “You make no sense. Ghost is our enemy, why should we care what they think?”
Jabbar heaved another sigh. “You are confined to your tent until I say otherwise, nephew. I do not think I will let you out until you prove to me you have some sense. I will not trust a man who goes against my orders, especially one who does so to kill. Is there not enough death in the desert? I thought you were raised better than this.”
“When Ghost gives me a reason not to regard them as enemies, then perhaps I will display this ‘sense’ you’re forever going on about, honored Uncle. Body, mind, soul.” He stormed from the tent, not waiting to hear the reply, but when he reached his tent he paused only long enough to gather up a few things then blew out of it again, all but running toward the horses, saddling his rapidly and fleeing camp before he could be stopped.
He’d suffer additional punishment when he returned but right now remaining in his confining tent was more than he could bear. Ghost had pushed for peace, then turned on them. Ghost has slaughtered an entire Cat encampment, and it was Ghost who had been with Cobra at the ruined Fox camp. Against his will, his fingers reached up to trace the scar running the length of his right cheek.
The sky was slowly beginning to lighten above him, shifting from the black of night to the hazy gray of morning as the sun slowly began to rise. Isra loosed the reigns, letting his horse choose their direction, not caring where he went except away.
It was an hour or so after sunrise when he reached the oasis, and Isra bit back the bitter feelings that rose as he recalled the last time he’d been this way – the day Ghost has proven they had no real interest in peace. Dismounting, exhausted to the bone, dreading his return home now that his anger had expended itself, he walked his horse through the thin copse of trees to the small pool of water near the center.
He saw the horse first, and his hand went immediately to his sword. His eyes sought for the rider of the blood-red horse, but what he saw brought him up short.
A man stared back at him, one who might have been handsome except for the wealth of bruises marring his dusky skin, the split lips that looked ready to start bleeding at the slightest movement. His hair came just to his chin, colored the dark brown-black common to Desert people – but it fell in thick, twisting curls, drawing the gaze to his deep gold eyes. Ruby glinted on his right hand, and Isra could not believe that of all people to encounter…
“I believe you promised to kill me when next we met, my desert rose.”
“It would appear you are much in need of the Lady’s pity,” Isra replied, and led his horse to drink. It would be so easy, so very easy indeed, to draw his sword and rid the Desert of the Ghost Amir. It would be a hard blow to the Ghost Tribe, and out here with no one else around, there would be no way to prove Falcon was responsible. He could do it. The Ghost Amir looked more exhausted then he. But his Jabbar’s words still echoed in his head, and Isra didn’t doubt that if he went against his Uncle’s orders, he would find himself without a Tribe. “So if you will keep your sword sheathed, I will return the favor – this time.”
The Ghost Amir regarded him distrustfully, but then slowly nodded. “I have no desire to hurt anyone, Falcon.”
Isra snorted. “Yet to judge from your face, I would say you were recently in quite the fight.” He pulled off his head and face covering and dipped his hands into the water, washing his face, soaking his hair, sighing at the blessed cool. “Unless you just stood there and did nothing.” He frowned at the way the Ghost Amir said nothing, merely stared into the rippling water – but his hand tightened into a fist before an obvious effort was made to relax it. “Where is your protector, Ghost Amir? Am I to be stabbed in the back?”
“Wafai would never do such a thing,” the Ghost Amir replied, voice hardening. “Nor would I ever permit it. I came here for peace, Falcon. Kill me or go away, I have had enough fighting for a time.”
“I want to kill you,” Isra said. “Badly. Yet time and again I am told not to, and if I do so here I will most likely find myself in more trouble than you are worth. Still, I am tempted.” His fingers went to the scar on his cheek. “I do not appreciate that you mocked my Tribe with your farcical offer of peace, nor do I like the way your mockery has made me a laughing stock in my own Tribe.” His hand fell away. “Why shouldn’t I kill you?”
“That is not for me to say. If you want to kill me, do so. I’m in no condition to stop you.” Gold eyes fastened on blue, and Isra drew a breath at the pain in them. More startling was that the Ghost Amir would allow an enemy to see it.
Isra shrugged. “I’ve no interest in killing someone who already looks like he’s well on his way to death. I’ll kill you when you can put up a fight, Ghost Amir.”
“Sahayl,” the Ghost Amir replied. “You’re the only one to ever mark me in battle.” Fingers dusted along the scar on Sahayl’s right cheek. “So call me Sahayl.”
“Isra, then,” Isra said with a grunt, more than a little surprised that the Ghost Amir used the old custom – to use a man’s name so casually was rare. Always there was a form of address when speaking to others, especially those of higher position. Even within the Ghost Tribe, precious few probably ever used the Ghost Amir’s name. It was a high courtesy, and not something he would have expected from a Ghost. “If you call me desert rose again, this strange truce is over.”
Sahayl laughed softly, and Isra was struck by what it did to his eyes. He looked away, down at the rippling water, wishing he wasn’t so exhausted and could actually think clearly.
A heavy silence fell, and Isra struggled for something to say though he wasn’t certain why he thought something needed to be said. Without a fight, there was nothing to say. Suddenly unable to take it, Isra stood and mounted his horse. “Another day, Ghost Amir…Sahayl.”
“Isra,” Sahayl replied, looking at him, gold eyes once again dark. “Mind, body, soul,” he said softly.
Isra didn’t reply, merely turned and raced off back toward home.
The sounds reached him first, and he could not believe what he was hearing. Chest tightening with fear, Isra urged his horse to a gallop. As they cleared the last of the dunes before the Desert spilled into the encampment. His eyes widened at the chaos he saw below.
Screaming in rage, drawing his sword, Isra spurred his horse forward and raced down into the chaos, catching one assailant across the stomach, knocking another from his horse, slashing open the neck of a third as he raced by. He continued to attack, defend, searching all the while for any survivors, his Uncle.
“Isra!”
“Uncle!” he said in relief, fighting his way toward the Sheik’s tent. He turned his horse sharply around to stand beside Jabbar. “What’s happening?”
“Ghost,” Jabbar said grimly. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“Ghost?” Isra repeated, taking another look at their attacks as one raced toward him. He cut the man down easily, horse rearing as it spun around to resume its place beside Jabbar. “Where is the Ghost Sheik? The Amir?” Because he would kill the bastard himself.
Except.
He’d just seen the Ghost Amir. “Where is the Ghost Amir? Where!”
“There,” Jabbar said, and pointed at a man who did indeed look the part.
“That’s not his horse,” Isra said softly, barely able to comprehend what he was saying. “That is not…Sahayl.” Screaming a battle cry he charged through the camp, cutting down whoever stood in his way, snarling at his men to keep clear. “Ghost Amir,” he said. “Why do you attack us?”
Seated on a dark-red horse, but not quite the color he had seen only a few hours before, the man did at a glance seem very much to be the Ghost Amir. He didn’t reply to Isra’s demand, but simply sprung forward, long curving sword flashing in the afternoon sunlight
Steel clashed as Isra met the blow, and if he had not already known, the way this man fought would have told him this man was the Sandstorm. “Impostor,” he snarled, urging his horse to move, sword sliding away, and metal glinted briefly before he thrust the dagger into the man’s side, then knocked the sword away and shoved the man from his horse. Dismounting, he yanked his dagger free and pressed it to the man’s throat as he pulled off the head wrap.
“You are not of the Desert,” he said to the dying man. “And most definitely not the Ghost Amir. Who are you?”
“You’re half-breed too,” the man said.
“By the Lady…” Isra whispered, then spun around a shadow fell, shoving his sword into the stomach of his would-be assailant, jerking it free and attacking the next. Shoving aside the problem of the dead impersonator, he returned to the matter of saving his Tribe.
“This was not Ghost,” Isra said wearily. “Upon my life.”
Jabbar and the other men around the Sheik’s table regarded him with surprise. “I would not expect to hear that from you, nephew. Indeed, I thought I would have to restrain you at battle’s end.”
“If I must be restrained, it is because I left camp without permission,” Isra said quietly. “I apologize that I was not here.”
“You will be punished, but not now. Tell me why you, of all people, so staunchly believe it was not Ghost who attacked us.”
Isra’s expression grew distant as he recalled his fight with the false Amir. “I was upset with the reprimand administered by my honored uncle,” he said, “and left camp to vent my frustration. I found myself at the oasis where we had hoped to find peace with Ghost. I was not alone.” He stared at the table, not certain how to go on, still not quite sure of what he’d seen.
“Isra,” his uncle said quietly, urging him on.
“The Ghost Amir was there…if not for his horse, and the ring he wore, I do not think I would have recognized him.” Isra grimaced. “He had been badly beaten, and was in too much pain to do more than call me ‘desert rose’. If I had attempted to kill him, I do not think he would have resisted.” He glowered at the way his uncle looked at him. “What? That is all that occurred. As soon as my horse was rested, I left to return home.”
Jabbar quirked a brow, looking torn between amusement and annoyance. “You are leaving something out of your tale, nephew.”
Isra shrugged. “At one point he told me to call him Sahayl.” He touched his scar. “It did not seem important.” He shook his head. “It’s not simply that, uncle. There’s a more obvious reason.”
“Oh?”
“When I killed the impersonator, and accused him of being so, he told me I was a half-breed as well.”
“So what?” Jabbar said. “You are. That has never mattered.”
Isra glared. “He said it in the language of Hadge.”
Silence fell heavy around the table as the ramifications of Isra’s words struck them.
“So it would seem the Desert is indeed under attack, and that they are destroying us by turning us even more thoroughly against each other. But why send impostor Ghost after Falcon? We already regard them as enemies. It would have been more effective to send someone we consider an ally, if they are seeking to create further strife.”
“More importantly,” said a tall, thin man at the far end of the table, stroking his beard agitatedly, “how did they know where to find us? This is not one of our stationary encampments. Only a handful of men knew the precise location of this encampment.
“Treachery,” Isra said flatly. “To undermine the Desert Tribes, you must first get inside them. There is a traitor within Falcon.”
Another man, heavyset with a livid scar running through one eye, slammed his hand on the table. “Where is that western friend of yours, Isra? He has not been seen for quite some time.”
“Simon would never betray me,” Isra said coldly. “If you dare to suggest such a thing again, more blood will be spilled this night.”
“Peace,” Jabbar said levelly. “In light of recent events their suspicions are fair. We’ve suffered many losses, nephew.”
Isra nodded but said nothing.
“So what do we do now?” A short, thick man asked irritably.
“We head for home,” Jabbar said. “If they knew the location of this camp, then we must assume they know the place we call home.”
Isra shook his head. “Then what? We wait for them to come? If they know the location of our home, then we’re not safe. If Hadge has infiltrated the Tribes, then we’re not safe anywhere.”
“At least we will be on familiar territory,” another man said, as slender as Isra but not as tall. “What do you suggest we do, Isra?”
“Fight,” Isra snapped. “Not run and hide.”
The heavyset man rolled his eyes. “Isra, if the Tribes did not excel at hiding, we would have killed one another off long ago. You speak like the child you are.”
“Then sit here and talk like the adults you are!” Isra snapped, storming to his feet. “But do not ask me for help when friends come to the oasis and murder you in your sleep.”
Jabbar slammed his hands down on the table, spilling the wine from more than a few dishes. “You will sit, nephew! We have enough problems; I will not tolerate insolence at my table. Isra, I agree that we should fight – but who are we fighting?”
“Hadge,” Isra said flatly. “It does not surprise me, though the methods do.”
“Why does it not surprise you?” Jabbar asked, staring intently at his nephew.
“You sent me to Tavamara to learn, and so I did. I try to keep up with what goes on there. One year ago Tavamara agreed to talks with Hadge, and invited several representatives to visit Tavamara. The talks did not go well. I do not know how much you know of the politics…”
“Not nearly enough, it would seem. Start at the beginning, nephew.”
Isra nodded, suddenly discomfited by the way all of his uncle’s advisor so intently watched him. “Solleran is the largest continent in the world. To the south is Tavamara, famous throughout the world for its port cities – most notably Yella and Tasca, two of the greatest centers of trade in the world. Tavamara relies heavily on imports, on the tariffs it levies on all who wish to trade here. Tavamara exports a great deal of wine, pottery, silks, and spices brought down from the Great Mountains. Other things. But Tavamara is powerful because it has made itself a center for trade. Inland you will not see many foreigners, but along the coast life is…an interesting mix.
“To the north of Solleran are three nations that come close to Tavamara in strength – Gollen, Lavarre, and Hadge. They are separated from Tavamara by the Desert and the Great Mountains. The three countries have long made war on Tavamara, hoping to grab hold of the ports. Of the three, Hadge is the closest and the most persistent threat. Naval wars have often been fought, but not with any real success because no one wishes to destroy the ports that are the source of Tavamara’s wealth. Land wars have gone back and forth across the mountains, occasionally straying into the Desert.”
“Not a very effective way to go about war,” the short man said. “What is the point in attacking a country so far away?”
“Tavamara is the second most powerful nation in the world,” Isra said softly. “If the King felt like it, he could probably become the most powerful. If anyone with enough ambition were to take Tavamara…”
Jabbar grunted. “Surely Tavamara is used to dealing with these nations then.”
“Yes,” Isra said. “Except the struggle has only ever strayed to the edges of the Desert before. This is the first time, so far as I am aware, that the western nations have purposely attacked the Desert. Always before it has been an insurmountable obstacle. We are probably the only thing that has kept the western nations from more aggressively attacking. Only the Tribes understand the Desert…or at least that is how it used to be.”
“That is bad news,” Jabbar said.
Isra shook his head slowly back and forth. “Until I heard him speak Hadge, it never really occurred to me the west might be behind all this. No one cares about the Desert but the Tribes. If anything, I thought one or two Tribes were contriving something.” He looked at his uncle. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Jabbar said. “My experience is in wars between Tribes, not wars between nations. For now, we pack up and head home.” He pointed at Isra. “And when we get there, you are confined to your tent.”
Isra sighed. “Yes, honored uncle.” Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Isra bowed to the assembled, making the forehead-mouth-chest gesture, then turned and strode from the Sheik’s tent, picking his way through their improvised camp to his own tent.
The Desert was caught in the middle of the struggle for Tavamara.
Hadge…it didn’t surprise him. On top of myriad political reasons, they said Hadge’s King had very personal reasons for disliking the King of Tavamara. Namely, that one of the finest commanders to ever grace the Hadge military, a man they said held the Hadge King’s favor, was now a member of King Shahjahan’s harem. Isra had never spent time in the palace but he’d heard all the stories from Shihab when they were at school together.
Stripping out of his clothes, slipping into a light sleeping robe, Isra curled up in his bed and willed himself to sleep, but it was a long time before his thoughts settled enough he was able to do so.
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Date: 2006-07-16 10:50 pm (UTC)He awakens everything maternal in me! If a man read this story, he would grow breasts and become nurturing just to take care of Sahayl. Give the guy a break!
But seriously M, this is some of your best, most complex stuff yet. VIRTUAL HIGH FIVE. I am itching to know what happens next. And when someone is going to kick the Ghost Sheik in his ever-loving FACE.
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Date: 2006-07-17 12:37 am (UTC)You so rock. Poor Sahayl. My heart aches for him. And I want to kick his father in the balls. Really, really hard.
I like how Sahayl is so mature and that he's that mature because he has to be. And I love the close brotherhood he and Wafai have going on. (I about died though, when Zulfiqar started pestering Sahayl about grandkids. SO asking the wrong person. XD I like too, how Wafai jumped into that conversation. *snickers*) Isra, in comparison seems young, but I like his fire and passion and I like how that balances out with Sahayl. ^_^ Isra's such a hothead. XD I love how both Jabber and Sahayl try to caution him into peace and when he stumbles upon the fake Ghost Amir he's the one fighting to keep them from going to war with Ghost. I like that he's quick to jump to conclusions and he's quick to anger, but he's not beyond reason and that you can see too, how Sahayl has maybe instigated a bit of the antagonism Isra's been showing him. (Heehee...desert rose. XD) That scene with the two of them alone together without their head coverings? *tackle hearts* *_______*
And the ties!! *______* Hadge! Witcher! *flying tackle glomps* EIEEEEEEEEE!!!!
Hadge's king so needs to die. >EYou rock the universe. ^______________________^
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Date: 2006-07-17 12:43 am (UTC)Dear R,
I'll hold him, and you punch.
Sincerely,
S
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Date: 2006-07-17 12:58 am (UTC)*dies laughing*
That's not what I originally had in mind, but I'm not opposed.
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Date: 2006-07-17 08:00 am (UTC)Need I tell you that the ties to your tales of Shah and his harem are making me just all kinds of happy?
*pets*
Isra needs a spanking. *smirk*
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Date: 2006-07-17 08:16 am (UTC)Love the intrigue and its complexity. Was hoping to see Shihab and Bahadur =P
Poor Sahayl... he needs a hug and much TLC.
The Crusher is badly in need of crushing himself, in the groin region.
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Date: 2006-07-17 02:29 pm (UTC)*sigh* I so hoped that Sahayl and Isra would fall into making mad passionate love to each other at the oasis... but I suppose that not trying to kill each other, and the beginnings of respect are a good start. ^_~
Hm, speaking of Shihab, I wonder how he is making out?
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Date: 2006-09-04 03:30 am (UTC)