Alkhafat, capital of the Sheikdom of Mekhallah 44 years After Coronation, 2nd day under Full Moon The gentle crunch of hooves on packed dirt resonated around the noble riders. For over three weeks the refrain of beasts trotting obediently towards their destination had been one of the only sounds breaching an anxious silence, save for the occasional grunt from one of the animals and sparse conversation among the six horsemen, most now haggard from their journey. Under normal circumstances the party would have sailed directly from Tawira Mundh and up the Qaara River to reach Alkhafat, but atypical times and the Sultan's mandate demanded they instead make landfall at Junadina, traveling overland from the south. One of the group's tasks had been to assess the true extent of the Living Waste's expansion, and without a doubt they had found the tales spun by Sand Striders and common folk alike left little room for exaggeration. For hundreds of miles along the road to Mekhallah, the dull expanse of the Living Waste hung on the horizon like a stalking predator. It had been less apparent in the northern reaches of Misardun, where much of the landscape was already made up of rolling dunes. Along the banks of the Qaara river however, just south of the Earthspine Mountains which had begun to crest into view, the earth was fair to its occupants. The land had always been hard, but vegetation and wildlife were not uncommon sights. Desolation had no home here. The man at the head of the party, a pale figure with a countenance like bearded porcelain, turned his gaze to the east. The hardy shrubs and short trees of Mekhallah extended towards the skyline, but he could see they eventually tapered off into nothing but loose sand drifting with the wind. These dunes seemed bleaker than they had any right to be. The sun battered them more grimly than was natural, their heat dire and wicked. The unnatural sight tied a knot of anxiety in the elderly man's stomach. His horse, a brilliant black stallion with a coat which shimmered magnificently under the sun's intense rays, loosed a low whinny as if he too could sense treachery. Here before the elder was an enemy not so easily defeated with spouts of fire or a swordsman's tricks. Most of his illustrious life had been dedicated to felling armies and besieging cities. From the southern jungles to the far north's rugged frontiers, how many men had fallen to his magical prowess or his tactical abilities over the years? How many commanders had he bested in service to his closest friend and dearest Sultan? Yet for all his martial achievements, how could one meet apocalypse in the field? He was now asked to call upon knowledge he'd rarely had time to refine since his youth. How the heavens may influence the world below, how the very sands can be made to ebb and flow by the grace of the Shayamun. An uncharacteristic seed of doubt had already been sown in the mind of the daring Flame of the West. The six horsemen passed a withering caravansary on their left, though by then it was a glorified ruin, little more than a tomb for the old man sitting cross-legged in the shade outside. Upon spotting the rider's elegant silver saber, inlaid with a radiant red-orange gem, the rugged elder gave a nod and leaned forward as far as his aching bones would allow in a sitting bow. It had been twenty years since Mubarak Alani Jaffer had rode to Mekhallah, but he was not an easily forgotten man, even by the common folk. "Moonlight upon you, Your Grace," the caravansary keep croaked in a voice that sounded as worn and dusty as its owner. "And upon you," the magus responded, continuing up the road. As the riders left the caravansary behind, the city of Alkhafat had finally come into view. "The edge of the world," one of the magus' companions commented, a Sand Strider draped in the order's trademark turquoise cloth. While the frontier city couldn't hold even a dim candle to the spiraling minarets and golden domes of the West, Alkhafat was a jewel on a harsh landscape. Nestled along the Qaara river, elegant stone bridges stretched from the south and west towards the city's gates, massive wooden constructs decorated with the sheik's family crest, a crescent moon beneath a sun with seven rays bursting forth in all directions. The dome of the Tabalist temple emerged from the center of the city, nearly the same pale blue as Mubarak's djellaba and turban. Sandstone constructions painted various shades of blue peaked over Alkhafat's walls, and on the river the corpse of what was once a bustling waterside market still held more people than five of the various villages dotting the city's outskirts. The last time Mubarak had seen the city, it was wrapped in a great inferno, the result of a devastating siege. Even from a distance, he could make out which buildings on the skyline had been rebuilt since then, though there were discrepancies between the outline of Alkhafat his eyes reported and what his memory recalled. The city was already on the decline 20 years prior, and little had changed. The roads to Alkhafat had been nearly devoid of life, but Mubarak recalled many an emigrant family headed the opposite direction. A great horn sounded from above the gates, and the doors swung open slowly. Mubarak spurred his horse forward, turning to the rider on his right, the only other magus among the six companions. The Alrifaq woman, Hikmat, with deep blue skin and beautiful moonstone eyes. She had been sent along as a political strategy -- ideally, seeing an Alrifaq among the Sultan's delegates would secure cooperation from her kinsmen native to Mekhallah. Having one of her kind along to such matters was always a boon of course, and Mubarak had a sneaking suspicion that the Sultan hoped the level-headed magus would temper his own reckless nature. "I've heard it's been long since you've returned here, magus," Mubarak said as the party closed in on the city gates. "It must be a strange sight now," the man paused here, letting his words marinate. "The last moon I saw this place under was stained with ash and blood. The people surely still bear me no great love, so I am glad to have you along, as I've said." A small crowd had already begun to form within the gates, a common occurrence which marked with the comings and goings of authority figures. Somewhere on the Qaara River, 10 miles from Alkhafat "...they hatched a plan, to stop The Waste Through scorching sands, The mage made haste. Swiftest steed and West's own flame, Returned to lands that curse his name." Her words carried across the water like dragonflies, alighting on the shores their canoe left behind as it cut deftly through the Qaara. The girl performing the melody occasionally kicked her feet in the water, the river's refreshing coolness gliding over the lower halves of her legs and offering a welcome respite from the sun. The woman stopped strumming her oud gradually, her orange-painted right hand dipping to meet the river and her left hand, decorated with a rich blue dye, setting the instrument at her side in the boat. The wind had shifted since they took to the water, so much so that the men who had been rowing their vessel towards Alkhafat now took time to rest, reclining in the center of the canoe and gazing at the clouds overhead. "Why'd you stop?" one of the men asked, his thick, curly brown hair bobbing as he spoke. Almasa answered without looking back at him, her rich chocolate eyes locked on a pair of Qaara River Turtles perched on a sturdy length of driftwood. "I need some time to think about what happens next, Baqir," the minstrel responded as one of the spiny-shelled reptiles launched itself back into the water, deciding that the boat was drifting uncomfortably close to his platform. His companion remained steadfast as the canoe shot past, refusing to surrender an inch. "Unless you want to write the ending for me." Baqir ignored her challenge, certain it would end in some kind of mockery. "If you keep your feet in there too long you'll get dragged in by a crocodile," the Jai-Annar swordsman cautioned after a period of silence, rolling onto his belly to address the back of Almasa's head. Baqir was roughly her age, with a deceivingly bitter countenance accentuated by a deep scar running down the left side of his jaw, a memory of the robber's saber that nearly took his life as a teenager. "Then you'll have no ending to your little tune, and who'll play for us?" Almasa grinned at this, raising her feet from the water and turning around to face her companion. Her face was painted in the same style as her hands, the left and right halves the same shades of blue and orange, respectively. "Good question, you lot are fucking dull," she jested, pushing a thick lock of black hair away from her eyes and setting her feet down on the canoe's warm wooden deck. "Then you'd die of boredom before a bandit's blade." This illicited a smattering of chuckles from the dozen men manning their boat. Almasa stood, walking to the center of the craft and resting her hand on the small mast that toted the boat's loudly flapping sail. The cool wind similarly affected her hair as she cast her eyes over the front of the canoe. "The Flame of the West will reach Alkhafat today, if our foot party was right. They saw his entourage not twenty miles from the city this morning," Baqir remarked to no one in particular. "Tell it true, what do you guys think he's like? Beyond stories and legends?" One of their companions spoke up from the rear of the canoe, a broad-shouldered elder with an unkempt beard stretching to his belly. "I hear he's bitter. Foul, hot-tempered as an Alqarni Rocksnake," the man said, waving his hands dramatically as he spoke. "And with far more than venom. He can shift the sands with his sighs, and call down slices of sunlight. That's how he burned Alkhafat the first time." Almasa's eyes grew wide suddenly, as her companion finished. "Shining stars, fire!" The elder began to speak again. "Fire indeed, and he can--" He was cut off as Almasa pointed to the river's west bank and Baqir leapt to his feet, sensing the alarm in her voice. "No uncle, she means a fire!" he hissed, gesturing with his head towards the western horizon. An ominous plume of black smoke spiraled skyward, but sounds of a distant struggle or combat were eerily absent. The source of the flame was concealed by a thick line short, thick-trunked palms and broad-leafed bushes along the riverbank. Almasa could feel her heart race at the opportunity to once again take up her blade, but she was crestfallen to know they may be too late to make a difference. "Come on, let's make for land," Baqir spoke up without delay, hefting a nearby oar from the boats' deck and plunging it into the water. |