Carrion

[Savra]

26th of Summer, 510 AV Savra regarded the smudge of smoke upon the horizon. She would find not respite in Yahebah, the city of her birth. Its people were ignorant wretches that clung to Yahal even as the night of judgment neared. Soon all of Yahebah would be reduced to ash. “Onward,” Savra clicked her tongue at Dust. The desertbred stallion descended into the rocky defile with a snort, abandoning the shade of the red sandstone monolith. Searing rays of sun beat down on Savra’s turban, and soon her mottled tunic was damp with sweat. These wastes were termed the Burning Lands for a reason. During the day, the superheated air was almost painful to breathe. Desert winds assailed the unwary traveler with clouds of stinging sand and grit that fouled lungs and chafed patches of exposed skin. Only the toughest plants and wiliest beasts survived in these parched wastes. As she rode, Savra uncapped one of her waterskins and drank. It was easy to become dehydrated in the bone-dry heat. Before you knew it, you could be half-mad with thirst. Sanity and perception were always the first to go. Soon after the buzzards would gather overhead in anticipation of the inevitable. Savra swallowed one mouthful of the tepid water and then another. It reeked faintly of sulfur, but she drank it gratefully. She was no Chaktawe capable of storing days’ worth of water. Like the Benshira, the desert-dwelling tribes had rejected Savra’s offer of salvation – yet they did not shun her from their tents. It was one of the small kindnesses that had kept her alive for this long. At fourteen she still had much to learn. Stowing away the waterskin, Savra scanned the dunes through hooded eyes. To the untrained eye, the slopes of windswept sand seemed bleak and lifeless – but she knew otherwise. Every ridge might conceal raiders and each depression a basin for water collection. The key was knowing what to look for. Savra did not claim any great wisdom, but neither was she the naïve child who’d ridden from Yahebah those seasons ago. Hardship had only steeled her resolve. In time, she knew the Benshira would bend to her wisdom and clamor for absolution. After a while, Savra climbed from the saddle and led Dust on foot. It was easier to make out details nearer the ground. As she walked, Savra spied an occasional track in the sand. Desert hare and lizards mostly, but she also discerned the faint prints of a jackal. Judging by the amount of sand that filled the shallow impressions, the beast was long gone. Savra took another swallow from her waterskin and turned away. Being on the leeward slope of a dune, the tracks were shielded from the worst of the shifting sands – meaning the trail would be swept clean on the other side. She’d only lose time if she sought to follow them to a water source. Savra continued on her way, passing a half-buried outcrop of flint and a few stunted pod-plants. She paused at one, drawing her khukri, and hacked off a fist-sized pod. After carving off the tough outer flesh brought her tongue to the spongy insides. Bitter, as she suspected. It would be wise to avoid such fruit. Savra had once suffered the ill-effects of such a lapse in judgment, and she did not wish to repeat the experience. Wiping her khukri on a fold of tunic, she returned the knife to its sheath and whistled for Dust. The stallion’s ears perked up, but he continued to crop at a patch of desiccated grass – ignoring the summons. Typical, Savra rolled her eyes. Striding in the beast’s direction, she squinted up at the sun. It was approaching its zenith, meaning she’d soon have to scout for campsites. If not, the heat would only become more and more unbearable. Climbing into the saddle, Savra continued east. Her mount seemed as eager as she was to put the dunes behind them. His hooves kicked up a fine spray of sand with every step, leaving a trail to the stony, rust-colored flats.

[Savra]

Savra camped in a rock-strewn gully shortly after midday. It was lined with desert shrubs and grasses that provided an element of shade and protection from prying eyes. Leaving Dust to his own devices, Savra walked the area’s perimeter. It seemed safe enough. There were no traces of scorpions and flesh-eating spiders, and the few, yellow-black snakes that slithered through the sands didn’t appear to be poisonous. By far, Savra’s most fortuitous sighting was the whitish mineral stains on a rocky crevice. She pressed her lips against them and found the stone was damp from seepage. While she doubted the flow was any greater than a drop per chime, it would help replenish her dwindling supplies. Using a knotted length of twine, she made a trail from the lichen to a half-filled waterskin, propping the bladder upright against the rocks. Over time the moisture would seep down the twine and drip into the skin, yielding a few cups of potable water. After she’d finished her handiwork, Savra staked her tent against the western side of the gully. Its sheer incline would cast a shadow as the sun dipped in the sky, providing a much-needed respite from the searing heat. Swallowing another mouthful of water, Savra unsaddled Dust and brushed him down with a fistful of desiccated grasses. Unfastening the flap of one of her saddlebags, she removed a blackened iron pot and filled it with water, letting the stallion drink. Even though desertbred mounts were capable of traveling long distances without water, she was loath to push the limits of Dust’s endurance. Savra sat in the shade and removed her turban. Skeins of dark, sweat-damp hair cascaded to her shoulders. Gathering them into a knot, she retrieved the Book of Ashes and caressed its worn, leather-bound spine. One day, all of Eyktol would revere the tome’s wisdom. Savra’s convictions were unshakable – which was more than could be said for her quill. Such imperfections were hardly appropriate for a sacred text. Opening to a blank page, Savra set quill to parchment and began to write. In the glory of the Redeemer, the lord of destruction and rebirth. Do not raise your fist to the unbelievers, lest they seek occasion to harm the faithful. Such misdeeds are a stain on the soul. Let your fists remain unclenched and your swords sheathed – but do not allow them to collect rust. If the goat-herder did not carry a sling at his belt, he would surely lose his flock to the ravening wolves. The same is true of the unbelievers. They seek to prey upon the faithful and taint our purest hearts with their corruption. Do not suffer these depredations without giving response. Our knives and sickles shall be instruments of the Redeemer’s justice. Smite down the nonbeliever who lays a hand upon your brother. Like a blighted crop of wheat, we shall scour them from the earth and sow the seeds of righteousness upon their graves. Savra paused to carefully reread the words that flowed off her quill. Somehow, they never seemed to convey her exact thoughts or wisdom. Nor did they come easily to her. Savra was not a priest or a philosopher, but a confused girl. Yet the Redeemer had entrusted her with this sacred duty – had selected her as his prophet – and Savra meant to serve him to the best of her abilities.

[Savra]

A lung-searing breeze rolled through the gully, setting the dried grasses to waving. Savra closed her eyes and waited for it to pass. Night and early morning was the best time for travel in the desert, when the sun had yet to scorch the sands. Inevitably, that left much of the day free of activity. Some travelers exchanged stories or sang the bells away, while others slipped into a sleep borne of exhaustion. Savra preferred to train. It was as much a necessity as a habit, for Savra had few allies in the desert. She was apostate in the eyes of the Benshira. An outcast. No family of shepherds would invite her into their tent unless she waved a sword in their faces – which wasn’t too often. Oh, she’d done what she needed to over the seasons, but she took little pleasure in such acts. It was demeaning for the First Prophet of the Redeemer to stoop that low, but then again, her survival depended on it at times. And for that she needed skill and a bit of savagery. Unsheathing her twin swords, Savra strode to a patch of shade and positioned herself in a basic form – one gladius held low and the other high. Shrugging her shoulders to release the pent-up tension, Savra slashed an ‘X’ in the air with her left gladius and thrust with the right, bringing the left up in a low, vicious thrust. She slashed with the right and brought both swords across her body, driving her right elbow forward and finishing with a left thrust. Savra was a right-handed fighter, and it showed. Her strokes did not always have the proper form and seemed to pull her off balance at times. But then again, practice made perfect. Such exercises were routine – and perhaps the only reason she’d remained sane this long. Savra knew there much to learn before she assumed the mantle of a prophet. In Yahebah her neighbors had spurned her message of salvation. Forever timid and blind, they looked to Yahal for protection when his assistance was not forthcoming. Savra was tempted to let them perish in the inferno to come, but the Redeemer had shown her the way. She needed to bring them into the fold and remove the contagion from their souls, lest there be none standing to populate the world. It was easier said than done. To succeed Savra needed to be the wisest leader, the finest warrior, and the best orator in all Eyktol – a being of near-divine powers. In short, it was an impossible goal. Savra alternated her left and right slashes, first advancing and then retreating, pausing every few moments to level a thrust. Her swords were close-range weapons, ideally used in conjunction with a shield. Although the two-handed assault doubled Savra’s offensive capabilities, it also left her more exposed to counters. Hers was a stylistic choice, for like her wolves she relied on speed, cunning and ferocity. Pausing for a drink, Savra reclaimed her swords and twirled them around her wrists. She dropped low, feinting with the right, and stabbed with the left. For the sake of improving her two-handed skills she was fighting off the right foot and leading with the left. Slicing another ‘X’ in the air, Savra twisted her hips and slashed with the right gladius. Made for stabbing, the blade still had a vicious edge that could cleave bone when swung with sufficient power. Savra’s sandaled feet danced across the sands as she executed a slash-thrust-thrust-slash-thrust pattern, bringing her into the searing path of the sun. She retreated to the shade, thrusting with her left and slashing with the right, punching up with the gladius’ rounded pommel. Savra thrust again with the left and flowed to her right, ducking low and sweeping the rightmost blade low. Lunging forward, she buried the left gladius in the sand. Dead, she smiled. It was a hollow sentiment. So far she’d yet to lock blades in a struggle to the death. Deep down, she feared her training would be for naught; that she’d fall to an archer’s shaft or the quick draw of a scimitar. Prophets weren’t supposed to die. Not until they’d seeded their wisdom in successors, at least, or made some impact upon the world. Reclaiming the weapon, Savra thrust with her left gladius and leapt to the side, following with a double thrust and a combination of slashes. She snapped out an elbow, guided a thrust beneath it, and finished with a downward slash. By now she was somewhat winded, her palms sweaty and her brow glistening with sweat. Stepped back, Savra brushed sand off her swords and slipped them back into their scabbards. Night came, eventually – as did the wolves. Savra was perched on a sun-warmed boulder, watching a sparse meal of dried beans and lentils bubble over a fire, when Sultana loped into the gully. Her amber eyes were luminous in the dark. Moments later the lithe frames of Qassem and Maliss emerged from the gloom and approached the fire. Dust snorted and shied away, but he didn’t run. So far the stallion and the desert wolves had an uneasy truce. But although Savra’s companions were trained not to prey on humans, flocks, or beasts of burden, they were still wolves. “Never forget that,” their breeder, Bevan, had cautioned as Savra handed over a bulging purse of gold-rimmed mizas. While the wolves were seldom at her side – needing to hunt and attend to their own needs – they were useful at locating water and food, and intimidating enemies. Most of the time, however, Savra looked out for herself. Sultana padded up to Savra and thrust a head into her lap. Allowing a grin to steal over her face, Savra scratched behind the wolf’s ears and stroked her mottled fur. Sultana was the smallest and slyest of the pack, and the most devoted. Her brother, Qassem, was big and lazy, and their sister Maliss unpredictable. Bevan’s family had bred the beasts for generations, gradually stripping away their feral nature until the wolves were similar in demeanor to their cousin species, the dog. But not quite so submissive. “One day,” Savra spoke into Sultana’s ear, “we shall approach Yahebah at the head of the faithful, and the ground will tremble with our coming. Its people will cast down their swords and clamor for salvation, and – such as the Redeemer wills it – we shall grant it to them. Can you envision it, my darling?” Bemused, Sultana looked up at her mistress and snuggled closer, leaving Savra to stare into the fire and dream.

[Savra]

As usual, Savra woke long before the dawn. She stepped from her tent into the chilly air, mindful of any scorpions that might have taken refuge beneath the awning, and peered through the gloom. The wolves were gone, leaving only prints in the sand that headed east. Breaking her fast with stale flatbread and water, Savra went to check upon her water-catching device. Overnight, the half-empty waterskin had filled to the brim and the excess had spilled onto the sand. Savra scowled at the waste. She hadn’t anticipated the seep would be this prolific, but then again, arrogance was a flaw of hers. If she wasn’t so cocksure about the seepage rate and checked the damned skin, she might have harvested even more. Such a lapse of wits might have cost her dearly in a more desperate situation. Savra was quick to break camp, stowing utensils in her saddlebags and buckling on her weapons harness. Swinging into the saddle, she eased Dust into a walk. Leaving the gully behind, she walked the stallion for a bell or so before she urged him into a trot. Dust’s muscles rippled beneath her legs, eating up the dusty ground and sending the wind whipping against the folds of her turban. He seemed eager this morning. Keeping low in the saddle, Savra had to draw back on the reins to keep her mount from speeding into a canter. She didn’t want him stepping in a rodent’s hole and breaking a leg. Eventually the sun rose, staining the horizon with a pale, blood-red hue. Savra dismounted and stroked Dust’s mane. He needed a rest. So far they’d made at least seven miles – another dent in the distance to Eloab. From there Savra meant to head into Cyphrus to rest and purchase supplies. Perhaps she’d find allies among the Drykas, or a tutor to expand her knowledge. For now, however, she was on her own. Walking now, she led Dust by his halter and scanned the rocky terrain with a near-obsessive attention to detail. How had it come to this? She had no friends or allies, with the possible exception of Rafah – if the man still lived. Savra doubted that, even though it pained her heart. He’d been the only person she was able to talk to in Yahebah, and his departure made the ruined city seem even emptier. After a while Savra discerned the webbed tracks of a Chaktawe in the sand – a discovery that stemmed more from dumb luck than skill. If not for blatant differences like size she’d be hopeless in distinguishing a hare’s prints from those of a tsana. Not that she’d spied a tsana in motion, of course, and wanted to keep it that way. A single one of the beasts would probably be sufficient to rip both her and the wolves to shreds. Following the tracks was difficult, for the Chaktawe’s webbed feet made little if any impression on the sands. It was not long before Savra lost the trail completely. However, she was no stranger to the dynamics of desert travel. If this nomad was headed to a particular location or direction, the path would resemble a straight line. Savra climbed into the saddle and urged her mount into a trot, making a slight alteration to her course that, as best she knew, followed the nomad’s path. It was several bells before she stumbled upon his campsite, a natural formation of rock that provided some respite from the scorching sun. Brow sheathed in sweat, Savra dismounted and looked to where the nomad was striking chips off a piece of flint. He seemed unperturbed by her arrival, sitting cross-legged on the outcrop next to his hide tent. “Falim,” Savra inclined her head. “I am Shakapa,” the Chaktawe returned the nod. He was a bit taller than Savra, with a slender build and red paint striped across his eyes. At his side he bore a plain shortbow and a quiver of arrows. “Savra,” she dispensed with formalities. “I should like to share your camp until sundown, Shakapa. Do you harbor an objection?” “I do not,” he replied and returned to his craft, leaving Savra to erect her tent at the opposite end of rocks. As she worked, she studied Shakapa out of the corner of her eye. He had the look of a hunter about him. Such men had high stature among the Chaktawe, and his ease did not surprise her in the slightest. If the desert was her crucible, it was Shakapa’s home. Eventually, the nomad disappeared amidst the rocks. Savra did not search for him. Instead, after tending to her mount, she took up her composite shortbow and a sheaf of arrows and walked to where the land flattened out. Leaving her equipment, she strode fifty paces to the south – where the sun wouldn’t be in her eyes – and stabbed a gladius into the sand. Savra then returned to her original position and slid her shortbow from its leather case. It was a composite of horn, wood, and sinew that she’d acquired from a trader outside of Ahnatep, with a thread-bound grip and medium string bridges. Savra strung the bow, her muscles straining with the effort, and unfastened the binding on the sheaf of arrows. She stuck these point-down in the sand so the shafts – twenty in all – formed a semicircle. Gripping the shortbow in her left hand, Savra stood with her feet at ninety degrees to her target, keeping them a shoulder’s width apart and making sure to distribute her weight between the ball and heel of each foot. From there she transitioned into an open stance, her right foot inching forward and the left turning slightly outward. It was a trick she’d learned from Rafah in a time that seemed so distant now. Reaching for an arrow, Savra nocked it with a three-fingered grip, positioning her forefinger above the shaft and her middle and ring fingers below, and then drew back the string in one fluid motion. Her back and forearms tensed, but she kept pulling until her right hand brushed against her cheek. Savra sighted down the shaft and took a deep breath. On the exhale, she released her grip and allowed the shaft to speed over the sands. Her arrow whizzed past the target and stuck in the sand twenty paces beyond. Savra frowned. At this distance she expected to feather the belly of an opponent – not the throat of an innocent bystander. Savra’s next shot was high and wide, but it was closer than her previous attempt. Her third also fell right of the mark. What am I missing? she wondered, and then it hit her; she’d forgotten to adjust for the wind. Savra hated making mistakes. After all, what if she’d been aiming at a predator? Or a bandit? However slight, no error was small enough to escape Savra’s ire, for she demanded perfection in all pursuits. Shifting her aim a fraction to the left, she fired again and watched her shaft sink into the earth a pace or two in front of the target. “Hik!” Savra snarled. She took a few deep breaths, reminding herself that every failure was an opportunity to learn and improve, and sighted down another shaft. It sprang from the bowstring, tracing a shallow arc in the air, and sped past the gladius’ hilt with a finger’s breadth to spare. Her next shot was low and somewhat wider, but it was still an improvement over her earlier misses. “A fair shot,” said a voice over her shoulder. Savra whirled to find that Shakapa had sneaked up on her. He had a sincere expression on his face, and perhaps a hint of a smile. “And I suppose you can do better,” Savra’s tone was not so much a challenge as an affirmation of the skills of Chaktawe hunters. It was a shame she could not enlist their help to bring the Benshira to their knees. “Shall I demonstrate?” Shakapa nocked a flint-tipped arrow, raised his bow and fired in what seemed like a single fluid motion. It struck the blade’s hilt and shattered. “Show-off,” Savra rolled her eyes. She raised her own bow and fired, sending a shaft into the sand at the makeshift target’s base. “You asked,” Shakapa shrugged, “and I responded.” “And I suppose you could split any one of my shafts,” Savra fired and missed wide, and then turned to look at Shakapa. “No, I cannot,” he smiled, “nor do I desire to waste a shaft.” “Seems like you already did,” Savra motioned to the broken arrow. “That was a crooked one,” Shakapa stated. “It was expendable.” “So you landed dead-center with an arrow that won’t fly true?” Savra raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but that’s difficult to believe.” “You have the evidence of your own eyes,” said the nomad, not seeming to take offense. Savra peered into his dark, long-lashed eyes for a moment and then cocked her head. “Shakapa, are you considered a master among your people?” “I do not invite the comparison,” he began to walk away, and then added, “It is not my way.” Come the night he was gone, yet another shadow in the barren desert.

[Savra]

Savra regarded the pile of bones and bleached rags that lay half-buried in the sands, her expression unreadable. By now she was used to such sights. Scattered across the deserts of Eyktol were the remains of thousands – wanderers, bandits, traders and pilgrims – who’d perished in the parched, unforgiving wastes. Some days concealed by the swirling sands and others exposed to the searing heat, the bones were constant reminders of the perils that lurked over every ridge and in between the cracks of stones. Fatigue, thirst, hunger, betrayal, the bites of snakes and the sting of scorpions, the claws of predators, tainted water, disease, despair…. the list went on. Savra saw Eyktol for what it was; a realm of death. And to imagine, the Benshira clung to Yahal even in the presence of such devastation. Where was their god when the long-awaited rains did not come? Why did he not split the burnt rock and inundate the land with water? Surely, its flood would restore life to the wastes and allow the people to flourish. Savra had contemplated the subject long and hard, and inevitably she came to the conclusion that Yahal did not have the power. He was weak – an archaic relic whose time of greatness was over. Eyktol needed a new master, one that would rout the pantheon and restore life to this shattered world. Yes, the Redeemer was coming. As Savra peered at the collection of bones, she couldn’t help but wonder who this man – or woman – had been. It was impossible to tell when scavengers had stripped the flesh away. Soon it might be me, she knew. Prophets were not immortal. A scorpion scuttled from amidst the skeleton’s ribs, no more than the breadth of Savra’s finger. She could see dark veins of poison beneath its light, semi-translucent carapace. Unsheathing her gladii, Savra pinned the scorpion with the flat of one blade and used the other to sweep its head off. The damned thing continued to spasm – claws opening and closing and stinger lashing out – until Savra crushed it beneath her heel.

[Savra]

Let not the wounded perish in misery, even if they be foes of the faithful. A mouthful of water, a comforting hand – these gestures are a measure of our faith. Heed this lesson, for perhaps one day it will be you that bleeds out upon the sand. A warrior that neglects these small kindnesses does not deserve to receive them. Be merciful, and your heart will never suffer the pangs of loneliness. Savra set her quill aside and peered over the lip of the sandstone ridge. Below, scattered among the broken rocks, were the warrens of desert hares. They were scrawny beasts, all hide and bony limbs, but their meat would make a fine change from lentils. Shortbow at her side, Savra watched and waited for one to show its head. She’d tethered Dust at the oasis, although it was really more a puddle. A thicket of grasses and two lightning-scorched acacia trees were its only vegetation. Faint animal tracks were scored in the mud as well. Savra could make out those of jackals and the hares, but the others she didn’t recognize. Perhaps she’d develop a better tracking sense in time. Let the spoils of battle, once collected in the warleader’s tent, be divided among the faith in accordance with their stature and prowess on the field. The warrior whose blade is not stained with the blood of his enemies shall receive but half a share, while the warrior that has fought with valor shall receive a double portion of the spoils. Let a double portion also go to the families of the fallen as compensation. Warleaders and tacticians are to receive no more than thrice as much as their warriors, for the Redeemer will not tolerate the mightiest of the faithful to adorn themselves with silks while their brethren are in want of cotton. Lastly, a quarter of all spoils are reserved for the sanctification of temples and shrines and to sustain elders, the poor, and the orphaned. Savra peered over the ridge. No movement; the hares remained wary of her intentions. Sooner or later, however, they’d have to poke their heads out. Again, she dipped quill into ink and resumed her writing. Once an infidel raises his hand to the faithful, the punishment is death. Before your sword descends, however, remember that we are a merciful people. Extend the gift of salvation to the condemned. If they embrace salvation, let them walk among the faithful. Otherwise, kill them all. Savra’s eyes flicked up to see a lone hare nibbling at the scrub. It sniffed at the air, but Savra had chosen a perch that was well downwind of the warren. Careful not to make a sound, she reached for her shortbow and nocked an arrow. She would have to hold the bow horizontal when she fired. It was a harder shot, but at little more than thirty paces, she couldn’t risk standing for fear of alerting the hare to her position. Savra drew the arrow to her chin, sighted down the length of the shaft, and breathed deep – then released on the exhale. Her shot took the hare in the neck, sending the beast tumbling down a shallow slope. It thrashed a bit on the way down, and then was still. Dinner. For the first time in days, Savra’s lips curled into a smile.

[Savra]

Savra had never learned to dance or sing – or developed any sort of skill in womanly pursuits, for that matter. In truth, her parents had despaired of finding her a husband. ‘She’s just stubborn,’ her father would grumble, ‘eventually she’ll come around. If not tomorrow then next season, or the one after that. Have faith in Yahal, my dove.’ Savra’s mother was not so easily convinced. ‘She’s more jackal than girl,” the woman was quick to complain. ‘Do you see how she eyes your scimitar, Ahren? Sooner or later we’ll find her tussling with boys in the street or worse, on the proving grounds. No good will come of this, I tell you.” Well, she’d been right in that suspicion. Savra had no intention of trailing her mother’s skirts. She aspired to be something more; a warrior, a leader, a prophet. And yet, she was not blind to the flaws of the Benshira. Her people were not true to their faith. Yahebah, the holies of cities, was populated by thieves, adulterers, and killers – all of whom were content to cloak their misdeeds and live content in the shadow of their lies and duplicity. Savra’s own father had consorted with prostitutes, and her mother was a vicious, mean-spirited woman who’d made both their existences a torment. Hypocrites, both of them. Savra had received the counsel to ‘trust in Yahal’ more times than she could count, but what good did that do? Did Yahal ever punish his children for their lapses of faith? She hadn’t seen it. Did he ever deliver them from harm? Not often. Yahal was weak, and like the others he would be scoured from this world by the Redeemer’s inferno. Savra had never learned to dance or sing, but she could whirl like a dervish and make her blades hum through the air. Under the tutelage of Saif, an old warrior who had triumphed in arenas from Riverfall to Ravok, she had learned an entirely different form of dance, one that was borne of shadows and dust. She danced beneath the full moon, swords and limbs flowing like silk in the breeze, accompanied by her silhouette on the sands. I am the scorpion, Savra thrust with a gladius and then spun to inscribe a circle in the cool air. Her blades flashed out and wove from side to side, catching the pale moonlight. I am the jackal. Her blades seemed to shimmer as they rose and fell. Moving first in one direction and then in the next, her strikes were swift and frenzied, her body a writhing mass of shadow. I am the cobra. A series of thrusts – low, right, behind, up, across, and every which direction, sand pluming from her heels. I am the vulture, her shadow rose and twisted into a lethal attack. She was on the ground now, blades flicking and flashing, her eyes wreathed with gloom. I am the spider, she rose to her elbows and knees, lunged to one side and then the other. Roll, thrust, roll, thrust. I am the hare, now she sprang forward with the flicker of a blade overhead and the flash of a blade below, feet etching a pattern upon the ever-shifting sands. Tendrils of dust rose in her wake as her blade thrummed from side to side. I am the tsana, her blades thrust from all angles and then she withdrew in a spray of sand, the humming of severed winds. A furtive calm crept upon her as she dropped to one knee, panting, and then surged into frenzied motion. Hack, thrust, hack. I am the wasp, she rose in a blur of iron, slashing the night to ribbons. Her stingers hissed and buzzed in a seething cacophony. I am the wolf, she lunged fast and vicious, her blades ravening the darkness. For a suspended moment they spun and wove through the air, then angled to a single thrust and tumbled to the sand. Her dance completed, Savra sank to her knees and stared up at the night’s sky. Only the stars bore witness to this weaving of shadows. That was as it should be, for Savra did not wish death upon her enemies. Not unless they refused the gift of salvation or posed a threat to her sacred task. Only then would they die. Returned to her tent, Savra located her whetstone and began to hone her blades. Soon, she suspected, there would be a confrontation. It was inevitable. Just as the Burning Lands were home to nomads like Shakapa, there were also outlaws and other filth, all of them eager to take advantage of a young women traveling alone. Little did they realize it would be the last time they ever looked upon a woman in lust.

[Savra]

“Blood, sun, and sand,” Savra regarded the butte on the horizon, “the only certainties in life are those we cannot escape.” Indeed, the perils of the desert were ubiquitous. Sun seared the skin and boiled the brain. Beasts and bandits lurked around the watering holes, and sand was everywhere; in the folds of clothes, between toes, crusting on eyelids. There was no respite. Characteristic of its name, the Burning Lands were as much Savra’s prison as her arena. Like a blazing crucible, the expanse of desert tempered and removed the impurities from her soul. Each day was a trial of endurance and a test of will, all leading up to her sacred task. “Blood, sun, and sand,” Savra repeated. “What might the Rapas say to that? ‘Trust in Yahal, mend the errors of your ways, and peace shall be upon you,’ no doubt. In the absence of their god, they play god. As must I.” Returning to her tent, Savra dozed as she waited for dusk. It was suicidal to travel in the heat of day – even with an oasis in sight. Because of the intense heat and near-blinding rays of the sun, the eyes were often deceived. Most landmarks were thrice as distant as they appeared. In the desert it wasn’t as important to drink as to minimize sweat. Only traveling in the night and early dawn reduced the water required to stave off dehydration and allowed stocks to last longer. Savra roused herself at sunset and headed in the direction of the butte. It was a deviation from her intended course, but she’d heard tales of bandits and the occasional nomad concealing caches of supplies in the crevices of rock formations. It was worth a look, at least. Savra had tarried for several days at the oasis to ensure that Dust was well-rested. Now she swung into the saddle and squeezed her legs to bring the stallion to a slow walk. His hooves beat a steady cadence on the hardpan – a sound that threatened to lull Savra to sleep. She’d never been one for sleeping during the day. Beneath the blazing sun, there were too many enemies for her to feel at ease. Fortunately, it wasn’t long until her mount warmed up. Savra urged him into a trot. Soon, she could begin to unearth the secrets of the moonlit butte.

[Savra]

Savra arrived at the butte before dawn. Up close, the monolith of red sandstone was even more impressive. It seemed to reach to the heavens, its scree-laden slopes rising to an ovular cliff of weathered rock. By the time Savra finished a circuit of the butte the sun was already cresting the horizon. She’d wait two or three bells before she set up camp. Stashing her gear beneath one of the few acacia trees that dotted the scrublands, Savra unsaddled Dust and left him to crop at the desiccated grasses. ‘Why don’t you tether the damned thing?’ a herder had once cursed when the stallion wandered into his flock. Like any goat, a horse needed to forage for sustenance. It couldn’t labor under the burden of both rider and fodder. A tethered mount was also easy prey for jackals and the other predators that roamed the wastes. Given the option, Savra would rather track down a live horse than be left with a half-eaten corpse. Come to think of it, where had the wolves gone? Shortbow in hand, Savra approached the butte. Its base was pocked with shallow crevices and patches of scree. Sand was everywhere – fine, reddish grains that were near impossible to remove from skin. But that was nothing new. Disregarding these irritants, Savra ducked into a fissure in the rock. It was broad and sheltered from the sun, but there were no signs of habitation. Animal or otherwise. Savra climbed out and tried the next cleft in the rock. Again, no indication of life. This is a stupid idea, she frowned. Clearly there was nothing here – not even flakes of stone chipped from an ancient spearpoint. However, Savra was imbued with the curiosity of youth. She peered into five more crevices, each as barren as the last, until the spark of exploration was duly extinguished. With a shrug, Savra stepped into the light – and recoiled. There, woken from its slumber on the sun-warmed stones not three paces distant, was a snake. Its species was unfamiliar to her, but its yellowy-white fangs were probably dripping with poison. “Easy there,” Savra whispered as she retreated a step. Although the snake writhed in agitation, it didn’t make any sudden moves. Must be the cold, she thought as she discarded her shortbow and quiver of arrows. Snakes weren’t half so quick before they’d warmed the night’s chill from their scales. Unsheathing her gladii, Savra advanced upon the snake. Her pulse quickened as its tongue flicked out. Get bitten, and she might not survive long enough to lance the puncture wound. She had listened to a snakebit man’s screams once. It took him until dusk to expire, and by then his arm was swollen the size and color of an eggplant. She wasn’t eager to share the experience. When the snake finally struck, Savra flinched to the side and brought the flat of a gladius down on its neck. Got you, she sneered. Her other blade severed the head, and that was that. Now, if only conquest was this easy. Slicing off the tail, Savra peeled away the skin and made an incision down the snake’s pale underside to remove the guts. Although she doubted the meat would fill her stomach, one simply didn’t waste food in the desert. Looping the limp carcass around her belt, Savra resumed her search for resources. By now it was clear she was wasting time at the base of the butte. With the sun climbing ever higher, it was madness to continue on her present course. Instead, she circled the monolith and ascended the slope. Savra clambered over piles of scree and sidled across ledges, her fingers groping for purchase on the weathered rock. A misstep could send her tumbling to the base of the butte. However, she was not so easily intimidated. She was hardly climbing at a vertical angle. If necessary, she could always plaster herself on the rocks to recover her strength. Most bore splotches of bird droppings that suggested the presence of water, although it was probably stagnant and undrinkable. Savra scanned the slope. It was barren apart from a few stands of brush, a chaotic jigsaw of scattered rock. But she could see the remains of what appeared to be a shallow wall of crumbled stones wedged against the sheer cliffs. Slowly and carefully, Savra ascended to where it jutted from the rock, supporting her weight on three limbs while seeking new holds with the fourth. She made sure to test each hold before she entrusted it with her weight. Such prudence could be the difference between life and death. Finally, with her hands scraped and bruised from the ascent, Savra arrived at her destination. It appeared to be the ruins of an ancient granary, though all that remained were specks of grain and a few spars of sun-bleached timber. Not the hoard she’d been hoping for. Still, as she gazed out across the barren terrain, Savra felt a sense of accomplishment at making it this far. Now all she had to do was get down.

[Savra]

Instead of descending the way she’d come, Savra opted for a lateral route that brought her into the butte’s shadow. Here the rock was cool to the touch, a balm to her blistered, aching fingers. She paused for a moment to breathe, and then picked her way down the slope. It was steeper than the other approach. Fortunately, the sandstone was pocked with small fissures and spurs that provided a crude sort of ladder. As Savra clambered across a ledge, she noticed a nest sited deep in one of the cracks. Were there eggs, perhaps? Still maintaining a three-point hold, she reached in and fumbled at the rough-woven twigs. Nothing. Like most traces of life in the desert, the nest was abandoned. Heaving a sigh, Savra removed her arm and descended from the butte. When she arrived at her campsite, Dust had retreated to the shade of acacia trees. Savra removed the light saddle from his back and brushed him down. Unlike the horseclans of Cyphrus, she did not treat her mount with undue reverence. His needs didn't take precedence over her own. After all, the desertbred were intended for survival; they could look after themselves. When Savra had finished her ministrations, she erected her small tent in the shade. Before, when she’d arrived at the butte, she wondered what had occurred to her wolves. Surely they hadn’t met with any harm in the wastes. Now, she took the polished bone whistle from around her neck and blew a series of piercing blasts. Dust looked up at her and snorted. Yes, I know, Savra scowled at him. When she’d purchased the wolves, Bevan had presented her with the whistle as a non-verbal means of commanding them. It was effective, but limited in range. Also, her wolves were not the same as trained dogs. Although they responded to such basic commands as ‘protect,’ ‘hunt,’ ‘come,’ and ‘stop,’ instructing a wolf to roll over was futile. Generations of domestication and breeding hadn’t removed all the willfulness from her lupine companions. If anything, Savra was more a sister than a master to them. Gathering twigs and desiccated grasses, Savra arranged the wood in a cone-shaped pattern and pushed the grasses into the hollow core. She removed the flint and steel from her belt pouch and struck a spark. It didn’t take, but such failure wasn’t abnormal. After several tries she managed to ignite the grass, and then blew on them gently to spread the flames to the twigs. She untied the butchered snake from her belt and skewered it over the fire, then sat to one side with the Book of Ashes. In marriage, let woman and man retain their individual rights. Neither shall be compelled to fulfill the other’s desires, nor relinquish any possessions. If the bond is sundered, all property that predates the marriage – whether it be money, land, or tools – shall belong to the original owner, but income or profits derived thereafter is to be divided in equal measures with a council of the faithful as witness. If there be any children, let them decide which parent to stay with. While adultery is sinful, it shan’t be punishable by death. Adulterers are to be shamed in public and stripped of a fifth of their wealth, which is to be transferred to the aggrieved wife or husband. A strand of tarnished coppers is also to be hung around the accomplice’s neck for the period of one season, provided he or she was not deceived of the adulterer’s marital status. If so, the adulterer will be stripped of an additional fifth of their wealth to compensate for this deception. Judgment is to be reserved to a council of the faithful that is one-half female and one-half male, wherein none of the members is connected to the aggrieved or accused parties. As Savra blew to dry the ink, she noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Looking up, she saw Maliss bounding toward the camp, followed by Sultana and a loping Qassem. As they approached, Savra spied traces of dried blood on their muzzles, a sign they’d come from a recent kill. Maliss, ever the disinterested one, peered up at Savra for a moment and then went to sniff around the tent. Sultana was more open with her affections as she brushed against the girl’s side and snuffled at her neck – a gesture that was outdone by the hulking Qassem, who seemed to collapse on Savra’s lap. “Qassem, you lump,” Savra giggled as she set aside the Book of Ashes and ruffled his ears. His mannerisms were like a dog’s, although she’d never considered Qassem to be very clever. No, it was usually Sultana that recognized Savra’s desires and communicated them to the otheres. “Off,” Savra grunted as Qassem’s bulk started to cut off her circulation. With a pant, he shifted and went to ‘play’ with Maliss, leaving Savra staring up into Sultana’s dark and intelligent eyes. “It’s time that we made for Cyphrus,” she raised herself on her elbows. “How would you like that, precious? Lots of grass, water, prey…. and perhaps allies.”