Labels: Fiction, Sand

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Labels: Fiction, Sand

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(Welcome to the third chapter of Sand. We join the warrior, Radric, as he attempts to rescue his sworn enemy, Caswell, from the clutches of a D’jaren war party. Each week DaRK PaRTY is pleased to publish another chapter in this exciting tale of swords and sorcery. Sand was originally published in Lost Worlds: The Writers and Artists’ Science Fiction and Fantasy Forum)

The four D’jaren guards felt safe so close to home. They had gathered next to a low rise to toss bone dice for coins. They were oblivious as Radric, clad in the icy embrace of the midnight cloak, lurked among their camels and stolen ponies. He cut the cords that bound them.

From the rope corral, he crept to the large tent at the center of the encampment. Strange music and muffled voices drifted from within. Carefully, Radric parted the tent flap and slipped inside. Once inside, he froze, letting the midnight cloak conceal his presence.

Torches lit the interior, bright, orange, and smoky. A pair of D’jaren played a flute-like instrument and a drum. The drummer hummed gently, his voice eerie, but mellifluous. A third D’jaren, who could only be the warchief, and a slight, but beautiful human woman were seated in front the musicians behind a large table laden with desert fruits, breads, roasted rabbit and lizard. The D’jaren chieftain smiled, tapping his feet to the music.

The woman was nude; freshly scrubbed, her long, golden hair cascading down her shoulders. A terrified expression wormed across her face. When she turned, Radric caught sight of her pointed ears. She was half-elf. A Demimondaine. He had heard stories about slavers who bred humans and elves for the female offspring. These half-breeds were supposed to be extremely beautiful and in great demand in many part of the world. This woman certainly fit those descriptions.

A groan from across the room interrupted Radric’s thoughts. At the far end of the tent was Caswell. The wizard was stripped naked and bound to a wooden pole. Caswell had been horribly beaten. Welts, bruises, and cuts covered his skinny body.

“Enough,” the warchief bellowed and the music ceased. “Leave us.”

The pair of musicians bowed and passed closely by Radric as they exited the tent. The chieftain lifted a fork with a slab of overcooked rabbit dangling from it.

“Are you sure you won’t eat?” he asked the Demimondaine. “You must be famished.”

She shook her head, but eyed the food greedily.

“Caswell!” the chieftain shouted. “Your woman is very beautiful. You have exquisite taste.”

Caswell tried to answer, but his words were garbled by the gag. The chieftain laughed.

“It’s unfortunate that we have to shut that gaping maw of yours, but you’re too dangerous without it. You’re a fool, wizard. Did you really think you could swindle the Salt Rock Clan of the mighty D’jaren nation? Did you think we’d ever sell our hunting grounds to Lindell? To humans? Now you will die in the B’Kar Waste like a sniveling cur.”

Caswell struggled against his shackles. Radric saw the sweat glistening on the wizard’s body.

“But such an added bonus,” the chieftain continued, smiling at the Demimondaine. “I didn’t realize you had a weakness for flesh.”

Radric now knew why the Lady Fflame wanted the wizard dead. She had been shunned in favor of the half-elf. And while, the Lady Fflame certainly possessed her own charms, she paled in comparison to the Demimondaine. The chieftain leaned over and caressed the half-elf’s cheek. She flinched.

Radric had seen enough.

He drew his sword. The sound was nearly silent, but the chieftain possessed D’jaren hearing and cocked his head. Recognizing the sound, the chieftain stood, hand dropping to his saber. Radric sprang, his movement disrupting the invisible magic of the midnight cloak, and shoved the chieftain back into his chair. Radric’s sword pressed against the chieftain’s throat.

“Move and die,” Radric hissed.

No one moved and Radric slipped into invisibility again. He wanted to kill the chieftain, but that would mean a blood feud with the D’jaren. He could ill afford that. Instead, he used the chieftain’s robes to bind his arms behind his back. Then, using the heavy hilt of his sword, he knocked the D’jaren unconscious.

“Who are you?” the Demimondaine whispered. Her silver eyes filled with hope. Radric pressed a finger to his lips. He strode to the other end of the tent and cut Caswell free.

“Thank you,” the wizard said, after yanking off his gag. “If you get me out of here, I promise you riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Can you use your sorcery?” Radric asked.

Caswell hesitated and then nodded. “I think so, but I’m weak.”

“Get dressed,” Radric said. “Find some robes for you and the woman.”

“Do I know you?” the wizard asked.

“Do it,” Radric said.

While Caswell and the Demimondaine collected robes from a chest by the table, Radric positioned himself at the side of the main entrance. Except for the occasional whinny from the horse corral, the camp was quiet. A few minutes, Caswell’s whispered voice filled the tent.

“Where are you?”

Radric, cloaked in invisibility, lifted his arm to disrupt the spell. “Here.”

As she spoke, a pair of D’jaren warriors emerged from the darkness and headed toward the chieftain’s tent. They were speaking in hushed tones to each other. One laughed out loud. Radric pulled back.

“Hide,” he said.

Caswell’s face paled, perhaps remembering the torture he’d received at the hands of the D’jaren. There was no telling what they’d do to them after an escape attempt. Despite his fears, the wizard grabbed the woman by the wrist and they ducked under the table.

The two D’jaren warriors announced themselves and Radric attacked. His sword sliced neck of the first one, who gagged and toppled, clutching the bloody wound. The second warrior reacted quickly and spun out of reach, Radric’s blade cutting the hood of his cloak. The warrior pulled free his scimitar, immediately sniffing the air. Radric froze. The warrior continued to sniff, searching desperately for Radric’s scent. Using his invisibility to its fullest advantage, Radric twirled to his right, slashing at the D’jaren. The effect was very much like a sword appearing out of no where, striking and then vanishing in an instant. The D’jaren struck where he thought Radric was standing and when he was fully extended, Radric cut him down. The warrior fell next to his fallen comrade.

“Follow me,” Radric said.

He trotted to the corral followed closely by Caswell and the woman. They ran headlong into the four D’jaren guards. They charged with scimitars and spears, screaming savagely to alert the rest of the camp. Radric braced himself, but saw little hope of survival.

A frozen wind, colder than the embrace of the midnight cloak, rush passed him. The four warriors whitened as a sheet of ice encased their bodies. They froze like marble statues in the temples of Vixonia. Radric turned in time to see the wizard collapse in exhaustion; his hands still glowing white from the magic that had shot from his fingertips.

“What’s your name?” Radric asked the woman.

“Quil.”

“Find a horse, Quil.”

Radric lifted the mage to his shoulder and followed the woman into the corral. She mounted the first horse she came to and he took the next, draping Caswell in front of him. Radric slapped the horse and shouted, sending the horses and camels into a frenzy of flight. Radric and Quil rode the stampede as angry shouts echoed in their ears. Arrows whizzed by their heads, but they were soon out of range.

They stopped briefing to retrieve Radric’s warhorse and then galloped quickly into the desert night.

(Next week: Chapter Four: Death in the Desert!)

Labels: Fiction, Sand

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(Welcome to the second installment of our five-part swords and sorcery adventure. We join our hero, Radric, shortly after he discovered an ambush in the hot, arid desert of the B’Kar Waste. Each week DaRK PaRTY will publish another chapter in this pulse-pounding short story. A version of Sand was originally published in Lost Worlds: The Writers and Artists’ Science Fiction and Fantasy Forum.)

Two days later, Radric spotted a whiff of smoke twirling lazily across the sharp blue desert sky. He hobbled his mount and crawled to the top of the next dune. The sand had become more course and he knew that in a few days the D’jaren war party he was tracking would arrive at the western steppes of the B’Kar Waste.

Their homeland.

The dune proved to be an excellent vantage point. The D’jaren party was camped a low steppe next to a desert stream, a thin trickle of dun-colored water that reminded Radric he was thirsty.

The D’jaren camels and the horses stolen from the dead soldiers were tied in a makeshift corral made of rope. Radric counted seven tents, including the large one at the center belonging to the D’jaren warchief.

Radric settled to wait.

The afternoon faded into twilight and the aroma of cooking wafted over Radric’s outpost. D’jaren were fond of sand lizards and the root of thistle cactus, which they ground into a thick paste. Two D’jaren warriors guarded the mounts and two others patrolled the perimeter of the camp. Radric leaned back against the sand and tried to remember everything he could about the D’jaren.

It was rare to meet a D’jaren outside their homeland and, in fact, Radric never had. His two encounters with them had been in battle in the B’Kar Waste when he had been a sell sword. He knew little of their culture. They were nomads and tribal. He knew of six or seven clans with names like Stone Lizard and Thunder Rock. The clans constantly feuded over territory.

The race was distantly related to humans, but smaller in stature. Their skin was pale yellow and hairless, thick and contoured like tree bark. D’jaren wore layers of brown, yellow, and white robes and Radric had heard that the colors signified status within the clan. Their most startling feature, at least to humans, was a flap of gelatinous skin that protruded from their foreheads and covered their faces – extending to their upper lips. This flap, known as a d’jar, was a great source of pride and often tattooed and decorated with gold and silver jewelry.

The d’jars main purpose was to shield the D’jaren’s eyes from the harsh wind storms of the B’Kar Waste. D’jaren eyes, said to be star-shaped vermilion-colored orbs about the size of raisins, were considered holy. It was forbidden for D’jaren to reveal their eyes in public; rare even in private. It was a sign of great honor and respect for a D’jaren to show his eyes to another.

The D’jaren did not “see” like humans. Somehow they were able to distinguish shadows and light, but relied more on hearing and scent. D’jaren saw the heat energy emitted by living creatures. Against the stark, lifeless background of the B’Kar Waste, living things glowed, allowing the D’jaren to see them. It was said that in a jungle, a D’jaren would be completely blind.

After another quick survey of the camp, Radric returned to his horse to wait for full dark. The dry, desert heat cooled as night approached. Radric crouched in the sand and ate a dinner of dried rabbit, hard cheese, and brown bread. His water supply was running dangerous low, so he took only a few conservative sips from his water skin.

As the first and second moons rose, Radric plotted his rescue of the wizard. The D’jaren party looked settled, which meant they were probably at a planned rendezvous site to wait for the rest of the clan. Once that happened there would be little chance of a rescue. Radric adjusted his saddle bags against his back and pondered.

Many years ago, he and Caswell had been traveling companions, if not friends. All that changed in Vixoria, the City of Saints, in the far east beyond the Churning Sea. There they met the Gypsy girl, Ttara, and the Mountain Dwarf, Shattock. Shattock knew of an out of the way warehouse that belonged to the High Temple of Vixoria. There were rumors of a forgotten sub-basement that stored old relics – golden goblets, jewel-studded scepters, ivory statues, and other exotic treasures. Shattock’s eyes glimmered as he regaled them with his tale. It had been a simple plan, one that relied on Radric’s warrior skills and Caswell’s magic. Greed must have consumed Caswell. It was the only explanation for what happened next.

In the end, Ttara and Shattock lay dead in the dust of the basement and the wizard fled with the booty. Radric survived the betrayal, crawling to Ttara’s side, shortly before she died, holding her cold hand as she wept into death. He had been captured by the High Temple Guard and spent two long years in a Vixorian labor camp, cutting stone and sifting through tons of sand. He picked up a handful of sand and let in run between his fingers. He had broken his vow never to touch sand again.

Radric escaped from the labor camp. He spent a long time searching for Caswell, but the wizard had disappeared and as the year wore on, Radric lost hope of ever finding him. He wandered, mostly in the south along the coast of the Great Sterling Ocean. The cities there were populous and wealthy. He gambled and drank; hiring out as a bodyguard or a sell sword – whoever would pay him the most coin. Then two months ago, he met the Lady Fflame of Lindell, a powerful kingdom in the west.

She was a woman scorned. Scorned by Caswell. The wizard had gained in stature since his days thieving in Vixoria. He was now a trusted advisor and comrade to the king of Lindell. Caswell ruled a portion of the kingdom known as Tarkkum. He lived in an elegant stronghold and commanded the Dark Tarkkum Guard, an elite corps of the Lindellian Army.

Radric touched the purse of gold coins Lady Fflame had given to him. She promised him more – much more, if he’d kill Caswell and bring her the wizard’s ring. Fflame knew nothing of the bitter hatred Radric felt for Caswell. She thought he was simply a paid assassin that she had met in a dark tavern. A mercenary. It had been a chance meeting. The chance of a lifetime. Radric had tracked the wizard to his stronghold in Tarkkum only to discover that Caswell had left for a junket to the B’Kar Waste to settle a border dispute with the D’jaren. A junket that had obviously met with failure.

From the folds of his saddlebags, Radric removed his prized possession – a midnight cloak. Even in the pitch blackness of the desert night, the cloak pulsed with blackness as deep as oil. The cloak was magic, sewn by Night Elves. Donning the cloak draped the wearer in invisibility. It wasn’t foolproof. To work, the wearer had to remain still, movement nullifying the magic’s effects. The cloak was also dangerous. It fed off the wearer’s soul. Wearing a midnight cloak too long was almost certain death. It wasn’t without hesitation that Radric donned the cloak over his armor and weapons.

Putting on the cloak felt very much like being dipped in ice water. He felt the familiar freezing of his blood and shuddered. Quickly and quietly, he scaled the dune and headed into the D’jaren camp. It was time.

(Stay tuned to next week's installment of Sand -- Chapter Three: Rescue)

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The sun hung low on the horizon. Radric dismissed a brief notion to camp inside the carriage. Better to sleep away from the carrion eaters and the ghosts of the fallen guards. He mounted his horse and rode over the dunes until he found a rock outcropping that would break the cold, night wind of the waste.

He had found Caswell. Now all he had to do was rescue him from the D’Jaren.

(Stayed tuned for next week's installment of Sand -- Chapter Two: Discovery in the B'Kar Waste)

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