He stuffed the amber block back into the bag. “You didn’t tell me that tidbit BEFORE we attacked the caravan! I could have chosen a softer target.”
“She wasn’t nearby when we approached. As you say, the greater the risk, the greater the reward. However, the cloak that you dearly had to possess will guide her right to us. Elementary magic.”
He glared angrily, “Swallow, you vex me! I should cut you into tiny bite sized pieces for stew.”
“Then you would break the contract and lose everything, including your own ugly fat hide.”
Fabu grinned, “Ahh, such are the highs and lows of life.” He tore off the cape and slung it to the ground. Then he urged his mount to kneel and he ponderously slid to the sand. Standing over the robe he gloated and said, “If I must return it, I will return it well used.” He pulled down his pantaloon. “That goat cheese I ate this morning must have unsettled my stomach. Luckily I have something to clean my backside with.”
Swallow frowned, “You really are a pig.”
“Oh, do I offend you?” he grunted and farted loudly. “My dear, there is room here for two. I won’t peek while you pee. This royal wipe should be very soft against your dainty rear. Now, assist me!”
“You wish for more magic?”
“Erect a curse around this shitty, royal rag and leave it plain view. I want anyone pursuing me to be severely dealt with!” After a mighty push and long smear, he tied his pantaloon and mounted his snorting camel, wiping his fingers on the camel’s hump. He stared at Swallow curiously, “Recently, I have not seen you relieve yourself nor drink nor eat.”
She finished her lethal enchantment and said merely, “I’ve become a very private person since my travels with you.” She tossed four small eggs onto the sand. With a minor motion of her fingers, the eggs began to swell in size as they sank down out of sight.
Fabu said, “Let’s hurry. My mercenaries are still a half day’s ride away. With this final delivery of captured souls, I look forward to my payment and a romantic interlude with you.”
* * *
The caravan’s younger dogs joyfully chased the sheep into a tight circle. The older dogs stealthily prowled the perimeters chasing away scorpions and sand vipers. Camels were watered and kneeling on the ground for a rest. A slim fraction of the people from the House of the Gold Lion went about the duties to put the caravan in order for the night.
Zende ran to his Grandmother, “I’ve search everywhere. It’s not here.” In fact, everyone who had returned had been carefully collecting and storing the belongings of their missing comrades, but his father’s royal robe was not found.
Makhulu, refreshed and glowing with vigor, responded cheerfully, “I sense that it is not far from here. The Gold Lion may still be alive!” A ragged cheer rose from the survivors.
Happily surprised, Zende asked, “How did you know?”
“Basic sorcery, which worries me.” She turned to face the few travelers present. “My grandson and I need four warriors. We face a crafty demon and its servants.” Everyone came forward. “Zende, make your selection.”
“Me?” he said.
She took him aside, “You are sole heir and leader for now.”
“But— “
She whispered, “Walk through the camp. When I tap my staff on the earth, make your selection."
Zende proudly swelled to his full height which brought him to the nose of some of the shortest people. He walked confidently towards a woman who had been gathering herbs for dinner when the family was attacked. “You,” Zende said deepening his voice. The cook smiled.
Makhulu had not tapped her staff to the ground. She scowled, “Are you sure, honored Zende? She is just a cook.”
Zende stayed firm, “Yea! Her knowledge of wild flora will keep us from starvation and cure our hurts. Her skills with a knife will deter dangerous animals and keep at bay human enemies.”
“Wise choice,” winked Grandmother. “I will wait here, while you make your final selections.”
In quick order, the four warriors—a cook, a herdsman, a runner, and a drummer—were selected by Zende. They hurriedly made preparations to ride on a solitary expedition. Just before dawn, they bid their goodbyes but instead of fast horses, they rode upon four sturdy war camels with two cargo camels in tow as they traveled into the desert.
“We have water and food for 10 days,” said Zende.
“More than enough. A secret religious sect has a monastery only 7 days towards the North. Our adversaries traveled in that same direction,” advised Makhulu.
The night wind had erased any tracks but the herdsman found traces of camel spoor to use as a beacon. The riders were carefully wrapped from head to toe in white travel robes as the sun rose higher in the sky and most sensible animals had hidden themselves from the oppressive heat. There was little conversation and the soft padding on the camel’s feet allowed a sure-footed and silent passage.
Makhulu encouraged Zende to take the lead which he humbly accepted for many miles. As they reached the top of a dune, the Drummer spotted a speck of cloth fluttering in the hot wind.
“Father’s robe!” yelled Zende and he kicked his lumbering steed into a fast trot down the hill.
“Wait! Grandson, Wait!” Makhulu halted the progress of the others before kicking her own mount into a desperate run to stop her grandson. “Zende, don’t approach the robe!”
The sands around the royal gown began to vibrate.
Makhulu caught up with Zende, grabbed the reins and yanked his camel to a halt. Angrily, she dismounted and declared, “Step carefully and when appropriate strike hard and fast! Do you understand, Zende?!”
“But that is Father’s royal attire, half buried in the sand! He must be nearby. What’s that awful smell?” The ground erupted around Zende! Razor sharp teeth exploded out of the sand and clamped hard on his camel’s neck nearly snapping it completely off. Arterial blood gushed from the deadly
