while.”
“And now you are in the Sands. I believe the distance between these two locations is beyond calculation. When were you in Das’von?”
The four looked at one another before Milli finally answered, “Five days ago.”
The nomad blinked slowly and said nothing for a long time.
“It was magic,” said Brogus.
“So I would imagine,” said Manetho.
“We used some portal thingy,” continued Brogus.
“You did this on your own?”
“No,” said Brogus. “A mage helped us. We promised to reward him once we completed our mission.”
Milli sat silently.
“I see,” said Manetho. “Well, it is much for me to think about. We are currently on patrol. The main encampment is too far for you to reach on foot. I will send a rider back for horses once the heat of the day passes us. We might have to wait several days. In the meantime you can regal me with stories of the northern realm and perhaps all you know of this Corancil and his armies.”
“We never met him,” said Brogus with a shrug although Milli remained silent. “Helmhigh keeps mostly to itself. We don’t know much about the rest of the world.”
Petra spoke next, “I probably know the most about Corancil but even that is not much. I’m a witch woman and I’ve traveled about the area more than a bit. Das’von is the oldest city in the northern realms and was ruled by a dwarf warlord since I was a little girl. Rumors started about three of four years ago about some armies from the middle-lands. There are supposedly some tall mountains and wide lakes in the middle of the northern states but I do not know if that is true. Corancil came from those with his armies. He conquered Das’von and Stav’rol in great battles. He supposedly has trading treatises with the cities on the eastern shore, especially Sea’cra. They are traders on the ocean, sea-going men.”
“We know these Sea’cra traders,” said Manetho. “Their vessels reach the City by the Sea, Tanta, and from there goods reach us nomads. They are weaklings in the city, living in their brick homes, away from the stars, the sun, the sand. These are things that make a man strong. If this Corancil thinks to invade the southlands then he must deal with the Black Horsemen, the strongest of the nomad tribes. He will not be able to defeat us. Have no fear. You are safe.”
“The armies of Corancil number in the tens of thousands,” said Milli with a gesture of spreading arms. “We stayed in a camp outside of Das’von.”
“These matters bear much thought,” said Manetho. “I am not the one who can make important decisions. Rest now, it is the peak of Ras, we will send the patrol on without us and wait. Then I will take you to the Black Horseman and he will decide what is to be done. Rest now.”
Chapter 11
Two hundred tents covered the scrub plains around the shallow lake. The greatest density clustered along the eastern shore although small groups and isolated tents of all shapes and sizes popped up along the shoreline like little bunches of flowers. Their awnings displayed all the colors of the rainbow and thousands of people, horses, camels, and other strange beasts meandered between them as the shouts of street hawkers and the screams of children echoed back and forth. A weather beaten nomad wearing riding gear and walking his horse carefully through the throng looked neither to the left or right but made a direct line towards the center of the tent city. The scarf that partially covered his face hung loosely and his deep brown eyes stared out above a hawk-like nose. As he neared the center of the tents a young boy, not yet in his teens, dashed out and took the reins of his horse from the man and then led the great steed off to the north.
The boy took the horse out past the tent city and towards an open field in the distance where hundreds of the powerful beasts frolicked with one another. Meanwhile the man continued his journey towards the center of the encampment and towards a large black tent that seemed to suck in the colors from those around it. He approached the entrance a few moments later and two tall nomads, both faces pock-marked from the blister disease that took the lives of so many nomads, wearing long scimitars at their sides and unsmiling mouths on their faces greeted him with a nod of their head. They made no move to impede his entrance. He ducked into the tent without a word and made his way to a low table where a tall darkling with purple eyes sat behind a wooden desk on a chair of the same material. He barely glanced up as the weather-beaten nomad entered the room, peeled the mask from his face, and stood before the table.
The darkling took a few more notes with a feather quill, scratching strange symbols on a piece of parchment, set it down, and after a final pause looked up at the nomad, “Report.”
“I am from Manetho’s patrol of the Farrider border. We encountered a group of northmen hiding in a cave. They slew a Farriders patrol and stole their equipment and a horse,” said the nomad in a steady voice as he looked directly into the dancing purple eyes of the man behind the desk.
“Northerners, you say?” said the darkling as he reached over and picked up the quill for long enough to dip it in an inkpot, and then he leaned back in his chair. “In The Sands?” The darkling pursed his lips of a deep brownish red color and was again silent for a second as his eyes moved back and forth. “You were right to come directly to me. What is your name?”
“I am Mejhem the White Fox,” said the man with a slight nod of his head. “Manetho was able to communicate with the northerners although I do not know of what they spoke.”
The darkling propped his elbows on the table and stared off into the distance without saying anything for a long time, although the nomad showed no signs of impatience and merely stood silently waiting. “You will want food, water, a fresh horse?” said the darkling his eyes once again fixed on Mejhem.
“A kind courtesy but unnecessary, Sheikh Ming. It was not a long journey and I am prepared to lead a group of warriors back to the site immediately so that they might be brought to you with all speed,” said the man with a shake of his head. “They do not have horses or even camels and cannot return easily.”
“In that part of the desert with no horses, no camels,” said Ming and his eyes flashed at the nomad for a moment, “Possibly you have been duped?”
“I do not think so,” said the man with another shake of his head. “They were badly burned by the sun, northerners most certainly, unfamiliar with the desert, short on food and water. I do not understand how they found themselves in such a place but I do not think I was fooled. I do not think this a game of the Farriders.”
Ming nodded his head. “Return to them with as many extra horses as you need. Bring them back here as quickly as possible. I will want to speak with them immediately.”
The nomad bowed, “I will do as you command, great Sheikh. I should return in four days unless the desert swallows their spirit.” With this he turned and left the tent.
Ming lowered his head and stared at the parchment on the desk without really seeing it until a squat little man with a large belly waddled out from one of the folds far in the back of the the tent. He wore an emerald green turban with a red, spiral pattern and his voluminous robes were of the same colors. Even with such garish and billowy clothes the layers of fat were visible beneath them and seemed to jiggle with his every move. His face, with three chins and cheeks like a pudgy baby, was round and somewhat red but he did not wear the smile of a jolly clown. “Black Rider,” he said as he approached the table.
Ming said nothing.
“This is most important news, grave news even. Northerners in The Sands? They must be interrogated as quickly as possible.”
“I ordered them brought here, Tahnoon” said the Black Rider. “What else would you have me do?”
“Ming,” said the man and held up his fat hands, palms forward. “Are you still angry that I ate all of the almonds? You merely had to tell me they were your special order and I would not have liberated them from the trader.”
The Black Rider put down his quill and tried to give the fat man a stern look but the inkling of a smile crept into the corner of his lips and he finally shook his head, “What is it that makes it impossible to stay angry at a fat, jolly man?”
