by Mary Vee
“I agree the trip could be dangerous. One should always respect the desert. Please accept my kindness and return to your home with no further obligation. I, in turn, will also hurry home by taking the desert route.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The sun blazed from directly overhead, and temperatures rose to well over one hundred desert-dry degrees. Intense sunlight made determining the time difficult. Promise slowed to a walk. She and the other horses needed a rest. The water supply should be replenished too.
Searching for a place to rest in this torrid terrain blinded them. Even with his eyes closed, Gilbert saw yellow spots. His mouth felt like dried muck long after it had been baked.
The captain cleared his throat. “There are trees up ahead. We could rest the horses in the shade.”
Gilbert nodded rather than spoke.
Under the farthest reaches of five trees, clear blue water filled a pond. Once the smell of water reached their nostrils, the men didn’t have to guide their mares. They slid off their mounts and joined the horses in quenching a ravenous thirst.
Sweat ran down the horse’s sides, down the men’s face and necks too.
“This is the best water,” said Ben.
The captain cupped his hand and filled it with water. “There’s no better filtration for a spring-fed pond than sand.” They filled their stomachs with water and dunked their heads. Droplets dripped down their faces.
Gilbert stepped out of the water. He stroked Promise’s mane. It felt hot and sticky. “Move the horses into the pond. It will cool their legs and hoofs.” Their animals hardly needed encouragement to wade deeper.
The guards left their horses to cool while refilling the water skins then collapsed in the cooler temperatures under the trees.
The mares appeared worn. Without sufficient rest from the heat, they wouldn’t have the strength to finish the journey. For their sake as well as the riders Gilbert said, “We’ll camp here tonight and give our rides a break.”
Count Godwin rode his horse under the tree, arriving as Gilbert finished speaking. Despite the protection of his hood, his white skin had reddened. “Well done. This is a good place to camp, your majesty.” The count and his guards helped themselves to the refreshing drink.
Ben whispered, “I don’t think you can get rid of him easily, sire. He stays with our group like bluish-green fuzzy mold sticks to a hunk of cheese.”
The horses moved away from the pond and moseyed to a small pad of grass under the trees. Ben splashed Gilbert, egging him into the pond. They plunged underwater and swallowed more of the cool refreshment.
Everyone except Count Godwin and Gilbert fell asleep under the trees. Gilbert faced the vast desert spanning the south. Endless waves of sand rested below a soft blue sky. He leaned against a tree trunk and closed his eyes for only a moment, enjoying the shade.
When he opened them, a massive brown wall rolled like an ocean wave from the south. It seemed to bubble and wobble. He’d never seen anything like it at the castle. “Count. What’s that big cloud rolling towards us?”
The count looked up from the pond and gasped. “That, sire, is trouble. We’ll lose the horses in that sandstorm unless we protect them. Now.”
Gilbert leaped to the command. He shook Ben. “Get up! Everyone, get up. Sandstorm!” The men lifted their sleepy heads and looked at the wall pushing toward them. In a quick breath, they shifted into action. “Get the tents up and the mares inside.”
Guards rummaged through the supplies for tents. Of course, they hadn’t been stored on the top in the packs. Ben flung a pot, blankets, and cups onto the ground. “Who packed this stuff?” They worked quickly, dumping the contents.
A gust of wind blew sand on them and tossed the supplies into the air. The horses screamed in fright and stomped their front hoofs.
Fabric from Count Godwin’s robe flapped in the wind, slapping him in the face. He shoved it away and shouted above the howling. “Sire, have three guards hold the horses’ reins and block their sight. Tell the other three guards and Ben to get the tents over the animals.”
The wind blared too loud for anyone to hear Gilbert’s commands. He went to each guard giving individual instructions. “Make one large tent by overlapping the canvasses. Tie them together and anchor them to the ground with the stakes and also with the supplies. Get the horses inside the shelter then sit on the inside edges and comfort the animals. Hurry. Get everyone and everything inside.”
The plan was carried out with the smoothness of a well-rehearsed drill. The guards and Ben carried the last of the supplies inside. Count Godwin followed Gilbert to the tent entrance and bumped into him when the king stopped.
A small distance away, an object in the sand reflected remnants of sunlight. Gilbert paused, curious what it was.
“Sire, for your safety we must get inside.”
The full force of the sandstorm pulsed toward them. Gilbert yelled over the noise. “Get inside. I’ll be right behind you.” He ran to the spot and picked up the object. It was a rose pin. He turned it over and wiped the surface. The letter ‘L’ appeared, engraved on the back. The same letter as his mother’s name, Letha. Two other letters vaguely appeared after the L. Sand crusted over them quicker than he could clean the surface. He recalled her having a pin like this. She wore it for some occasion he was allowed to attend as a small child. He couldn’t remember what the celebration was for.
Gilbert looked up. The wall of sand loomed only a few feet away. The wind swirled around his body with a force that lifted him off the ground for short spurts at a time. He curled his chin into his chest and pushed toward the tent. Sand whisked up his nose, into his ears, and scratched his eyes. He tried to call for help, but grit filled his mouth each time he opened it.
The tent vanished in a brown wall. He bent down to his knees and wrapped his arms around his head. One step in the wrong direction would lead him away from the others. The sand stung and burned his skin. He held his eyes and mouth closed.
Faintly, a voice called in the wind. “Sire. Where are you?”
He raised his head and shielded his eyes. He saw nothing but a spinning cloud of brown. “I’m here,” he shouted. He spat sand from his mouth. The fierce winds forced him to tuck his head back into his chest. A barrage of tiny crystals pelted his body. He slumped down to the ground.
Again, a faint voice trickled through the wind and said, “Sire, help us find you! Call out.”
Gilbert pulled his arm free from inches of sand and loosed his clenched fist. The rose pin cradled in his palm reflected only a faint glimmer. He pulled his tunic up over his eyes, nose, and mouth and yelled, “Over here.” He repeated the words even as the wind pushed the cloth down from his face.
“Sire,” said the voice, “is that you?”
Gilbert struggled to speak. The heavy dryness in his throat only made a low gravelly sound.
The wind howled louder and pushed on him. His legs grew heavy from the layers of sand piling over them. He didn’t have the strength to hold his head up in the air. The cloud thickened. The men wouldn’t see him until the storm ended. He curled his body flush against the ground where sand buried him.
Something touched his back. “Sire, can you walk? Let me help you up.”
Gilbert held his hand tight against his face and took a breath. A guard thrust a thin piece of cloth over his head. “This will help you breathe.”
He pressed a rope into Gilbert's hands. “Hold on. I’ll go first, and the other guard will follow you.” The rope pulled him in a direction he didn’t expect. They walked only a short distance before the guards helped him into the tent.
Sand caked his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. He removed the cloth from his head and collapsed onto the sandy floor. Wind pulled at the tent, snatching ends and wildly flicking them in the air.
Ben scooted close to him. “Drink this, sire.” Gilbert blindly reached out for the skin of water and drank. He swished the crusty sand loose from his mouth and spit. “I have a f
airly clean cloth, sire. You can wipe sand from your eyes.”
Gilbert guzzled more water. “Thank you.”
Ben set the water skin aside and helped the king wash his face. “You are a mess, sire.”
“I know.” He coughed. “I still have pieces in my eyes.”
Ben rinsed the cloth and wiped more.
The irritation in Gilbert’s eyes diminished. “What is our status?”
“One guard is sitting on each corner of the tent weighing it down. Count Godwin is standing between two horses. He’s holding ropes that connect the roof canvass pieces. We managed to anchor the tent to the tree before the storm intensified. The other two guards went after you.”
“Are they all right?”
“Better than you, sire. One has taken over the count’s post. The other found a weak area to hold down.” He pulled the wet cloth away from Gilbert's eyes. “See if you can open them.”
He gently rubbed then blinked them open. “Much better. Thanks.” He opened the satchel around his waist and dropped his mother’s rose pin inside.
The wind howled and yanked at the tent.
“Help,” a guard called. “I can’t hold this edge.”
A flap from the side of the tent sprung free. The material whipped in the air. Guards reached up but couldn’t catch the fabric without leaving their posts. Gusts of sand breached the tent, pelting them and the horses. Gilbert and Ben ran to the site and clapped at the air as material swooped through their hands. The horses whinnied. Their hoofs pounded the ground. Count Godwin walked to the most frightened ones and spoke softly. He held their reins tightly and quieted their spirits.
Gilbert and Ben snatched the flap when it came close. They pulled it inside and slid it under their backsides. They coughed up bits of sand. “Well, Ben. I’ve got sand in my eyes again.”
They wiped their faces and laughed.
While waiting for the wind to die down, Gilbert reached into his satchel for the rose brooch. “This is what I found in the sand. Look at the back. There is an engraving.”
Ben took the pin and turned it over. He cleaned the surface with his tunic. “The initials LIA. Do you know what they stand for?”
“I think this belongs to my mother. Her full name is Letha Irene Anneliese, Queen of Aerlis. It’s possible this brooch belongs to her.”
“Where did you find it?” He handed it back.
“A few feet from the tent. I can’t figure out why an expensive piece of jewelry was here in the desert.” Gilbert took it and placed it in his satchel.
“Ask the count, sire. He might know.”
“I can’t go over there. The wind will pick up this edge of the tent.”
“Yes, but the horses are calm enough for him to come here.”
Gilbert didn’t want to ask the advisor. Then again, Matthias wasn’t here, and Ben could be right. “Count Godwin? I have a question.” Gilbert held the brooch out in his palm. “Do you recognize this?”
Count Godwin’s eyes widened. “King Roland gave his wife, Queen Charlotte, a pin like this. She wears it for special occasions and keeps it locked in her personal safe.” He turned it over and sighed. “This can’t be hers. King Roland had the letters ‘CEV’ engraved on the back.” He gently ran his fingers over the surface. “My guess is this brooch belongs to your mother. Each brother must have had a pin to give his queen.” He handed back the jewelry.
“I thought it was hers too. I can’t figure out how it landed here—in the desert. She never journeyed west of the castle to my knowledge.”
The count stroked his short beard. “Well, sire, we’ve seen the wind blustery at times. Most likely the pin dropped when the dragon kidnapped your mother then progressively blew here over the last week.”
The idea made perfect sense. The picnic was a special event, which meant she wore the brooch that day. He ran his thumb over the rose pin in his hand happy he’d found it. If only he knew if she was alive.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The wind’s fury settled into puffs of breeze, tapping on the tent and a soft, gentle whirring. The captain opened the flap nearest him. “We can’t go out this way. There is a wall of sand.”
Guards sitting at the four corners gently lifted tent material. Only one found a useable narrow pathway.
The captain tucked the fabric back in place. “Sire, the good news is the tent formed a cocoon inside a casing of sand and saved our lives.”
“And the bad news?” asked Gilbert.
“Once we leave our posts the weight might collapse the tent.”
Gilbert looked at the ceiling where the fabric had darkened. Not even the desert sun seeped through. “Any suggestions on how we can get everyone and the horses out safely?”
“Yes, sire. For an exit plan, I suggest we widen the one open path enough to accommodate the mares. Men not holding down tent material should dig the path. When the work is done, each person leads a horse out. I’ll leave last.”
The idea sounded viable but dangerous. “Is there any other way?” Gilbert looked to Count Godwin, then the other men. Although they shook their heads, each man heroically volunteered to be the last to leave. “Thank you for your willingness to sacrifice yourselves. I’ll send commendations to King Roland on all your behalf no matter the outcome.” He rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get to work.”
Three guards grabbed shovels. At first, space only allowed one man to dig. As the path widened, the other men stepped in and helped. Fortunately, the work didn’t take as long as Gilbert thought. The guards lifted the flap and stepped inside. Sweat had glued chalky sand to their faces. “We’re done. I don’t know how long the path will stay, though.”
One guard took Gilbert's place holding down a tent edge, another took Ben’s, and the third took Count Godwin’s place. “Take a horse from the center. Remember to move them slowly, sire,” the captain said. “They’re helping to support the tent.”
Gilbert walked to Promise and stroked her nose. “Sorry, girl, you are more important here, right now.” She blinked and nuzzled him. He walked to a palfrey next to Promise, took her reins, and walked her out of the tent. Bright sunlight blasted his eyes even when looking at the ground. At least the wind had stilled. He led the mare to a nearby tree. Ben and Count Godwin followed close behind with their mares. “So far the cocoon is holding.”
They watched for the next guards, but no one emerged. Gilbert shuffled his feet in the sand. “Why aren’t they coming?”
The count patted his horse’s neck. He whispered a few words to her then said, “They are probably checking the stability before moving. We must keep the mares still, sire. They could rile up the others inside the tent.”
Moments later, a guard exited, pulling two horses. He handed the reins to Ben then returned to help others. Three guards filed out next with horses in tow. Three more guards and one horse remained inside.
At the base of the tent, sand shifted. “Hurry,” shouted Gilbert.
Suddenly the guards inside raised their voices in terror. The top of the dune swayed. “Move, move,” one shouted. The remaining horse charged out the pathway followed by a guard.
“Where is the captain?” Gilbert walked toward them.
One guard near the entrance shouted, “Man down!”
Two others shielded their heads and ran inside. The dune continued to shift left and right. It settled lower and lower, closer to the ground. Guards bellowed instructions. At last, the captain emerged, draped over the shoulders of one rescuer. As the last fled into the opening, the dune collapsed, ingesting the tents.
The earth stood still. Not a puff of wind or grain of sand moved.
“Is he alive?” Gilbert ran to the injured man’s side.
The two guards eased the captain to the ground and patted his face. Another brought a water skin and poured the liquid into their leader’s mouth. He sputtered and coughed before opening his eyes. “What happened? Where’s the tent?” He coughed so violently sand spurted from his mouth.
The guards cheered and slapped each other on the back as the sunset painted a golden brown in the western sky. Ben edged closer to Gilbert. “I hate to wreck the party, but the sandstorm filled in the pond, sire.”
The men were exhausted.
“We can’t move on. They need rest. Water will have to be rationed. I’ll tell them.” He turned to the others. “Unfortunately, the sandstorm filled in the pond. We’ll need to ration the water. Count Godwin, I’m putting you in charge of this project.”
“Yes, sire.”
Ben smacked his lips. “Couldn’t we have one drink to wash the sand out of our mouths?”
“I’m thirsty too.” Gilbert swallowed. “Let’s get some sleep. That’ll take our minds off our thirst.”
They set up a watch schedule and bedded down on soft patches of sand for the night.
The next morning, a nasty tasting film coated Gilbert’s mouth. He could barely move his tongue. The count brought him water. “Here is your ration, sire.”
Gilbert gulped until the count stopped him.
“Slow,” Count Godwin warned. “Swish the water in your mouth before swallowing.”
“I wish we had more.”
“You only feel this way because you know the situation. Try to think of something else, sire.”
“Did you have your ration?”
“I will, sire.”
Gilbert pushed the water skin back toward him. “I won’t drink another drop until you’ve had yours.”
The count accepted the gift. “Thank you.”
They rode in the hot sun for the day, stopping only to let the horses rest and drink their ration until cool night breezes gave them a reason to camp. Gilbert huddled inside a blanket that did little to keep him warm.
The sun rose on the second morning, warming the chilly night air. A gentle breeze carried sand. Ben took a deep breath. He sniffed the air a second time. “I think we’ve journeyed farther than we thought. Either this is the last dune or else a very large oasis is about to make history by having salt water.”