Red Sands: Warlords of Atera

by Kyle, Celia

  So much she didn’t know. So much she wanted to know.

  “No, thank you.” She pushed the canteen away, careful not to touch his claws or scales.

  The alien tilted his head the opposite direction and a ridge formed above his eyes while what she could only call his lips pulled taut. He offered the canteen again, but she pushed it away once more. He set it aside, movements slow as if he wanted her to watch and remember where it was placed. It was hard to read his expression and she had no clue what he said, but he looked confused by her behavior. Well, she didn’t know how to communicate with him so it wasn’t like she could even explain the situation.

  Why had she thought being an alien mail-order bride was a good idea again?

  After her second refusal he remained in his crouch and settled back on his heels, elbows propped on his knees and hands loose as he stared at her.

  Intent. Unwavering. His entire attention on Sheri.

  She’d thought about simply getting up and striding to the tent flaps. She’d walk right on out of there and no one would stop her. Except based on the intensity in his stare, she was sure he would stop her.

  “Well,” she released a long sigh, “at least you haven’t tried to eat me. Though, you could just be waiting until you’re hungry.”

  Chapter Five

  Drazan studied the gift from Eana, unable to comprehend her behavior. She would not allow him to provide food or water despite her need. Her pink flesh wrinkled with her lack of liquid, like a hatchling newly exposed to the harshness of the sands. Yet she refused his every attempt at caring for her.

  Perhaps it was a test from the goddess. She gave him a gift, but he must prove his worth. He must prove he could support his alien kode—his mate—even as she gestured and released odd sounds in her strange language. Her face twisted and features changed shape as she waved her hands, her voice rising. How he wished he knew her language. How he wished he knew anything of his mate. Her name. The sands of her soul.

  Except the sands of her soul did not matter. She had stirred his blood and proved to be his kode. He would never stir for another. He was hers now whether she knew the truth or not.

  Drazan reached into his pouch and sought his rations. He hated to offer a warrior’s meal but there was little else available in an encampment. He would properly care for her once they returned to the Red Sands.

  He grasped a few thick pieces of dried ceaq and held it out to his kode. “You must eat, Gift of Eana.”

  He would show her the utmost respect when addressing her until he knew her name. She shook her head and held out her hands, her language once more stinging his ears.

  He would not be denied. He pushed the ration at her once more. “Gift of Eana, you—”

  A soft scratching at his tent flap interrupted him and he rumbled low, a warning to the warrior who dared interrupt him with his kode. He rumbled louder when his kode scrambled further away and cowered against the tent frame.

  “Enter.”

  Telu poked his head into the tent. “Drazan,” Telu grimaced. “There is a problem.”

  Drazan hissed at his paladin. “Handle it.”

  “Warlord,” Telu bowed his head and the use of Drazan’s title drew his full attention, “a delegation from the Hard Sands has arrived.”

  Drazan hissed, tongue flicking out with agitation, and then he ground his teeth together. He turned his attention back to his new mate, hating the way she cringed from his stare. Her gaze bounced between him and Telu, her distrust for them obvious.

  He sighed and hung his head, eyes falling closed while he sought a calm that hovered just out of reach. He had expected members of the other tribes to arrive. They would have been hovering at the edge of the Heart Sands in preparation for traveling to the center of the sands for Ulmur. Drazan and his warriors had been closest and had arrived first, but it had been inevitable that the others soon came to the crashed ship.

  “I will be there in a moment.” Drazan returned his gaze to his kode.

  “Yes, Warlord.” Telu ducked out of the tent, leaving Drazan and the alien woman alone once more.

  Drazan stared at his mate, wondering exactly how to communicate with her—to explain what was happening. He decided there wasn’t enough time for a full explanation, or the attempt at such. He pushed to his feet and reached for her, grabbing her by the arm and hauling her to her feet. She yelped in protest and slapped her small hand against his tough scales.

  He grasped her wrist and rubbed her palm. “Do not do this again. You will injure yourself.” He ran the back of his claw along the soft skin of her hand, searching for any injury, thankful when he found none. “My scales cannot be harmed by your pink flesh. It will only cause you pain.” She jerked against his hold and he carefully tightened his grip. “I seek only to keep you safe.”

  Another pull and he sighed, forked tongue tasting the air and finding it stained with his kode’s scent. A scent he could not interpret.

  “Come,” Drazan led her outside. She did not understand his words, but he hoped she would understand his intent.

  He led her to the center of the encampment and set her on the seat reserved for the warlord. He honored her by placing her in the position, a clear sign to the warriors of her importance to him. It would have to suffice until he made an announcement to all.

  He found Telu nearby and met his paladin’s stare, nodding toward the woman. Telu nodded in response and took up position at her side. Drazan could trust Telu to keep his kode safe regardless of the coming events.

  Across the camp, a group of Hard Sands Aterans spoke with Drazan’s warriors. Those from the Hard Sands were easily discerned from his own kind. While Red Sands blended in with their environment, the hues of their scales matching the red of their environment. The Hard Sands Aterans’ scales came in shades of gray, white, and brown to match the caves and stones they called home in their sands.

  The Hard and Red Sands warriors barked and hissed at one another, in the middle of an aggressive, heated argument. He could not make out most of their words, but the source of their dispute was clear. The Hard Sands warriors would demand that they be given the gifts from Eana—the strange alien females.

  Drazan—nor his warriors—would take kindly to such demands.

  As he approached the furious group, one of his scouts hurried close. The scout leaned toward him and spoke low. “Warlord, another delegation approaches from the south—from the Living Sands.”

  Drazan nodded and continued toward the arguing Ateran warriors. He needed to defuse the situation before blades became involved. The days of Ulmur were not meant to be a time of conflict and bloodshed. Yet the alien ship had added an unpredictable variable. If he did not act soon, blood would stain the sacred white sands around them.

  He stood before the arguing males and raised his voice. “Silence! This is a sacred time. Would you dishonor the goddess so soon before Ulmur begins?”

  The loud arguing lowered to angry mutters. One of the Hard Sands Aterans stepped forward. “Warlord of the Red Sands, we know of the gifts from Eana. There is word one has stirred your blood.”

  Drazan turned a narrow-eyed glare on his warriors, who would not meet his gaze. He should not be surprised that rumors of his mate spread so quickly among the males. They all dreamed of finding their own kode. It had obviously been a mistake for him to take the female to his tent. What other conclusion would his warriors draw from such an act?

  “If these strange aliens can stir the blood,” the Hard Sands delegate spoke calmly, “then surely Eana gifted them to us before Ulmur so that they might be shared with all. You have no right to keep the gifts from Eana from us.”

  Drazan stared the grey-scaled warrior down. He had not yet decided what should be done with the gifts from Eana. His group had arrived first. Thus they had right of first claim to the strange females. But he had been so distracted by finding his kode, he had not considered what was to be done with the others.

  He would do so now.

>   “We will discuss this at first light.” Drazan waved toward another dune. “Set up your own camp for the night. This is not the time for conflict. It is a time of peace.”

  The Hard Sands warriors grumbled among themselves but not could argue against his call for peace. They gradually moved away, though several leaned their heads together to whisper. He would remain on guard against those males.

  He gestured to two of his warriors, summoning them to his side. “Post a guard at the alien ship. Let none approach, and let none of the gifts of Eana to leave. Not until this situation is resolved.”

  “Yes, Warlord,” the guards spoke at once and took off into the darkness.

  Now he could return to his kode and work on understanding his alien mate. Except once more he was stopped, this time by a familiar male shouting across the dark camp.

  “Drazan! I challenge you to the Right of Ka’Eana!”

  Drazan growled and spun in place, turning toward the source of that voice. He had already faced one challenge this day, and Zevot’s betrayal had left a foul taste in his mouth. He had no desire to deal with any more foolishness. Not when there was so much else occupying his mind.

  The speaker stalked across the camp, gaze intent, and Drazan grimaced. Krunt—Zevot’s warrior-brother. The male had not been present during Zevot’s challenge earlier in the day and he must have ridden all night to cross the Heart Sands and reach them.

  “Return home, Krunt.” Drazan spoke low, flexing his claws and fighting the urge to sink them into Krunt. Any other day he would have gladly pummeled the fool. But not today. Not when he had found his kode. “Your brother was an assassin. He dishonored himself and Eana does not suffer the disgraced. He violated the goddess’ blessing on the challenge and brought poison onto the field. Take what honor you possess and leave this place.”

  “My brother’s dishonor is not the question.” Krunt stopped a few paces before Drazan. “You failed Zevot’s challenge. You lost the fight and your honor as well. As Zevot’s closest kin, I claim the spoils in his place.” Krunt breathed deeply and stood straighter, shoulders wide. “I claim the title of warlord, the alien vessel and all gifts from Eana within.”

  Drazan hissed. “What foolishness is this? Zevot is dead. I ended him myself.”

  Krunt raised his chin. “You did not complete the challenge. You did not deal the killing blow. In your haste to claim the vessel from the goddess, you left my warrior-brother alive. I put him out of his misery after you dishonorably left him suffering, but he still had breath in his lungs.”

  A chorus of grumbles rippled across the camp. Drazan ran his talons down the side of his face, the tips scraping his scales. It was the height of dishonor to leave a foe wounded but still alive. A warrior could demand the opponent yield, allowing them to keep their life. Or they could be killed. Leaving the fallen to bleed to death in the sands was cowardly.

  It did not matter that he had not known Zevot still lived when he had left, but he should have been more observant. Should not have allowed himself to be distracted by the gifts from Eana and the burning rains. The sap of the rafol was a paralytic poison, it could leave a warrior paralyzed and on the edge of death for days before finally claiming his life.

  He had to admit Krunt was correct. The honorable action—even after Zevot’s vile betrayal—would have been to slit his challenger’s throat. To hurry him to see the goddess in the next life. If not for his distraction, he would have done so.

  “Now is not the time, Krunt.” Drazan raised his chin in response. “We will not spill blood in the Heart Sands. I will not insult the goddess in such a way.”

  Drazan smirked. “But as soon as we return to the Red Sands, little warrior. I will spill your blood so that you may join your warrior-brother in the next life.”

  Chapter Six

  Sheri didn’t take her eyes off the unfolding drama, her attention bouncing between the red-scaled aliens that she’d first met and the gray-scaled newcomers. The longer the discussion progressed, the louder and more agitated the argument became. She wasn’t sure what they discussed, but it looked like the two groups were about to come to blows.

  Then the one who had taken her to his tent spoke to the others and within a few moments had diffused the situation, the gray aliens retreating. She didn’t know what he had done to convince them to leave, but it was clear they viewed her alien as a powerful leader. Not that he was her alien. He was just an alien. One she was pretty sure was called “lord” or “warlord” at some point. The TransComm Implant was finally earning its keep and learning some of the weird language. Though picking out one word among the rest of the untranslated gibberish was impossible.

  That didn’t stop her from listening, though. She kept her attention on the conversation, knowing the implant did its job. The TransComm was the most advanced translator on the market. The more samples of the language it was able to collect, the better and more quickly it could translate the tongue of the lizardmen. Communication was the first step, negotiating her release and the safety of the other women was the second.

  Sheri continued her eavesdropping, intent when another red alien approached him with anger in his voice. More words slipped through the translator—brother, duel, and goddess—along with a few other conjunctions and verbs here and there. She leaned closer, hoping the implant was close to completing its translation.

  Finally, a clear sentence made its way to her: “I will spill your blood so that you may join your warrior-brother in the next life.”

  That was enough for her breath to catch in her throat while her heartbeat broke out into a rapid tattoo. She had been unsure what to think of the lizard-like aliens, but hearing those words sent a chill through her, the cold warring with the heat of the fire.

  It had taken everything to escape the violence of her ex-husband and it’d nearly killed her. Now she was in the clutches of an alien warlord who—by the sounds of it—was just as violent and unpredictable as the man she’d barely escaped.

  It all happened in a moment, in an instant between one breath and the next. Sheri didn’t hesitate to leap to her feet and bolt into the night. The alien at her side was so started by her sudden movement that he couldn’t stop her. He tried grabbing for her, but she had already raced out of reach. Several others moved toward her, but she ducked and dodged each red-hued alien. She darted around tents and slid between her pursuers before hiding behind yet another. One of the aliens barreled into the tent, losing his footing and tearing it down around him. The ropes tangled and twisted around his limbs as he flailed and fought to remain upright—fought and failed.

  Several others shouted at her to stop, but she ignored them even if the TransComm Implant delivered their words clearly to her ears. She raced across the pale sands as quickly as she could, feet slipping as she clambered up the nearest dune, seeking her freedom in the dark desert beyond.

  She reached the peak and swung her attention from one side of the barren landscape to the other, searching for the remnants of her ship. Unfortunately, the glow of the fire didn’t reach far. For all she knew, the ship was in the opposite direction. She didn’t let that possibility stop her though. She delved into the midnight darkness, desperate to put space between herself and her alien captors. She trudged down the opposite side of the dune, sliding and tripping the first couple of steps.

  And falling the rest when a hulking figure tackled her. Thick arms wrapped around her, cool, dry scales pressing to her skin. She screamed as they rolled in the sand, her hair flailing in her face as she beat her small fists against the alien’s chest. When they stopped rolling, he grasped her wrists and pinned them overhead with one hand, leaving her helpless.

  And forced to stare into a pair of familiar red reptilian eyes—the warlord. He pinned her beneath his hard, scaly, muscular body. She squirmed and struggled, straining against his hold, but unable to break free. His grip on her wrists was as strong as iron yet gentle enough so he didn’t hurt her.

  “Cease struggling,”
he hissed and shifted his body atop hers, keeping her entire body motionless in the sands. Which was when she noticed something hot and hard against her thigh. Reality slammed into her, mind jumping to the obvious conclusion and forcing tears to her eyes. It was going to happen there, at that moment. He was going to violate her right there on the sands.

  “Please,” she cried out and struggled to choke back a sob. “Please don’t do this…”

  The alien grew still, his hard expression softening just the slightest bit and… was that guilt? A clawed finger came to rest on her lips and a soft trill—the tiniest breath of sound—accompanied the move. But it was too late to stop. Too late to muffle the gut-wrenching sobs that tore through her. One after another spilled from her lips and all the while, the alien struggled to soothe her. He stroked her hair and cooed at her, her wrists only pinned by one of his large hands. He captured an errant tear from her eye and stared at the tiny droplet, his tongue flicking out to taste the small drop of liquid.

  Taste it.

  As if her entire situation wasn’t crazy enough, that action drove home the knowledge that he was an alien and she was stranded on his planet.

  “This tastes of pain. I do not intend to hurt you. The sands are dangerous. Beasts lurk and running brings death.” He stroked her hair again. “I do not want to see you hurt.”

  The words were choppy but understandable and soothed her somewhat. They didn’t address his hardness though—the most worrisome aspect of their situation.

  Sheri sniffled and hated their language barrier. No matter what she said, he wouldn’t understand.

  The alien caressed her cheek. “You are a gift from Eana. No warrior would ever harm a female. Especially one delivered by the goddess.”