Lords of the Sands: An Epic Dark Fantasy Novel

by Paul Yoder

  Nomad, at first disgruntled by the puff of smoke, began to ease up, relaxing his shoulders, his posture starting to slouch as Yozo closed up his case and finished his chant, looking to Cavok once more, cracking his neck both ways before snatching his parasol from him and walking back to the spot where he had first been summoned by the man.

  “Cavok,” Arie called down from atop the dune, “whoever you saw is long gone. We should get moving again.”

  Cavok took one more hard look at Yozo and then grabbed Nomad’s arm, prompting him forward, slowly making their way up the sand dune with Yozo a constant ten yards behind them, the small group slowly making their way through the barren desert, the only other person they had seen in a week now being the one they just avoided.

  The day had been exhausting for the whole crew. Even Nomad seemed actually asleep, perhaps for the first time in days. They had double-timed their pace once the stranger had passed their trail and they had not stopped for a break the rest of the day and late into the night.

  The moon was low and thin, the stars providing the only real light along the sandy carpet. They hadn’t bothered to set up camp, throwing their supplies down and setting up Nomad beneath Yozo’s sun parasol in case the sun rose before they did so to avoid him getting burned without their knowing. Cavok had drunk the last of his spirits he had brought for the journey and was slouched over on his side, chest heaving, though making very little noise while he slumbered. Arie was out, both keeping watch and hunting scorpions in the cool sands, gathering what would be their snacks for the following day.

  Yozo had disappeared late in the day, which was both a relief to Cavok and Arie.

  The strange man had shown up only a day after they had departed the dryad’s grove. Nomad had given them a great deal of trouble, after recuperating somewhat, his demonic strength returning in degrees, so Cavok had resorted to binding their friend. They had not known what they were going to do, since making it back to Sheaf with Nomad fighting them every step of the way seemed untenable.

  Yozo appeared around that time.

  He had walked into their clearing, not even Arie aware that their perimeter had been intruded upon. He held surrendering hands up and simply said, “I can calm his demons.”

  They sat beside him as he administered his ritual and were both shocked to find a great change over Nomad. The rest of that day he had been docile, manageable, compliant, though in no way coherent other than to walk in the direction he was pointed in. Cavok did not like it. He called it ‘black magicks,’ but it was the only way they could foresee making it back to Sheaf without fighting with an entity that possibly would grow stronger the longer they traveled.

  The three had made a kind of pact, though very little had been said between them. Cavok and Arie had allowed Yozo to follow them to keep Nomad zombified, and Yozo stuck close for what dark reason Cavok and Arie could only guess at. As Arie filled Cavok in on their first encounter when Nomad had still been himself, Cavok’s disposition grew instantly cold towards the foreigner.

  Nomad’s chest slowly rose and fell, indicating life at some level. The deep sapphire glitter of the starlight reflecting off countless sand grains gave the slightest indicator that Nomad was not alone under the parasol’s silken canvas.

  A shifting in the sand, the noise so soft it could have been attributed to a desert bug or rodent, precursored a black shadow that slipped over Nomad’s limp body.

  Yozo’s ice grey eyes shone brightly in the darkness, two calculating gems of hate, peering down on his long-standing grudge. He hovered there, hunched over his kinsman’s vulnerable, drug-riddled body, silently taking in the sight, mulling over his options.

  A gleam, bright against the black backdrop of the parasol’s shade, shone as a stout knife came into sight beside Nomad’s face.

  “You thought you could escape our land, our people, run away from your failures....” the man whispered, barely mouthing the words. The knife slid up along Nomad’s cheek, slicing open the ashen skin, draining dark blood from the incision.

  “You started a war and then left us at the mercy of our enemies.”

  The knife slipped deeper into Nomad’s skin, puncturing through his mouth, just below the jawbone. Nomad’s eyes lazily opened, a slight grimace accentuating his features.

  “Yes,” Yozo grinned, twisting the knife blade into Nomad’s gums above his molars, carving into the ivory roots before jerking the knife out of the gaping cut he had made.

  “Open those eyes. I wanted my revenge on you to be pure, for you to have full faculty of your mind so that you could properly comprehend your disgrace. I wanted to beat you fairly at the peak of your skill—but it seems—” he said, looking down at the exposed skin of Nomad’s face, “there is little hope of that becoming a reality now. You are lost.”

  The blade tip plunged just under Nomad’s collarbone, slitting a line that filled with black blood that gleaned like oil in the starlight as Yozo continued, lost in his own speech now.

  “Perhaps this is a fitting end of your legacy. This is, after all, all you ever were. A demon who fed upon the good of those around you. Leading them into shit, asking your loved ones to answer for your sins.”

  Perhaps his voice had risen above a whisper at some point, or perhaps Cavok could sense his slithering presence, but what Yozo had not expected was how silently and quick the large man could move. Either his carelessness or his underestimation of the fierce man would cost him that night.

  Cavok snatched Yozo by the wrist, controlling the knife point, bringing it out of Nomad’s chest forcefully. Yozo’s other wrist was quick at work, snatching another hilt, drawing it just as Cavok grabbed his other wrist. Though Cavok was fast, Yozo had managed to get the blade out and stuck it into Cavok’s thigh.

  It would have been a deathblow had Cavok not secured the wrist when he had. The blade slid out an inch, blood oozing forth with the extraction. It was not gushing, however, and with that, both men knew the fight was practically over. Yozo stood no chance against the muscle of such a brute.

  Cavok brought both wrists up, forcing Yozo to his feet, dropping the blades as the strain on his wrists threatened to give under pressure. Cavok snapped Yozo’s wrists up further than the man was capable of yielding, a ripping sound slowly issuing as his tendons began to tear from the bone.

  Yozo kept quiet, though his wide eyes belied the pain he was in. He was struggling to backflip out of Cavok’s grasp, but Cavok held him too close to allow him room enough to lift his legs up between him and the brute.

  Cavok grabbed the back of Yozo’s neck and stepped in, pounding Yozo in the face with an elbow, knocking the man senseless, sprawling him out in the blue sands. Cavok was mounted on top of the man before he had a moment to collect himself.

  He reigned down blow after blow to the man’s once delicate features, shattering his nose and dislocating his jaw within the first few hits.

  Yozo attempted to put up a defense, not knowing where blows were coming from, but at least having enough sense to know to put up a guard; but after a few more elbows broke through, his feeble attempt at a guard dropped, leaving the man open for the raging strongman to beat his head in, caving in eye sockets, breaking his jaw, and blowing out teeth, leaving bloody smears all the way up his arms, from fist to elbows as Cavok began to slow, seeing the man had been unconscious for some time into the assault.

  “Cavok!” Arie yelled, rushing up over a nearby dune, dropping the small stack of scorpions she had found and skewered, running towards the bloody scene.

  “What in the world happened!” she frantically let out.

  Cavok ignored her, slapped Yozo’s limp face to the side, letting out the blood that had pooled in his mouth so that he wouldn’t choke, heavily breathing, “You’re not allowed to die just yet. We need your filthy magic still.” He stood up, looking to Arie who was rushing over to the two downed, bloodied bodies.

  “Arie, Nomad’s bleeding. I’m no healer,” he add
ed, lumbering off into the night, figuring Arie would watch over Nomad now, in case by some miracle Yozo managed to rouse enough to do harm to him.

  Blood covered the sands in frightening amounts. The shock of the scene greatly unsettled her, her hands trembling as she searched Nomad for wounds.

  Rushing to her pack to grab what few medical dressings and supplies she had brought for the journey, she cursed Cavok openly, who was no longer around, in disbelief at the horrifying scene she was rushing to handle.

  “Cavok! You fucking get back here and help me!” she screamed as she put pressure on Nomad’s chest wound to feebly attempt to staunch the flowing black blood, his bloody mouth gashed open, leaving an exposed jaw seeping ooze as she worked on his other wound.

  Her cries were in vain. Cavok didn’t return that long, wretched night.

  18

  Quiet Night in Sansabar

  The sun had just gone down, and no one was in sight at the rickety gate along the town limits. Though Sansabar looked deserted and ready to turn belly-up any year now, Fin knew how hearty the people were here, having visited its worn dirt streets many times over the years living in Tarigannie.

  With no guard to approve his entrance into the town, Fin strolled right down the town’s main street, trying not to look too nosey while looking for someone who might be able to give him a lead on where his friend might be staying.

  He was gathering some curious looks from the few locals that were out in the street or sitting out on the front porch of their stores.

  It had been a long journey, nearly a week since he had split up with Reza and the others. He had traveled fast and made very few stops.

  “Hey, Johnny,” Fin called to a boy running past him down the street towards a group of kids playing night games down the way.

  “I ain’t Johnny! I’m Tim,” the kid yelled, looking back only for a moment to correct the strange adult.

  “That’s right, hey Tim, hold up, I need your help. Looking for Blind Bat Matt. You heard of him?”

  Tim turned around, clearly irritated that his time with his friends was being held up by a chatty adult.

  “Yeah, I know him. Whatdoya want with him? I never saw you round before,” Tim said in a whiny voice, loud enough to draw the attention of a few porch watchers, the exact opposite of what Fin was going for with fishing a kid for information.

  “Timmy, I’m just looking for Matt. Just point me in the right direction, then you can go play with your friends,” Fin said, trying to keep his voice low, hoping the child would follow suit.

  “I ain’t Timmy! You can’t keep me from going to play with my friends! Think you can force me to tell you where people are, not if my dad has anything to say about it. And he will, if you keep talk’n my ear off!”

  Fin rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in defeat to the eight-year-old who stamped a firm foot down, Fin looking around to find all the townsfolk in earshot giving him a hard, distrustful look.

  “You always were shit with kids,” a grainy old voice sounded from down the street, causing Fin to spin back around to see a familiar, silver-haired man, crinkly white eyes wincing, looking in Fin’s general direction.

  “Good job making a scene, boy. I swear, the only talent you had was deftness with those blades you pack around. Didn’t you pick up any tact since you been on the road?” the black rag-donned man said, stepping out of the shadows, looking to the gawking kid that had stuck around, seeing that things had gotten somewhat more interesting.

  Matt reached behind his black tattered robes, lifting a few coins from them, a flash of copper shining dully in the moon’s dim light.

  “Tim, who be the girl ye got eyes for? Tell me who ye fancy and these three coppers are yours.”

  “Lissa Hardingwood,” Tim said instantly as he watched the coins start to disappear from Matt’s knuckles, back into the black folds, halting a moment while Matt stared hard with his cloudy eyes at the boy to make sure he wasn’t fibbing.

  “Honest, she’s the prettiest one in this dump, she got me heart. For three copper that ain’t no lie, I swear,” the boy answered, manners remarkably improved since dealing with Fin.

  In a flash, Matt flicked each of the coins in the air to the boy, little hands snatching them up deftly before bolting off without another peep, Matt standing there with a disapproving look on his face directed at Fin.

  “See, he wouldn’t tell his own mum that he’s got an eye for Lissa Hardingwood. Treat kids like they were adults, and you’ll get kids that reply to you like adults. Treat them like kids, and you’ll get kid responses. I should know best; I been trying to treat you like an adult for years against my better judgment of what you actually are. Tim there takes a better hint than you do most the time.”

  Fin was taken aback, forgetting how difficult the old man had been with him and Cavok. He knew though, even with all his rough edges and age, he was wise, and cunning, beyond even his years.

  “I’m in a bit of a pickle—” Fin started, Matt interjecting with a gruff, “Course you are, why else would you be here look’n for me? Cut to the chase boy, and buy me a drink while you’re at it.”

  “Matt, this is important. Like, important important. It’s not just about me and Cavok this time,” Fin chided, walking now with the shrouded blind man down the street to the dimly lit rundown saloon.

  “Where is that overgrown oaf? You two always been inseparable,” Matt mused, ignoring Fin’s urgent warnings, making his way slowly up the saloon bowed stairs.

  “Cavok should be close to Sheaf right now,” Fin answered, not sure how to explain and tie in his friend’s location with the crisis he was trying to explain to the old man.

  “Open that door for me, would ya?”

  Fin obliged, creaking open the swing gate, ushering Matt into the saloon, a healthy rank of cheap ales and sour wines permeating the room.

  “Matt!” the barrel-bellied man with a handlebar mustache behind the bar shouted, leaving Fin to wonder if the greeting was a friendly one, or a threat.

  “Geric, I’m here to pay my tab,” Matt slyly winked, patting Fin hard enough on the back to make him take a step forward.

  “I’m not here to pay your drinking tab, you slick weaseled—” he started, but Matt cut him off before further insults could be flung his way.

  “If you came here to tell me something, we’re going to have a drink—I can’t listen to you sober—and if we’re going to have a drink, we need to pay off my bill in order to do that.”

  “I only have enough on me for a few drinks,” Fin shot out, exasperation starting to show.

  Matt stared hard to the side of Fin, squinting as though he was looking right at him. “Pay the man my tab. I’m buying drinks tonight if you want to talk.”

  “Goddamnit, you’re insufferable,” Fin murmured, walking up to the bar, having a seat on a stool.

  “How much does this ol’ crook owe ya?” Fin asked, pulling out a side pouch with some copper and silver in it jingling around.

  “Fifteen,” the burly man grumbled, arms crossed.

  “Here,” Fin said, picking through, slamming copper after copper down on the wood countertop.

  “Silver, not copper.”

  Fin let out a frustrated sigh, tossing the whole purse to the man. “That’s somewhere around that amount. That’s all I’ll be paying at least.”

  The stout man opened the pouch, poked through its contents for a moment before stashing it behind the bar, asking Fin, “Wine or beer?” his voice softening ever so slightly.

  “Something stronger than that. I have a feeling I’ll need it tonight,” he answered, grabbing Matt’s rags, pulling him to a seat next to him at the bar.

  “Beer for me,” Matt said, trying his best to maintain some level of dignity from all the ire being directed at him.

  Geric uncapped a brown glass bottle and slammed it in front of Matt, then uncorked a green bottle, took a whiff, nodded his head in approval, th
en poured the clear liquid in a fat, hazy snifter, sliding it over to Fin.

  “I’m only servin’ ya because of your friend here, Matt. No more tabs for you, I’ll have coin up front before any more service here,” the bartender said, grabbing the coin purse Fin had given him and stepping back into the back room, leaving the two alone in the dimly lit room.

  “Alright, you all settled now? Got your little drink, finally ready to have a little chat with me?” Fin asked, more than slightly perturbed at that point.

  Taking a long sip of his spruce beer, letting out a satisfied sigh, Matt nodded his head, perkily agreeing, “I’m ready.”

  Fin took a deep breath. He needed to collect himself. Matt was getting under his skin, and he had only been talking with him no more than five minutes!

  Taking a swig of the drink, he swirled it a moment in his mouth before swallowing.

  Gin. Not his favorite spirit, and not a great gin at that, but having been without drink for two weeks now, it was more than a welcomed offering.

  He had eaten and drank very little the last few days and he could feel the alcohol hit his system instantly, a light headrush relaxing his thoughts and stress. All of the travel’s cares seemed to sluff off his shoulders as he eased back and breathed deep once more, collecting himself before having to continue with Matt.

  “You sure needed that,” Matt remarked, looking up, staring at nothing, but listening to Fin’s breathing.

  “Yeah, Matt—it’s been tough. Me and Cavok, we got into some real shit the last year or so. Not the normal hijinks you used to know us for. A real ‘end of the world’ tangle. We’re gathering anyone we think could help. We need you with us. Me and Cavok,” Fin said, looking at his drink a moment longer before taking another swig, “we’re nothing next to what we’re facing.”

  “Well,” Matt garbled between quaffs of his beer, “I didn’t train you two boys for nothin’. I figured somewhere in both of you there was a nugget of potential. What are you tangled up in?”