The remnants of a dying people, he mused. Formerly feared throughout the world. They called us Haital, Ebodalo, Yipdaat, Yeoptal, Huna. Our name was death. And now death comes for us.
He glanced at his guards. Only fifty men. There was a time when his personal retinue counted in the hundreds. His clan’s tents now only totaled a couple of thousands. The scouts drew near.
“Hail, Chief of the Khingila Clan!”
Abdal raised his hand to acknowledge the greeting.
“What news, Octar?”
“So far, no sighting of our pursuers. Ahead, about a day’s leisurely ride, is a small town. A strange people. But the town looks rich. Must be a trading town.”
“We need provisions. We take it.”
Two days after, the red setting sun was obscured by the haze rising from the smoking ruins of the town. Hacked and dismembered bodies crowded the streets.
The town guard, though a substantial force, was no match for the sudden onslaught of the Hephthalites. The fury and experience of his men’s swords did the rest. Swords. His clan was aptly named.
He walked into the sacked temple located near the town’s destroyed gates. The loot of the temple was piled up in the courtyard. Bloody bundles of cloth which once been men or parts of men decorated the courtyard. His men told him that the resistance was fiercest in this temple.
That’s a lot of golden trinkets and gold bars for such a small town. Must be trading well, he observed.
He spotted an ornate but locked golden box the size of a small cushion. It was decorated with diamonds and semi-precious stones. Some indecipherable symbols were engraved in front. He gave a sign for one of his guards to take it back to his tent at the clan’s camp.
When he arrived at his tent, the box was already placed before his favorite cushioned low chair. As he walked towards the seat, he gestured for one of his experts in such matters to open the box. It took the man a while to open it. And paid for it with his life when the hidden poison trap was triggered as he finally unlocked the casket.
As some men took away the body, one of his men opened the casket for him. Amid the golden interior, lay a small ancient tile, of corroded copper, the sigils on it barely readable due to time and corrosion. It was held in place by two thin straps of gold.
“WHAT TRICK IS THIS?” he shouted. He was expecting a great treasure. Not this piece of garbage.
He drew his long sword and with all his strength cleaved the small tile. The sword went easily through the golden container and cut the tile into pieces.
As the small tablet broke into pieces, a sharp keening filled the air together with a bright flash which instantaneously spread in a wide circle from the chief’s tent. The blinding light encompassed the encampment and up to a mile beyond it. Then it was gone. And so was Abdal, his tent, and his people.
End of Book
The Accidental Archmage: Book One - Ragnarok Rising (MOBI EDITION) Page 41