by Jon Monson
Screams sounded from nearby, along with the howls of more shadow beasts. He could hear lives being cut short. Sobs and cries echoed throughout the meadow as incorporeal teeth sank into the flesh of those who still worshipped him.
Do it, the voice whispered again. Take these powers and claim your rightful place.
He knew what the voice meant. With this much power, he would have no limits. There would be nothing to stop him from destroying his enemies.
He could win the war.
He could save mankind.
You could even save yourself, the voice said. This day doesn’t have to end in your sacrifice. Doesn’t it seem unfair that after all you’ve done, you won’t be able to enjoy the world you’ve worked so hard to save?
He knew that this temptation would come. He knew the voice would speak these words to him when the time finally came. Instead of the usual insults, the voice spoke words of hope, of comfort.
Yet they were all lies. No one was meant to hold this much of the Power of Creation. It was more than any Divine could handle.
The power that raged within him could only fulfill its destiny if he didn’t hold onto it. He knew that he had to give it up. He had to give everything up.
And so he did.
Chapter 1
Chances to escape the boredom that permeated every facet of palace life only came along so often. As the sweat poured down his forehead, threatening to break through the eyebrows that struggled to keep the salty liquid at bay, Aydiin reminded himself that he had volunteered for this. Shifting the pack he carried on his back and pushing a lock of curly, black hair into his once-white shemagh, he scrutinized the barren landscape.
A harsh sun beat down on the cracked, red soil, threatening to burn away the sparse vegetation attempting to make a life in this Divine-forsaken desert. To his left stood one of the occasional stands of gnarled, low-growing trees that dotted the landscape. Their shade offered a tempting place to retreat from the sun’s excessive heat. Yet the scraggly bush-like trees also created havens for the various snakes and scorpions that called this land home – something Aydiin had learned the hard way.
At times, it was difficult to remember this was all still part of Salatia. Everything – the landscape, the creatures, even the very sun itself – seemed to belong to another world. Yet the people who remained here needed his help, and he was determined to provide it.
A dusty, ill-maintained road stretched out before him, traversing leagues of this empty wasteland. Aydiin tried to imagine the time – only a decade removed – when this had been a major highway, pumping life into the entire region. Now it sat abandoned, with the only traces of use by poverty-stricken locals. The railroad a few leagues to the west now acted as the preferred choice of merchants seeking to move goods in and out, stripping the land of its remaining wealth and satisfying the needs of those too poor to leave.
He couldn’t blame anyone for wanting to emigrate from this sweltering desert towards the fertile coastal plain. As he felt the sweat that coated his entire body underneath the soft cotton of his robe and loose-fitting trousers, Aydiin longed for the gentle sea breeze of his home. Here, the harsh winds carried only more dust.
The shemagh, carefully wrapped around his head, neck, and face, protected his skin from the harsh sun and suffocating dust. Yet it too was filthy, a strange reddish brown covering the white cotton.
This is by far my most uncomfortable adventure yet, Aydiin thought, as he swayed back and forth on the ancient horse he’d been forced to ride. With arthritis-ridden joints and a scraggly mane, the beast had certainly seen better days.
The heat, the sweat, and the grime – all of it would be tolerable were it not for this bag of fleas. He understood why he couldn’t ride Askari - his fiery kerton - but that didn’t make the journey on this bag of fleas any easier. As if in answer to his inward complaints, the horse snorted, shaking its mane.
“I guess you’re not exactly thrilled to be here, either,” Aydiin said, looking down and patting the poor creature on its emaciated neck. He really shouldn’t be so hard on the animal – it was, after all, taking him exactly where he needed to go. He looked back up to survey the horizon.
He nearly fell out of his saddle.
A tall man on an even taller horse stood motionless in the road not ten spans ahead. He was close enough for his facial features to be easily discerned, yet Aydiin had neither seen nor heard the man approach. A shiver ran up his spine, defying the intense heat.
The rider also wore a white shemagh, yet his was crisp and fresh, unlike the rag covering Aydiin’s face. The veil was down, exposing a neatly trimmed black mustache, a long yet wide nose, strikingly dark eyes, and a half-smoked cigar that hung lazily out of the corner of his mouth. His pristine white robe fluttered slightly in the breeze, contrasting sharply with the midnight black of his steed.
“Now what brings an illustrious personage such as yourself all the way out here?” the man called out.
“Lord Agha,” Aydiin called back, swallowing hard and nudging his horse closer to the man. “I believe I could be asking you the same question.”
The man chuckled, the cigar somehow managing to remain in the corner of his mouth. Aydiin caught a glimpse of pearly white teeth. Apparently, the man’s time in the desert hadn’t involved a lapse in oral hygiene.
“We both know the answer to your question,” Lord Agha replied. “And I already knew the answer to mine. I’m assuming you’ll give me some indignant speech about how my life of crime will only lead to sorrow or some such nonsense.”
“No, I was going to say your life of crime would lead to an early death,” Aydiin said. “You’ve already been found guilty for treason – now we can add robbery and multiple homicides.”
“Oh, I never do the killing myself,” the man sniffed, before reaching his hand up to take a short puff on his cigar. “That’s for lesser men with little self-control. I’m merely interested in liberating this region’s wealth.”
“I believe some might call that theft,” Aydiin responded.
“Burglary, banditry, rebellion - call it whatever you like,” Agha began, waving his hand. “The point is, it’s effective. I’m assuming it’s my efficiency that brings you here.”
“Something like that,” Aydiin said. “You must realize that you’re not only stealing from the Sultanate, but from the mouths of hungry children. Oltu is on the brink of starvation.”
“Now don’t tell me that dilapidated mining town is what roused Prince Aydiin into such a righteous fury that he finally accepted some responsibility,” Agha frowned, although his eyes continued in their smile. “Last I heard, you were off gallivanting with that buffoon you call a friend, looking for treasure in the forests of Lusita.”
“They were ancient ruins,” Aydiin said. “And yes, the suffering of my people was more than enough to bring me out here.”
“That is not the Aydiin I know,” Agha smiled. “Now tell me, did somebody miss his favorite uncle?”
“You’re my only uncle,” Aydiin sighed. “And believe it or not, I truly care about these people.”
“And in that spirit of love and empathy, you come to the very reaches of your father’s domain – alone, unarmed, and sweaty,” Agha sniffed. “Love truly is a powerful and strange force.”
“I was just hoping we could speak,” Aydiin said. “You wouldn’t send your own nephew’s head back on a spear, now would you?”
“Not if you’re polite,” Agha replied. “Those other messengers your father sent were just so uncouth – they came here listing their demands, saying I could be shown leniency if I only surrendered.”
“Well then it’s a good thing I’m not here to demand your surrender,” Aydiin shook his head. “Please, as your favorite nephew, I just want to understand – maybe negotiate a bit as well.”
“You’re my second-favorite nephew. But I guess that’s good enough to deserve a more lengthy discussion,” Agha replied, lifting his hand in the air. “It should be
done somewhere more private.”
At the sign, a dozen bandits on horseback emerged from the small copse of gnarled, low-growing trees that had tempted Aydiin only a few moments ago. It didn’t seem possible for so many men to hide in such sparse growth. There appeared to be almost more horses than trees.
Unlike their commander, these men wore the colorful robes and trousers of nomadic sheepherders. The rough, home-spun wool robes were dyed in various blues, reds, and oranges. Their cotton trousers, however, were all a dirty white.
Each man’s face was covered in a filthy shemagh, exposing only dark, intense eyes. Those eyes expressed pure hatred. More alarming than the hatred displayed in those eyes, however, were the weapons carried in their expert hands.
Aydiin had always imagined nomads carrying scimitars, or at best, muzzle-loaded muskets. Yet these men carried powerful bolt action rifles, fresh from a factory. The amount of firepower contained in this small squad could equal an entire battalion of Salatia’s regular infantry.
Aydiin had only recently convinced his father to equip his personal guards with the powerful firearms. He had seen first-hand the destruction a dozen similarly-armed men could do in a short time. As two of the bandits pointed their weapons directly at him, Aydiin knew that any chance he’d had of backing out had dissipated.
A rather stout man handed him a burlap sack with one hand, while the other held a long revolver pointed directly at Aydiin’s head. A smile was evident in the bandit’s exposed eyes. Something told Aydiin it wasn’t the friendly sort.
He grabbed the sack from the thief. Its fibers were rough, and one sniff told him it had recently been used to hold camel dung. The man motioned for Aydiin to put the sack on his head, and his heart sank – along with his stomach.
“We can’t allow you to merely retrace your steps accompanied by a battalion of the Sultan’s Guards,” Agha said. “I may have grown older since the days we played hide and seek in the palace’s gardens, but I’ve not grown dim-witted.”
You have grown more arrogant though, Aydiin thought, staring at the sack. Of course, the man had probably always been this way. It was likely the simple memories of a loving child that had simply ignored the less-than-admirable traits of an uncle he’d loved so dearly.
Aydiin handed his reins to the bandit and placed the burlap sack over his head. He immediately retched, which was met with laughter among his captors. It was going to be a long ride.
“Heddah is quite the jokester,” Agha laughed. “He could have at least washed the sack first. Oh well, too late now.”
Aydiin didn’t respond as he felt his horse begin to move. The tired creature plodded along in the heat, the sound of its hooves combining with that of his captors. The sun continued to beat down on the sack, his sweat adding moisture to the remains of the camel dung that clung to the burlap fibers.
The sound of hoof beats at his side brought Aydiin out of his thoughts.
“I’ve been watching you, young prince,” an unfamiliar voice whispered. “Your uncle says you seek adventure. Yet I know that above all, you seek knowledge.”
The man’s voice was deep, melodic. It had the accent of the inner tribes, of a man who was used to a harsh life on the Plateau of Surion. It conveyed the strength required to survive in a difficult land, yet it also contained a softness unexpected of a typical nomad.
“Right now, I only seek to help my people,” Aydiin responded, keeping his own voice at a whisper.
“And so does your uncle,” the voice said. “Two men with the same goal on opposite ends of a struggle.”
“My father is far from the perfect Sultan, but this little war that Agha is raging doesn’t seem motivated by any desire to help the people of Salatia,” Aydiin responded.
There was no response, and for a moment, Aydiin wondered if he had gone too far. He didn’t really know this man who had apparently been watching him. Such words could easily incite anger.
Then he felt the flap on his pack open, accompanied by the sound of something small and solid being slid into the leather container.
“You’re a good man, Prince Aydiin,” the voice whispered. “It is my sincere hope that you survive this.”
“I thank you for that,” Aydiin said slowly, still trying to ignore the stench within the burlap sack. He wanted to see the face of this strange visitor, yet he knew that taking off the sack would violate the trust he had with the thieves. “What did you just put into my pack?”
There was no response. He could hear Agha’s horse ahead, accompanied by the sounds of the bandits who followed the man. Yet the hoof beats next to him were absent. A shiver ran down his spine.
Beyond the sound of travelling, silence reigned. The heat muffled any sound that wanted to disturb the quiet. Even his own heartbeat seemed muted, despite the pounding in his ears.
Aydiin could feel his breath rather than hear it, could feel the moisture it left within the sack. He couldn’t tell if the smell of camel dung had dissipated or if he had just grown accustomed to it. Either way, he no longer wanted to vomit.
Through the sack, he could see the sun’s light change from a harsh yellow to an array of orange and red. The light filtered in through the burlap, telling him that the sun was close to abandoning this land to the relative cool of night. His sweaty skin longed for the drop in temperature.
The steady gait of his horse changed, and Aydiin found himself leaning forward as the group began climbing a hill. The soft click of hooves on packed dirt changed to the clatter of iron horse shoes on stone. The silence that had pervaded the journey dissipated, the air grew less oppressive.
He could hear the sound of running water in the near distance. It was the trickle of a tiny stream, probably bubbling out of a small spring. The sound was welcoming, although his mouth suddenly reminded him how long he had been without moisture.
The water was accompanied by the smell of greenery. It was different than the scraggly bushes and trees that somehow survived out in the open – it was the scent of true plants that needed more than just the morning dew and occasional rainfall to survive. It reminded him of home, and the gardens he may never see again.
As they kept moving, the sound of running water was joined by that of civilization. The pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer was accompanied by the crackling of multiple fires. Horses neighed and pawed at the ground. Men called to one another, their words and laughter melding into a cacophony of life.
“Feel free to remove the dung sack from your head,” Agha’s voice called out as Aydiin’s horse stopped.
He removed the sack, breathing in the fresh air. It was as if his lungs had forgotten about air not laced with camel dung. His eyes squinted in the darkness, trying to make out his surroundings.
They were in a canyon, with red rock walls reaching into the sky in all directions. His eyes were drawn upwards, towards the black dome filled with stars now that the sun had relinquished its grasp on the day. The moon had just risen over the horizon, casting its pale light on the camp.
Nearly a hundred tents were pitched in the canyon, the canvas reflecting both the white light of the moon and the orange light of the camp fires. They were in no danger of being seen, completely surrounded by the red rock. It was little wonder these bandits had been able to hide so successfully for so long.
“Please show our guest to my tent,” Agha said to the man guiding Aydiin’s horse. “After I’ve had a chance to freshen up, I’ll meet him there.”
“As you wish, my Lord,” the man said, bowing slightly.
“Oh, and Heddah,” Agha said, the bandit turning to look. “I would speak with him alone – your presence is no longer required.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Heddah said slowly, his eyes narrowing. Those eyes turned to Aydiin, and he nodded for him to follow.
Heddah led him to the largest tent in the camp. The fabric was of pure white, although it was beginning to show the dirt. Unlike Agha’s clothing, the tent must be more difficult to wash consistently.
“You will wait here,” Heddah said. “Touch nothing, and know that if you turn a weapon on Lord Agha, you will not leave this camp alive.”
“I may be young and known for recklessness, but I am no fool,” Aydiin smiled at the man.
“Your presence here suggests otherwise,” Heddah said, giving Aydiin a dark look.
“I thank you for your company during the journey,” Aydiin said, smiling and giving the man a bow. “Our sparkling conversation proved to be most enlightening.”
Heddah only scoffed as he turned away. Aydiin watched the man go, melting back into the camp. With a sigh, he turned and lifted the tent flap.
Well, Uncle’s always had a taste for luxury, he thought as he looked around the edifice.
The ground was covered in thick, hand woven rugs barely visible in the moonlight. A large bed in the corner sat covered in silk pillows. A table crafted from rich mahogany stood in the corner, empty except for a single blank piece of paper and a fountain pen. A matching bookshelf stood tall, accompanying the lonely desk.
Aydiin found himself drawn to the books. He grabbed one leather-bound tome and flipped it open. He let the smell of the pages and ink fill his nostrils. It was vastly preferable over the camel dung.
Replacing the book on the shelf, he let his eyes roll over the other volumes. The shelf contained some of the world’s greatest works. The rigors of a desert bandit’s life apparently didn’t allow for more than a dozen, but his uncle had chosen well. In fact, in his place, Aydiin would have made very similar choices.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to touch another man’s things without asking permission?” Agha’s voice sounded from the tent’s entrance.
“I’m not touching,” Aydiin said, blushing slightly with the lie while keeping his gaze fixed solely on the shelves. “I’m only looking.”
“Well then, don’t you know it’s rude to ignore a man you’ve traveled hundreds of leagues to see?” he asked, the smile obvious in his voice.
“After all you’ve done, you have little moral authority to lecture me on manners,” Aydiin replied, turning away from the books to face the bandit lord.