The Heart of the Nomad (Closed)

[Mordelain]

The Heart of the Nomad

Hudde.jpg

Spice Wars: Most of the spice farmers and merchants can interact civilly – its just the poor luck of an il’Jhain runner to have to deal with the worst tempered among them. A set of farmers have taken to sabotaging anything that might aid their rivals – up to and including the runners carrying their wares. Your job is to get the spices you’re carrying to their intended destination – the il’Jhain’s honor is at stake.

This is the song
The spice-tree sings:
"Hunger and fire,
Hunger and fire,
Sky-born Beauty—
Spice of desire,"
Under the spice-tree
Watch and wait,
Burning maidens
And lads that mate.

The spice-tree spreads
And its boughs come down
Shadowing village and farm and town.
And none can see
But the pure of heart
The great green leaves
And the boughs descending,
And hear the song that is never ending.

The deep roots whisper,
The branches say:—
"Love to-morrow,
And love to-day,
And till Heaven's day,
And till Heaven's day."

The moon is a bird's nest in its branches,
The moon is hung in its topmost spaces.
And there, to-night, two doves play house
While lovers watch with uplifted faces.
Two doves go home
To their nest, the moon.
It is woven of twigs of broken light,
With threads of scarlet and threads of gray
And a lining of down for silk delight.
To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves,
Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;—
And one is the kiss I took from you,
And one is the kiss you gave to me.

Vachel Lindsay.

[Mordelain]

Prologue

Bordering on miraculous, the women who have led Fallien since its destruction nearly six hundred years ago are strong and wise. Every time a girl child is born, she is blessed by the priestesses, and if she exhibits certain attributes, both physical and mental, she is taken to Irrakam and raised to become a priestess. Every priestess is trained to possibly become the next Jya. The wisest, most motherly of them will become Jya when the current Jya either dies or is no longer able to perform her duties as the mother of Fallien.

---

All the worlds have a grasp of money. This inevitably means that all the worlds have a grasp of trade.

Althanas it would appear was no different, as greedy as any other plane or dimension. Mordelain sat on her horse, somewhat bewildered by the glaring heat of Fallien’s rolling desert wasteland and sighed. She stared distantly into the horizon whilst she waited for her contact to make his timely appearance. The two story building of baked white clay behind her rose up high like an edifice to industry.

"The Abdos..."

It formed a scar on the inhospitable land at the heart of the vast city of Irrakam. She had been directed to it when she had arrived months ago. The twittering of hurried mouths which did not want to help a stranger had ushered her to its opulent structure. It still made her catch her breath when she turned a corner to meet it.

She had realised the moment she had arrived that there was more to the acquisition of work than she had been lead to believe. Earning a living as a foreigner in the deserts of Fallien was a difficult task to say the least.

"Xenophobia is everyone's right here," she said gingerly, through parched and cracked lips.

There were three doors into the central room, each clearly intended for employees or employers to enter. Which door you used depended on your particular affiliation to one of the three running factions that used the Abdos. Her limited understanding of trade speak had ensured she struggled to remember her own faction’s name. Mordelain didn’t worry about it too much, as long as they stabled her horse and gave her a pittance on which to survive she did not ultimately care. Being a messenger of the Abdos had swiftly given her purpose, which was reward enough. It was a pastime whilst she took stock of the land and searched for other Tama that might have taken refuge here after the Cataclysm. Pastimes however, had a tendency to become times and lives of their own.

The desert on the other hand cared very much. On the outskirts of Irrakam she could already see the danger, the sweltering heat, kicking up sand into a shimmering mirage or the allure of an oasis. Those deadly shimmers could turn into paradise or be an ant lion’s nest. She had seen those great towering pincers too many times to wish to fall into their trap. The desert cared so much it wanted to kill you to prove it. Mordelain had to fight a war on three fronts to complete each of her deliveries. She had done four such assignments in the last two days. Already the people of Fallien were whispering of a new il'Jhain that could streak from the Abdos to Jya’s Keep in a flash. They said she could be out to the lakes in less time than it took a housewife to prepare pitta bread in a roasting oven.

Mordelain patted the mane of her steed, comforting her before they made yet another perilous trek. She had donned white muslin in a wrap around her head, a traditional hijab of the strange Fallien religion she had yet to investigate. For the most part it kept the heat out, and abated the incessant need of the mosquitos and dung flies to break through every layer you wore to buzz in your ears. With idle eyes semi-closed to keep out the glare and to avoid ironic snow blindness from the white clay paint, she examined the to and fro of the morning crowd.

[Mordelain]

It is said that Jya is the living incarnation of Suravani, the moon goddess of Fallien who turned the land to desert so long ago for the greed of its leaders. In a way which astounds those around her, this mysterious woman seems to know a person's deepest thoughts and desires, and even seems to have foresight into the future. There are tales of magic and miracles performed by the Mother of Fallien, and those given her blessing are said to be unstoppable.

---

Strange faces and dishonest merchants surrounded her. With hearkening cries they proffering their wares forcibly, swimming like salmon against the flow of the tired and weary citizens of Irrakam. Many carried gourds or great wicker baskets on their heads, both as shade and a convenient way to carry goods and purchases to and fro. She had learnt very quickly, from the absent jingle of several of the gold bells she had on her cloth headdress that keeping your valuables out of harm’s and thieves’ way was a life skill you had to learn in the nomad cities very quickly. Whilst she was now lighter on her feet than she had intended to be, the harsh reality and speed of life here was invigorating. It had keened her senses and forced her to learn, to adapt, and to assimilate herself into this new and wondrous culture.

The hubbub of the bazaar was now her home. The herb sellers peddling Sweet Cicely, anise, marjoram and angelica from Corone through to the bread sellers, selling sour rolls and poppy seed bagels in thatched shelters on dusty street corners; these were her people. She had become their hero, like every other runner before her, fleeting, but inspirational and a life blood to the sands whilst she lasted. Finally, she drew her gaze over her assignment, and smiled wearily from beneath her muslin wrapped troubadour attire. Its loose ends flapped in the soft breeze and sandy air as it drifted in from the north down the boulevard.

“As-Salāmu `alayk, Mordelain,” he said cheerily, his bushy beard and velvet skin symbols of long service to the il’Jhain caravans. He held out large cloth bundle, tightly wrapped with yellow and red ribbon, sign of her title and of the farmer she had to deliver it to. She took it with open arms and a forward lean from the saddle of her mount.

“As-Salāmu `alayk, Suresh,” her return of the traditional greeting brought a smile to the man’s face, melting his distrust and unfamiliarity with strangers. “It is such a pleasant day for a ride over the dunes, do you not think?”

“Rather you than me I am afraid, a sandstorm is set to tear down from the Outlander’s Post by nightfall. You should ride swift, and return before the sun starts to set or you will not be allowed through the wall.” He patted the side of Mordelain’s horse with deep appreciation for her white skin and flaxen mane. If he had known she was from another world, he might not have been so docile around her.

[Mordelain]

Because of her wisdom and compassion, there are few citizens of Fallien who do not adore their ruler. Those who are resentful or rebellious towards Jya, tend to be members of the Cult of the Sun, a group of religious zealots who worship Suravani's enemy and brother, the Sun god Mitra.

Jya allows her people to be mostly self-governing. Each family delegates a member which speaks at all clan meetings, each clan delegates a member which speaks for the clan in regional issues as well as a priestess who represents their interests before Jya. Jya makes her decisions based on the wishes of her people.

Truly she is the Althanian incarnation of the beloved Suravani.

---

The Troubadour looked out over the sands then back over her shoulder at the imposing headquarters. Everywhere she looked, life was teeming. All about her, people were going to and fro and every one of them was oblivious of the other. She could pick out collisions, perhaps thefts wherever she looked. Chaos was everywhere. She turned to Suresh, tucked the parcel into her saddle straps and pulled the reigns into her ready and gripped hands.

“If this it to go the Karachi spice field, then I am sure I can make two leagues in that time,” she computed the distance in her head, allowing for bandits, dune drifts and run ins with creatures far worse. She nodded to re-assure herself. “Has there been any trouble on the road lately, with other runners or such?”

Suresh chuckled and stepped away from the horse. He folded his arms back into the gaping folds of his blood red robes and pulled his hood up. It was weighted so that it settled onto his brow and the gold ring of wrapped cloth on his head formed a sudden crown; it was a merchant’s wreath, and he one of the more renowned and welcomed and honest merchants in Fallien. “I am afraid so. The sun shines on you, strange one and daughter of the sand. We have lost too much business of late, so you must deliver those spices,” the daggers that struck Mordelain’s form told her all she needed to know about the urgency of her assignment.

“Then I shall ride like the wind and harder still,” she patted her steed on its side and whipped her stirrups inwards.

The subtle spikes alerted her mount and she galloped forwards, leaving nothing but promises, dust plumes and the faint scent of a cooling poppy bread pocketed to keep her sustained and happy on the road to nowhere. Suresh watched her until she was a speck on the horizon with a grimace and shook his head. His morning happiness faded with her farm, as it did whenever a ride of the il’Jhain left with his expensive and prized goods.

He hoped, as he turned back into the outer swell of Ikkaram’s bazaar that this delivery would be made. “If she does not, and she lives,” he chattered his teeth and walked on, “Faziah will have her head. She might even put her Niphena stocks to good use,” he chuckled again, but with more malice and contempt, before he vanished into the swell proper. Faziah was a master with poisons, and Mordelain, like many other failed employees would never even notice.

[Mordelain]

The Journey

---

It did not take long for Mordelain to ride out from the Outsider’s Quarters, over the grand theoganist’s bridge and onto the desert sands proper. It did not much longer for the immensity of the desert’s heat to permeate the folds of the muslin she had wrapped around her arms, head and legs. She blazed a plume of dust behind her, her eyes set firmly on the dunes, picking out any signs of landmarks in an ever changing landscape; it played tricks on unwary travellers, it moved to spite you.

How Mordelain had become a messenger was still somewhat of an enigma amongst the il’Jhain. Traditionally xenophobic, the culture had somehow taken to her over the many hundreds of refugees and would be adventurers. She considered this a boon at first, until she had completed several assignments for the il'S’liaka, the Dustriders, and several of the more seasoned of Ikkaram’s citizens had become jealous. Fortunately for the Troubadour the watchful eye of Îdhdaer Bireth, the elven leader of the Freerunners was firmly set on her. He had allured her with his company of outsiders, elves, dwarves estranged in Fallien’s motherly embrace with a display of geomancy she had yet to see rivalled.

The desert moved in the wake of the winds, but it ran from Îdhdaer like a fearful child, who scuppered its plans with his almost divine command. He had given her what she hoped would be the first of many tokens for her work in the il’Jhain to date, and promised her the belt that the messengers of Ikkaram wore to display their providence to the rest of the city folk. It was a simple leather strap, with sparkling silver buckles that had several holes along its length to insert the treasured tokens in it. These were often prized from the bodies of unfortunate messengers like gold teeth on the streets of a rough city.

“They will not prize them from me,” Mordelain whispered through clenched teeth as she crested a giant dune and started into a canter down the far side. She had cleared a league already, lost in thought and driven north to the Karachi spice field on instinct and the need to succeed, no matter the cost. Her own speed bewildered her at times, and she thanked her horse with a roughshod ruffle of it's mane as they went.

There was perhaps a hint of magic in that sense, as the belt, so Suresh had told her, would always guide her north to the promises of the Ruuya. Wherever she stood, where ever she cried, wherever she found herself lost in the sands of the motherland she knew her way. In the distance the dunes gave way to a plain of sand so vast it swallowed the horizon. In it, she could pick out jagged rocks, remnants of ancient cities perhaps and large black squares on the sand where flags marked out the territory of their respective spice growers.

She jolted with the movement of her steed, until its hooves stopped sinking into the soft sand of the dune and ran out onto the hard compressed flats of the Naira, the Lady’s Mantle. It ran north along the west banks of the river all the way to the tip of the island, where the Ruuya Spicelands were. Skirting up from the bridge to avoid the Nirakkal Bad Lands, only the bravest of messengers went further than the Karachi. Mordelain hoped that one day, when she had enough tokens; she would be given parcels to deliver to the Ruuya. There, the Bedouins who had tamed the waters of Suravani’s Oasis, whose wind women ran barefooted through the Zaileya Mountains lived ignorant of the ruins left in Coradan’s exile.

It had not been long since she had set foot in Fallien’s capital, but its legends, folklore and traditions already swarmed around in her head as if she had padded the dusty bazaars and the library catacombs beneath Jya’s keep all her long life. She already felt like sand ran in her veins instead of blood, as if the desert sand storm were her goddess’s breathe given form. Though all the names she recited and mapped out in her mind to keep herself awake as she rode further and further north were still myths, she hoped one day she would be able to say to the children of Ikkaram that Coradan truly did hide in exile in the ruins Aduyya, and that the Oasis to the north was not a mirage. She wanted to see the legends in the flesh.

“I will walk these lands as I walk my own, dancing tales of wonderment, preaching the way of the Kalithrism in the sunlight and the shadow,” she calmed her growing sense of apprehension at the silence as she passed the first checkpoint. The ramshackle mud stable with a barrack did nothing to reassure her. She swept past to make the hundred mile journey to the second. Soon these waypoints would end and she would discover who, or indeed what had been interfering with the spice deliveries. Somebody, she hoped had a business disagreement. She did not wish to encounter jinn or devils darker still out in the searing sands.

[Mordelain]

The arid and empty landscape soon became alive with strange rock formations. The desert became populated by occasional and dried bushes, which threatened to burst into flame beneath the midday sun. The image of Suresh scowling and tooting as he walked away brought a smile to Mordelain’s face as she slowed her horse’s advance and made a gentle pace into the outer reaches of the Dagger Spine flats. The rock formation divided the dunes from the edges of the spice fields. It was a two mile wide band which stretched across the western edge of the river from the sea to the glistening and inviting banks of the waters that guarded Irrakam to the south.

All across the dried, cracked earth wind worn rocks stood up like columns. They were sharp at the point, tapered into fine edges and vicious overhangs. Some pulsed, like the body of a caterpillar in and out, smooth and leering and deadly all in one geological oddity. To get to the north you had to travel through them, and though this was only the third journey this far from Irrakam, Mordelain still felt unearthed by their presence as if they were whispering broken promises of torture into her ears.

Her horse weaved in and out of them quite oblivious to the danger on all sides. Children in the streets threatened their play rivals with the perils of the Dagger Spine, shouting taunts about harpies diving down from the rocks to tear out curious eyes and bandits jumping out from the shadows to drive kukri into your ribs. Lies of devils prising open your soul to show your mischief to the world. Mordelain had chuckled at the tales as they were shouted in fifty voices at the heart of an excited gaggle of orphans only a week ago. Now she only felt foolish.

They had seemed like innocent old wives’ tales then but now she was here, and now the wind howled like a wolf’s cry through the strange formations, she was growing less certain they were not just taunts. They were as real now as the threat of death for leaving city limits without the correct documents tucked into her garments that allowed her faux citizenship as a foreigner in a strange land.

Halfway into the Dagger Spine her horse neighed, and came to a stop without her command. It shuffled it’s hooves over the cracked drought land and crushed an ox skull under its uncertainty. The hollow echo of the contact bounced through the tall spires and Mordelain felt them. She did not wait to hear the cry in her ears, and kicked her horse forwards even as the shadows rose up from nearby spines to roll into dives for her nape, her soul, her blood.

"Ride il'Jhain, ride!" She roared, whipping her horses reigns furiously. The dried leather snapped against the dusty mane and her hands, though gloved struggled to put effort and weight into her command.

She heard the cry only after the hooves of her steed broke into a desperate run. She weaved at lightning speed through the rock formations holding on for dear life, head tucked into the mane and heart racing.

She had run too many times in her life to be stunned or fearful in such a circumstance.

She had found herself on the edge of the knife often enough to just run and never look back. The behemoths of the Bulganin Woods, the Shadowkith of Petra and even the Fiery Jinn of Ixian all held a particular space in her heart to inspire terror in her merely at the mention. She always ran, never turning, always forwards fleeing. This new creature, though, was something new, something unfamiliar. She had heard amongst many tales about the winged woman of the desert. Some called them eagle devils, others, succubae, though she knew no such daemons would walk so far from the Firmament.

“Harpies…” she whispered softly, a smile on her face despite the ominous presence pressing into the small of her back. Her horse frothed at the mouth and took in the fear, its eyes frayed and yellow as the sun as its blood pushed its limbs into fervour of speed it didn’t know it possessed. “Not today, sisters, this spice will find its way to the hands of its buyer without your self-indulgence.”

As she broke out into the open sands once more, instantly feeling the drought flats give way to soft sand and gentle, almost non-existent gradient she looked back. There were four shadows, fell creatures on the winds, each with leathery wings and blackened skin. The shrill cry sounded again, a chorus of hunger, and Mordelain looked forwards.

She did not see the two men step out from behind a half broken spire until they swung their pole-arms up at her, and she fell backwards to hit the sand with a thud. The second assailant fired a sling up at the harpies, and one danger was replaced with another, a more sinister and bloodthirsty foe - bandits.

[Mordelain]

"What is this, Haloes?” The elder of the two said triumphantly, pressing a boot down on Mordelain’s chest to keep her writhing but firmly in place. His gap toothed grin and greasy hair, half hidden by a head scarf and years of living rough in the deserts only confirmed the Troubadour’s suspicions that she had leapt out of the frying pan, straight into a fire.

“A Freerunner,” the other remarked, his thick Fallien accent only decipherable on the merit of Mordelain’s exposure to the varied dialects in the Irrakam streets. “A human no less,” he spat. In Fallien, there was only one thing worse than being an outsider, and that was working for one. It was the lowest of the low; no matter how many pieces of paper you had proclaiming your allegiance to Jya or the faculty of the il’Jhain.

The bandit named Haloes settled his glaive’s tip softly onto the sand and rested his free hand on his hip. They both wore grey and deep red tunics, tightly wrapped with leather straps and white cotton fastenings to keep them clothed and to allow wind to flow between their meagre testicles. That small fact, coupled with the weapon and their festooning hatred of outsiders allowed Mordelain to arrive at the pained conclusion that these were not only bandits, but bandits hired by the l’Arkmanham. The third and suspicious member of the tri-partite il’Jhain messenger consortium were less secretive about their hatred of outsiders. They, unlike the Freerunners were not so welcoming and not so open to the progress of change.

“What shall we do with her Hasid? Take her tokens; boil her brains, spit on her grave?” The reply came with rhetoric Mordelain assumed to be part of their tribal tradition. She did not like the sound of any of the outcomes. She spat back, missing the man’s boot and gobbing on her own waist sash. “No,” Haloes leant forwards as much as his grip on his weapon allowed and their heads blotted out the flare of the sun. Mordelain squinted to get a good look at the features of her assailants. She had a memory that could recall the names of a thousand flowers on a thousand islands. If she lived, she would remember theirs as well. “Let us give her to Suravani’s will; the old fool will welcome an offering to the lapsing shores of his oasis.”

With her head still very much spinning from the impact of the sandalwood shaft slamming into her chest, Mordelain only barely managed to couple together enough words of Fallien to mutter what she hoped would be her bargaining tool. “As-Salāmu `alayk Haloes and Hasid. I bring you blessings from the Ikkaram tüccarları ve great Fallien annesi.” She would have continued but the sharpening pressure from his boot, which was laden with sand and caked mud forced the last of her strength from her.

“Enough of your talk woman, you have no right to sp-” before he could finish his idle threads, he fell forwards, his boot crushing the glass dust and shell shards instead of squeezing wind from another unfortunate bounty. He reached for the dirt and ran his fingers over the sand, as if he thought she’d burrowed beneath the earth like a scorpion or worm running from the garuda or the jinn dragons. “What devilry is this?” He hung his head, and stood slowly to glare at Hasid. “Brother, we have to tell Suravani’s viceroy that that elf has worked his magic once more. Do you know what he will say when we do?” He raised a shorn eyebrow, a traditional Bedouin mark of skill with a partisan and wrinkled his lips into an uncomfortable smile.

“He will ask why we did not see the Amulet of Stars-Blessing on her lapel,” the bandit replied with smarm. This was the third time this week a Freerunner quarry had slipped through their grubby mitts by the grace of the Wanderers. Though they had increased the frequency of their attacks on il’Jhain, they had adapted, like scuttling dung beetles learning the perils of sunken trap doors and spider jaws, and now they had learnt how to fly from harm’s way. The bandits shook their heads solemnly, and stared at the dirt where Mordelain had been pinned seconds ago.

As Mordelain fell through the ether the echoes of their final words rang in her ears. She longed to know what this Amulet was. How could it have saved her should she not have called on desperation and longing for another world to drag her, vomit in her throat and head in agony through the veil? Phantaria sang in silence to taunt her doubt. Then she saw Suresh’s surly grin and reminded herself you had to buy such wonders of the il’Jhain with tokens, respect, and a lot of journeys north through the Dagger Spine.

[Mordelain]

“Where are you going, Kales?” She whispered without words, the Phantaria soul dredging any sound from her motions and suspending her in an endless void. She heard it whisper an answer back, but instead of language, she saw her last vision as she had lain choking on the sand. She had turned her head sideways, her blessing affording her enough leeway to turn to catch a glimpse of where her horse had galloped off to. Selfish as the beast was, it had carried in three hundred feet in a dust plume before it fell out of sight over the last of the dunes.

She bit her lip, crossed her fingers and walked forwards. The nausea was comfortable to her now, nothing more than a knot in the stomach and a calling of pain in her brow. It had not been the case when she was younger, when walking to another world had made her violently ill for hours.

Everything went dark and for a brief, hopeful moment Mordelain expected to be restored a thousand yards north of where she had fallen. Ideally, she would be able to leap back onto her mount and continue with quicksilver in her veins to her destination. The rules of the Tama and of the Troubadours were not so lenient. She opened her eyes with a sigh as her boots scrunched on soft sand. Instead of a golden aura she was met with a dreary, pale and sickly green landscape.

“Hudde,” she muttered through clenched teeth. She crossed her arms over her chest as the temperature dropped, even though by any standards the land of exile and eternal night was still scorching. The flickering flames that burnt atop strange ziggurats and vast necropolis to long dead criminals cast a strange glow over the distance, and Mordelain picked out several landmarks to discern her location. She was south of the maelstrom, the vast whirlpool of sand that desperate people threw themselves into when they finally gave up trying to leave. She had brought many people here on their final journey in her younger years, it’s strange property protecting them from the harmful effects of walking on those not of the world of Junkyo.

This was the graveyard of the Khalithrism.

She walked forwards to the edge of the rocky outcrop. She pictured her assailants falling with satisfying screams into the unknown end that would await them if she had brought them with her, and then set herself and her sights on her task at hand. “You can still make it on time,” she re-assured herself, “even if your journey’s gone from one world to three.”

Without much thought for her own safety she stepped forwards once again, straight off the cliff and down. The wind blew up into her muslin and scattered it into tattered wings and angelic tendrils of colour against the dark backdrop of Hudde. She seemed to fall for an age before the sea grew so big in her vision she could not avoid its approach. She drew on the fragmented energies which kept the nine worlds of the Kalithrism together and pushed them from her mind, where they swelled with vigour and down into her feet. With a concentred effort she pushed them down so that she fell to the waves of dry dust like a falling spear.

As she struck the surface of the sea the Kalithrism called to her, and through the waves, she was drawn into the Phantaria once more. She relished the clarity of the silence of the void for a few brief moments. Beneath her a vast sea of blue and silver liquid rolled gently back and forth as if she were in a vast ampoule. Stretching out in front of her, though she did not know their names were the Windlacer Mountains. Their frosty and misted peaks signs of a winter from long ago. She could make out the distant shapes of dragons ablaze with flame and angels projecting oratory blades through the thunderous sky. Time was compressed here, and Mordelain was witnessing the battles of thousands of years collected together in one of many collages of the Khalithrism.

She soon forgot the beauty she was privy when she felt her stomach turn once more. The Phantaria vanished, shattering into glass fragments as polished as diamonds. With a rush of air, the lapping shores of Brede appeared. She instantly felt a pang of regret at having left her stave. She longed to have the time to return to the more familiar bazaars and residential boulevards to reclaim it. Today however, she would have to make do with a remembrance of the red brick front and the oak supports on every house and the Memory Tree at the centre of the city. She could feel and hear the Central Square through her connection to her stave, and she almost shed a tear for it.

“Be safe,” she said with her eyes closed and her heart reaching out to see through the gnarled length of wood. True enough, it waited for her, and satisfied that there it remained she pulled on the Kalithrism once more.

So close to the tall, maze like warren buildings of the Eternal Market she fell through Phantaria and spilled out into the Outrider Outpost, ten miles north of where she had fallen. All she could mutter as her face fell flat into the sand was how fickle Jaya was, even though she had never met her, and still didn’t quite get the idea of matriarchy.

Whatever she had done, whatever prayers she had recited, whatever blessing she had earned from her new mistress she was thankful for it.

[Mordelain]

Before she knew it Mordelain was on her feet and dusting herself off. Her backside was horribly sore, her muslin frayed, tattered and clod with dust so that it stuck to her skin like rough chainmail and she was without horse. Most importantly of all she was now without her load. Fortunately for her, Kales was a horse with its own hidden talents.

Suresh had ridden it himself for many moons, when he had been one of the il’Jhain. He had broken Kales long before he turned his fame into profit and his gold into an empire that spanned more of Fallien than Fallien knew existed. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder at the smouldering horizon all the same, knowing that at any moment, she would see a blot on the landscape that would grow larger and larger until horse and rider were reunited.

She half wondered if the horse was not in fact a horse, but some sort of man trapped in an equestrian cage. She seemed to possess an intellect, or perhaps just a higher instinct that made her eyes sparkle and her neigh seem almost like words. Mordelain chuckled nervously, happy to be away from the bandit’s partisan and the strikingly bad breath of the man called Haloes. When she turned around to take in the poky structure that passed as one of the way points an il’Jhain runner could expect to frequent she lost all the hope and charm in her heart.

“I have seen more comfortable cells,” she muttered.

The outpost was a small square building made of high mud walls. It was bolstered with wooden stakes poking out from the top to scare away harpies from their ramparts. It was the same colour as the sand, but perhaps a shade darker from the layer and layer of urine, dung and water that had been caked over it each monsoon season to keep it upright. To the right side, next to two long wooden rails for horses to be reigned stood a small barrack, propped against the exterior of the wall with a small buttress surrounding its exposed flank. There was a trough by the rails but it was empty, buzzing with flies and full of rancour.

“As-Salāmu `alayk guardians of the sands!” She shouted, stepping closer to the stable doors to peer into the empty depths. The courtyard through the mud arch was empty, paved with once radiant marble and mosaics that had shone in the sun in a thousand shades of yellow and blue. Now they only shone with the dreadful aroma of horse manure, baked to the stone by the searing heat and drained of all moisture, to remain there forever, or until the sandstorms sweep them away. When no answer came Mordelain stepped hesitantly away and walked towards the half open saloon door which swung softly in the wind on easy hinges.

The two paltry windows cut into the mud of the barracks flapped with faded brown cloth. It was a miserable attempt at keeping out the sand on the inhabitant’s long stay of duty, before they cycled back to Ikkaram. As Mordelain stepped onto the porch she heard the creaking floorboards echo into the building, replied only with silence and the distant howl of the desert’s whispers. With nervous fingers she tucked her long black hair back into the folds of muslin and wiped the sand from the corners of her mouth. She did not wish to introduce herself with her unfortunate flight from her captors enforcing the desert’s presence onto every inch of her supple, eggshell skin.

“As-Salāmu `alayk guardians of the sands!” She repeated loudly. Her voice was carried into lofty heights of fear by the silence, the shutting of the door in its crumbling frame and the sense that at any moment, danger could pounce. She reached out with her left hand, fingertips splayed with curiosity and nerves and tensed as the worn wood came to a rest beneath her slender digits. It pushed inwards as she entered. She gasped as her eyes adjusted to the gloom that purveyed the meagre small holding.

There was a bed in the left corner. It was three high, nothing more than shallow recesses that were used only for sleeping in with thick woollen blankets and silk sheets to keep out the bitter cold of Fallien’s ironic night. On the right, a small kiln whose chimney cut into the corner sent its smoke up high. It still lingered with orange and cinnamon incense in its chamber. The smell of wood smoke and poppy bread reminded Mordelain that she was very hungry, until she was shocked by the unfortunate sight at the centre of the room.

[Mordelain]

The Price of Good Business

---

If she had not been expecting trouble, or not paying attention, she might have simply assumed the guards were being ignorant of their guest. Perhaps they had fallen asleep, the wisps of hookah smoke still spiralling up from the clove scented coal signs of a long morning spent in solitude with one another. Three weary souls, talking of home, wives, children, lovers. As she set her sights onto the backs of each of the men, who were sat at the table on rickety chairs, clad in the brown robes and headdress of the Ikkaram city guard, she drew together a scene.

The silver handles of the kukri embedded in each man’s back were clear indicators that members of the il’Jhain had been here. The polished hilt a clearer sign still that people meant to bring discord to the Ikkaram messengers. The dagger blow had been simultaneous; Mordelain could only wonder how three men had been set upon by at least three others when the only way into the barracks was through the door. Had they been so tired or cheerful their laughter and snores had drowned out even the most silent of footsteps? She shuddered, and slowly circled the table to look upon their death masks.

“Peaceful rest on weary faces,” she said softly, as if she were scared that her words might wake the dead. With slow movements, she leant in towards the table and picked up the scroll, and then stepped back with a rush of stale air. With careful fingers she unrolled the dry parchment and scanned the delicate script, set in Arial typeset and cast with a flourish of penmanship that could only have come from one of the il’Jhain scribes. They had a peculiar way about official documentation that somehow cast the strange Fallien alphabet in a light that even the novice linguist could understand.

As-Salāmu `alayk Monod,

They come once again, torches blazing, hounds barking. I do not know what to do. 'they take my spice, and the il’Jhain die to their blades. Is this the price of good business?

Help me brother, please,

Karachi.

She re-read the letter, ignoring the blood stain embedded with a fingerprint next to the signature as long as she could. She wondered more importantly if the bandits that had tried to pin her to the dunes with their leaf shaped partisans had been involved. Suresh had spoken of raids on the spice fields, as had many other il’Jhain amongst the ranks of the Freerunners. Witnessing it with her own eyes, she could not begin to compute what risk she was now in. With shaking hands she tucked the scroll into her fur-lined glove and bowed. Though she was no expert in life and death from the position of the kukri, all three of which were embedded between the shoulder blades the men were truly beyond help.

“I will help your brother in your stead,” she said absent minded, making another promise under the light of one sun she was starting to doubt she could keep. “Perhaps if I had ridden harder and faster, like I promised the old fool of a merchant, I could have helped you…” though even as she said it, her lip stiff and her eyes sullen from the haze and stagnation in the barracks, she did not truly believe it.

Thinking it okay, Mordelain helped herself to a glass of the date wine from the clay jug that rested by the bunks and drank it thirstily. Though stale, the sweet ichor ran down her throat and invigorated her with an instantaneous sense of gratification. Fallien liquor was a curious oddity, even amongst the nine worlds, because it was the only liquid known to never satisfy thirst. Even with ice, even with fervour, it could only inebriate, and never placate the arid taste buds and tongue of a nomad. It had other properties, by all means, but it required many more glugs to experience those. She set the jug down with a clang, wiped her lips with her furry tassel and bid farewell to the guards.

"It will have to do for now," she lamented.

As she walked back out into the sun the searing heat, cast to one side by the cooling shade of the mud hut returned full force. With a furtive glance to the right, she forgot about the risk of heat stroke as her horse trotted into the territory of the outpost, almost pre-destined. She was never glad to see someone else suffer for her own safety, but Kales’ struggle over the sands was something she was very glad for indeed. She ran to her and embraced her neck as though she were hugging a tree. Its warmth, and the smell of equestrian mane excited her, and she almost wanted to cry with joy.

“When we get back to the Outsider’s Quarters, I am going to feed you the finest grain and buy you a saddle fit for a stallion, because you are the only horse for me!” She patted her mount affectionately and came about to her right side.

She mounted with a quick step, having learnt the art of riding quickly following several awkward moments in public when Suresh had first attempted to teach her to tack. “Then I will make sure Suresh never whips you again,” she shuffled in the saddle and adjusted her muslin. The groggy and sweet taste on her lips brought her attention to the left saddlebag, from which she pulled with shaking hands a large poppy seed load, still warm, though by the sun’s grace and not the kiln’s kindness. She tore into it manically, forgetting her table manners in favour of fighting near starvation.