Stranger

[Khariss Sevrath]

((Closed to The Glassmaker))



Why the hell had he come to this God-forsaken place?

Well, he knew the answer to that question: money. Wasn’t it always the answer to questions like that? Some glorious, easy, get-rich-quick scheme would formulate in his head, and the merchant would rush off at the break of dawn. Every single time, there was something that he would overlook. It could simply be that he didn’t have the money or the influence to pull it off. Or, he might make too many enemies in the process: such had definitely been the case of the doomed plan he had called the Illicit Entrepreneurs. The third possibility was that the venture seemed downright impossible.

It was this third possibility that found Khariss where he was at that very moment. In this case, it was Fallien. He had made a beeline straight for the capital. Getting his Exit Pass had even been a somewhat brief ordeal: while none in the Irrakam authorities could speak his language, it was easy enough to convey his wish to trade.

If only he himself had really known where he was going.

The place was dubbed “The Blight,” and for a very good reason. The livid Fallien sun beat down on the merchant’s exposed flesh with an unrelenting fervor, slowly but surely cooking his skin. His feet sank into the endless sand at each step, and it was becoming more and more grueling to keep his legs churning. The glass-speckled sand seemed to reflect every last bit on light straight back into his face, rendering his eyes all but useless.

The entrepreneur felt his strength finally begin to fade, to give in to the indomitable desert. His shoulders slumped forward, and his head drooped toward the ground. A dry tongue brushed across parched, cracked lips, searching for the last vestiges of moisture. It truly was hopeless. Khariss missed a step and tumbled to the ground, searing-hot sand burning his flesh. The world in front of his eyes wavered and grew hazy before finally disappearing.

In the end, it was no warrior that defeated him. His foe didn’t wield a sword or carry a badge of law. It wasn’t even truly alive. After all of the people he’d killed, all the laws he had broken, it was nature that held him at its mercy.

[The Glassmaker]

"Shikaji, come! Come!"

It was no use. Sihiri didn't have the jackal-feet of his companion--the protective hide wrappings to keep his feet from burning didn't help with traction--and couldn't chase after him across the scalding, shifting sand without risking tripping and falling into the blazing-hot powder.

"Shikaji!" Why won't he come?

Finally, the black jackal stopped at the crest of a sun-white dune, silhouetted against the cloudless cobalt sky, and barked. One short, sharp bark.

Sihiri picked up his pace, hurrying as quickly as he safely could toward the dune. Even through the strip of black cloth tied around his eyes, the sunlight blazed painfully off of the sands. "Shikaji, what is it?" But the dog did not move. He stood, motionless, an onyx sentinel where bluest sky met whitest earth.

Finally, Sihiri made it to the peak of the dune, panting to breathe the parched desert air.

He froze.

Shikaji's gaze followed his Sihiri's own down the other side of the dune where a brown smear stained the flawless sand. The Mi'sheteri slid down the wind-sculpted slope and pressed two fingers to the man's throat.

A pulse.

Burns had already started to cover the man's face. Sihiri glanced furtively at the empty sky. Harpies would find him soon.

He rummaged through the fallen man's clothing, and found his Exit Pass. A trader.

Hmm. He didn't want to leave the pour soul out under the sun. He didn't want to let scavenging harpies tear him apart. But the tribe didn't look kindly on bringing strangers to the caves.

Although, the man was a merchant...and trade had been slow of late...

As good an excuse as any. You got lucky, stranger.

"Shikaji!"

This time, the jackal responded immediately and darted to his master's side.

Sihiri stripped off the man's shirt, laying it over the sand before he set the merchant's torso back town. Then he moved on to the breeches.

"How long did he expect to last in the Blight wearing this kind of cloth?"

Shikaji snorted in reply.

He stripped off the pants, again placing them underneath the foreigner's legs to keep them from burning. Then, as best he could, he tied the pants and shirt together. It wasn't the best stretcher--but it would do.

He placed on end in the jackal's mouth.

"Shikaji, pull."

And the dog obeyed. Sihiri took the other end of the sling.

And the trio of stains upon the endless white sands inched slowly toward the caves.