Darkness on the Horizon

“Master Faruq, Master Faruq.”

“Catch your breath Khaelin.” Faruq smiled at the younger man’s continued exuberance. Life as a caravan guard running between Outlander’s Post and Irrakam had a tendency to dull the passion each year’s crop of new guards started their journey with. Despite three trips across the blazing sands, Khaelin’s eyes still held a brightness that had long since faded from the others’. Of his many years as master for the Shalara Glassworks, there had only been three others like Khaelin whom Faruq had met, and each had become masters of their own mercenary houses. Assuming he survived the harshness of Fallien’s desert, Faruq had no doubt that Khaelin would follow in their footsteps.

“Of course, Master Faruq, a thousand pardons,” a blush spread quickly across Khaelin’s smooth cheeks. “But Alamar has returned with news that he has found two wounded men up around the crest.”

“Oziman’s Crest?”

“Yes, Master Faruq.”

Khaelin could read the cloud that crossed Faruq’s face as plainly as if the merchant had spoken his thoughts aloud. Each member of the caravan had been tasked with memorizing the route they were taking. Every bend on the trail and the dangers most commonly found on each was something that had been drilled into them. The rock outcropping known as Oziman’s Crest had long been regarded as a safe haven for the overland caravans who could not afford, or were not able, to get a spot on the ferries that ran from Irrakam to Outlander’s Post. Half a day’s travel from the ferry landing site, it was sheltered enough to make the perfect camp site yet was open enough and well travelled enough that bandit attacks there were almost unheard of.

“Should I send the word to have Alamar bring them in, Master Faruq?”

“No,” Faruq waved. “I wish to send Shendip. We have the same responsibility as all good disciples of Suravani to assist those in need and Shendip should learn that.”

Khaelin bowed his head low and scurried off to carry out his master’s will.

“There is a darkness on the horizon,” Faruq whispered, letting his eyes wander toward the hot sun drifting lazily through the afternoon sky. “Suravani protect us.”

Heat was something one quickly got used to in the deserts of Fallien. If you did not, you were dead. No matter whom you were, what background you came from, a universal principle was always made true; the strongest would survive the sands of Fallien. Karheem knew he was the strongest in the caravan. Every day he would wake up to meditate as the sun rose, a silent sentinel that dared the elements to start the day with their best.

Unlike the others in his group, he did not frolic and play around with street harems, nor did he waste his life on the concept of greed. He joined this Caravan to grow stronger, earn enough coin to make way to Corone, and battle in the legendary Citadel against the strongest foes. He had rumors of the great names of Letho Ravenheart, a man who’s sword could destroy armies! Of Sei Orlouge, who’s mind could erase your memories! Or even the deadly Seth Dahlios, who’s magic could erase you from history. Those were strong men, and one day Karheem would join their ranks.

But first, he had to put in his time. That meant he worked diligently and obediently for the Guard Master Faruq. The man was a sort of mentor to the tall, broad shouldered native. He had taught him many things in their skirmishes and travels. Faruq is a man of high respect, but that was all in this group Karheem had thought looking to the pudgy sack of flesh next to him. Son of a wealthy merchant, Shendip was assigned to the guard only to get him worldly experience. If one could say that. He lived in his own personal tent, had a servant who made him food, and brought in excess an extra carriage worth of ‘essentials’ that he could not live without. This included his bed, a wardrobe, and a few suitcases and trunks filled with items he refused to share with anyone. The man hardly said anything, and refused to partake in the group’s activities.

When Karheem had heard that two injured men were in need of picking up, Shendip was the first to oppose dirtying his hands with common street trash. Faruq then assigned Shendip to the mission, and Karheem was also asked to go to watch over the group. The boy made a very large scene about his distaste for Faruq, and vowed that he would pay for this misdeed in time. Since that bold declaration he had been silent ever since.

As they stepped forwards down the shade of the pass, (Shendip made sure to stay well within the shadows) they came to find the spot of the two injured travelers. Karheem nodded once to Shendip, stepping forward as he lifted out his bottle of water. The two men he saw were both haggard, their bodies looking beaten and broken. It seemed they had been in a fight, their own robes used to make bandages where blood seeped deep for many hours. One’s throat was wrapped in a shawl red as an apple, and the other hand a limp hand hanging limply at his side. Bruises and slashes lined their chest and sides.

“Desert tigers,” One of them said wearily. Karheem nodded to them lowering to a knee standing over the one with the red shawl. He made a motion to open it, but a hand gripped his wrist firmly. He looked to his eyes, seeing a sincere look as he nodded, being more careful with removing shawl. He peeked at the wound, and Shendip made a loud groan as he turned and purged his lunch.

“A mighty wound runs deep. I do not think you will be saying much, my friend. Can you drink?” The man nodded, a raspy breath on his lips as he reached to grab the bottle. Karheem gently lowered the man’s hands. “You have been through enough, let me help you friend.” He pulled the cork and lifted the drink to the injured man’s lips. The water flowed freely into his gullet, and it swished around, pooling before spilling out the sides. “You must swallow!” Karheem said, a bit annoyed to waste that precious commodity, but soon the water receded down the throat. The injured man nodded in thanks, and rolled stiffly to his side, before standing with Karheem’s help.

Shendip looked to the man with the injured arm, and pointed to him. “He will need water.” Karheem sighed looking to the boy’s canteen. Shendip opened it, drank some, and re-corked it. “Give him yours!” The warrior gave him a incredulous look, but made no further comment as Shendip watched Karheem come and lift the bottle to the man’s lips. He drank it, slowly and steadily, and nodded his head.

“Many thanks,” he whispered lowly. “I am grateful for your kindness. I am Mufasa, and that is my friend, D’jalf. We were with a caravan that was heading to Ka’Lad when we were attacked by Desert Tigers. The closest city was Irrkam, so we traveled here to rest. I am afraid that if you didn’t come we would be dead.” He laughed sorrowfully, a bit out placed before he silenced himself.

“It is the way of the desert to help those who need it. Come, lend me your shoulder, and I will take you to our camp.” Karheem lifted the man by his arm, the limb lifting up as Mufasa smiled, before there was an awkward moment. Karheem looked to his arm, and suddenly the man rose up, cradling it as he cursed out loudly. D’jalf ran to his companion, his hand on his own chest holding the robes shut as he calmed his friend down. Karheem went over and waved his hands in apology.

“I am sorry; I forgot your arm was injured!” Mufasa let out another cry of pain, breathing deeply before replying in a strained voice.

“It’s of no problem, friend, let us be on our way." Mufasa looked up to the sun as he spoke distantly. "Lest the dangers of the desert night come for us again.”

The sun was rapidly approaching the horizon, tinting the sky red as freshly spilled blood, a sign that there was a storm forming over the desert. Desert lore held that the red in the sky was the blood of those that died from Suravani’s wrath and the storm was the tears of sadness that the goddess wept for the lives that she was forced to take. It was an omen made good by the fact that storms were almost unheard of in Fallien but in recent days it was becoming an increasingly common sight. That in itself was an omen of some sort, though desert lore hadn’t yet made a determination on what that omen meant.

The storm on the horizon wasn’t what concerned Khaelin though. It was the dark cloud that covered the caravan master’s face as he rode to the front of the caravan that was the young guard’s primary concern at the moment.

“What news do you have for me from Shendip?” Faruq asked, reining in his steed.

“Apologies, great lord,” Khaelin apologized, bowed low. “Shendip and Karheem have yet to return from Oziman’s Crest.”

“Karheem?” Faruq’s face grew even darker. “Assisting the wounded men was Shendip’s task. I gave no order for Karheem to assist.”

“Shendip took Karheem upon his own orders. The young lord insisted that since Karheem was assigned as his guard that he had an obligation to follow.”

A flush of anger colored Faruq’s face, “Shendip is no lord, and I am the master of this caravan and all in it. It was Shendip’s task to complete on his own that he should learn the power that comes with Suravani’s mercy.”

“My apologies, Master Faruq,” Khaelin wailed, prostrating himself on the ground. “As your messenger it was my fault that Karheem misunderstood your commands. Place the blame on my head, noble lord and not on that worthy servant.”

Seeing Khaelin’s devotion, the anger fell away from Faruq’s face. “No, no, the fault is mine. Rise, Khaelin. You do Suravani’s teachings proud. It is my wish that we make camp here for the night. See that the order is given. And notify me at once when Shendip and Karheem return.”

Khaelin watched Faruq wheel his horse, his mind already on the business of preparing the caravan for camp when a cry from Alamar caught both their attention.

“They return.” Khaelin and Faruq paused to stare at each other for a moment before making towards the approaching figures.

“Aid,” Karheem’s deep voice cut across the distance. The sight of the wounds on the two men with the stoic guard stopped the rushing caravan crew in their tracks.

“Suravani’s mercy,” Khaelin whispered.

“Khaelin, Alamar, bring the carpet from my furnishings, quickly.”

“Truly, most noble of hosts, we appreciate the gesture but it will not be necessary,” the pained voice of Mufasa begged them off, to the incredulous looks of the others. Beside him, D’jalf tapped a rhythm on his chest. “Ah yes, of course. The greatness of my wounds seems to overcome me. My pardons, D’jalf and I would be most pleased to accept the graciousness of your hospitality.”

“No pardons necessary,” Faruq nodded and waved for Khaelin and Alamar to carry out his previous order. “Karheem, Shendip, we are to make camp here tonight.”

“We are not to make camp at Oziman’s Crest?” asked Shendip, a look of annoyance flitting across his face as he surveyed the sandy terrain. “Does it not make for a more comfortable and secured camp site?”

“Enough!” Faruq barked, eliciting a jump of surprise from the paunchy man. “I have made my decision and my word is not to be questioned.”

“Very well, great lord,” Shendip replied, bowing his head in chastisement. “I shall have Paavar set up my tent.”

Faruq waived Shendip off, choosing instead to focus on the two wounded men. Dismounting, he approached the two merchants with open arms. “My name is Faruq and I am the master of this caravan. I trust that at least my servant Karheem has treated you well.” Faruq nodded towards the silent guard, a quiet honor that the warrior returned. “I am sorry that we meet under such circumstances.”

“I am Mufasa and he is D’jalf. You have our appreciation for your kindness,” Mufasa smiled wide and cocked his head to one side, flinching at the pain the movement caused. “It was our hope that we would find a caravan headed for Irrakam if we sheltered at the outcropping.”

“Truly Suravani has smiled down on you,” Faruq said, holding his arms wide and raising them to the dusky evening sky.

“Yes, truly,” Mufasa answered, looking to D’jalf, “all glory to the one who shattered the sky.”

Shendip tossed his robes off his tired, sore shoulders as he moved to his rug and sat, turning to the tent flap and burning holes with his eyes at the location of the rest of the camp. His father had been ill of mind, for that could be the only reason to force his only son into the desert under such conditions! He supposed age did something to the mind, for he stuck Faruq into the same category of idiots as his father. That captain was pushing the limits of control with Shendip, and when this little excursion was over he vowed to use his vast influence to make the man suffer.

With an annoyed sigh he turned to his goblet and lifted his hand to the cool silver cup, scooping it and tasting the fine wine inside. He swirled it inside his mouth for a moment, before spitting it out and closing his eyes, relaxing on the pillow arching to support his neck and back. This was no life to live. Like a common street rat. And the nerve of Karheem to even assume he should share his water with the injured travelers! He repressed the memories of the horrific wound the tiger’s had done to D’jalfs neck. In fact, it was a feat in itself that the man lived at all, considering the damage. He shook his head and stood up. He felt his shoulder tense and he grew agitated. He needed to relax. He was getting worked up over petty matters.

He took a deep breath, sipping and spitting more wine as he felt the sand move under the carpet where his feet treaded. The air outside began to grow cooler at a rapid rate as the sun began to set, and the merchant son wished to have already smoked his hookah, get his massage, and be resting by an hour past nightfall. He looked to his chest of trinkets, pulling out a case that held his finest brews for his smokes, and decided to take one that smelled of the desert roses. A little culture would make things better. A chance to indulge in a setting far more suited to his abilities.

“I wonder where Paavar is? That man should have gotten my rations by now!” Shendip cursed as he smelled the thick desert rose from the container. He put the lid back on, tossing it to the floor near the chest that held his hookah, and turned to the tent flap. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made for his servant, Paavar to be gone so long. He was assigned by his father to Shendip, and as a slave of the house he could not speak to anyone but the master. He was only allowed to obey orders. Even Shendip could not speak to him for he was his father’s property.

At last curiosity and rising unease filled the boy enough to step out for a moment and track the man down. If he found him with the others fraternizing, his life would be forfeit, Shendip would see to that. He pulled on his sandals, and stepped forwards tripping on something. With a lurch he collapsed forwards, face planting onto the sand as he felt a lump on his shins. He kicked at it, pushing a lump away as he rose to his knees.

“What in the name of…wait a minute…” Shendip peered closer to the lump, and with a trembling hand he pushed at it, turning a body over, eyes void of life. With a scream he fell onto his butt, scooting backwards in the sand kicking it up in a dust swarm. “Aghh! Oh…PAAVAR! PAAVAR!” There was a rustling of noise behind him as the boy shook violently.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Faruq shouted as he ran over, several of the caravan members following them. Karheem stepped forwards, his hand near the hilt of his weapon as another body pushed forwards. Slender hands covered with whip marks lifted Shendip back to his feet as the boy screamed. Faruq moved forwards, his hand striking him as he shouted for him to calm himself.

“Is that…” Karheem kicked the body over, and leaned forwards. “It is.” Faruq turned away from the hysteric Shendip to glance at the red soaked neck shawl, and with a sad shake of his head he recognized the body immediately. D’jalf did not make it.

“An unfortunate victim of the desert. He already looked like he was tempting fate as it was. His robes were covered with blood.” Faruq turned to Shendip. “What happened here?”

“I-I-I came out,” Shendip explained in a flurry. “And I tr-tr-tripped on the body! Why is he dead at my door!” Faruq looked to his servant, Paavar and motioned for him to take his charge back into the tent.

“He was wondering away from the camp, I now know why. He knew his time was coming, and probably was trying to go someplace where he wouldn’t make a scene. It seems he didn’t make it far. We’ll leave his body for the desert to reclaim in its own way. Karheem, please do us a favor and move the body away from camp?” The warrior nodded. “I will personally tell his friend. The rest of you, let’s get rested for the evening.” Faruq turned to them, waving them off. Karheem stepped forwards and knelt, reverently picking up the body without fuss as he watched Paavar slowly shuffle Shendip towards his tent. As he passed the servant he sniffed the air, smelling an odor that seemed odd, and turned to see Paavar glancing a look back, but not much more as Shendip’s tent flap closed.

The only thing he could see was the back hem of the servant’s cloak had a spot covered in blood.

“What could be the matter with that fat fool now?” Alamar murmured in annoyance, watching the shadowy outlines of Faruq, Karheem, and Khaelin running swiftly towards the screaming merchant. It seemed that Shendip had the perfect ability to ruin an evening which had thus far been extremely pleasant for Alamar, despite the grisly occurrences of the day.

Khaelin had almost leapt to his duties getting the camp set up as swiftly as possible following Faruq’s declaration that the caravan would berth in the sands for the evening. Slightly bitter at being forced to spend a night in the cold sand instead of the warmer outcropping of Oziman’s Crest as planned, Alamar had followed the eager sychophant with markedly less enthusiasm. He cast acidic glances towards the wounded merchants lying on Faruq’s plush carpet every now and then when he knew that the master wouldn’t catch him, but was surprised to find that he had warmed to the strangers after the camp had been set and the fire had been lit.

Instead of quietly resting as Alamar had assumed that they would, the wounded merchants had proven to be apt conversationalists. Alamar, who’s secret desire was to quit the harsh life of a caravan guard and to open a tavern where he could pull up a chair by the fireplace in the evenings to tell his stories to appreciative patrons, was overjoyed to find that Mufasa and D’jalf paid rapt attention to everything that he had to say. When the fat merchant’s son began wailing, Alamar was delighted that Faruq had ordered him to remain in comfort by the fire rather than to run off into the night with the rest of them. At the very least it would give him the chance to continue his discussion with his audience.

“Where has your friend gotten himself off to?” Alamar asked the wounded man on the carpet behind him, keeping watch on the shadowy silhouettes at the edge of camp. “I was just about to tell you about the history of Outlander’s Post, Mufasa.” Hearing no answer, Alamar turned around, a quizzical look on his face. “Mufasa?”

Faruq found Alamar still standing in that position by the time he and Khaelin made their way back to the campfire.

“Stand aside Alamar,” the caravan master commanded softly. “I bear some ill news for Mufasa about his friend.”

“There is no need Faruq,” Alamar replied, gesturing to the blood on his robes while his eyes remained firmly locked on the slashed body which lay unmoving on the carpet before him.

“Suravani have mercy,” Khaelin whispered in horror. “Mufasa too.” The young guard stepped forward to gaze down upon the body.

“Step away boy,” Faruq snapped, though there was softness in his tone. “Such is the way of the desert, as we all know.” Khaelin nodded, stepping respectfully back from the body. “Run, Khaelin, to find Karheem and to let him know that this one too has perished. Help him with the body of D’jalf and then come back to bury Mufasa.”

“Your will be done, great lord.” Khaelin bowed low and then ran off to seek Karheem. Alamar and Faruq stood silently, watching the boy until the cloak of night fully covered him.

“Is there anything else about this man’s death that you wish to say to me Alamar?” Faruq broke the silence, though his voice was barely above a whisper itself.

“Are you inferring that there is something unusual in the death of a man with wounds such as these?” Alamar replied, his face a stoic mask.

“Your grief overcomes you Alamar,” Faruq snapped, his face taking on a harsh, forceful look. “I shall pardon your offence this once for that reason.”

Alamar remained silent for a moment, his head tilted quizzically to one side. “Alas my lord, I must beg your pardon,” he answered finally. “The grief of the day overcomes me, most worthy of merchants, as you have said.”

“Answer my question Alamar. Is there anything else about this man’s death that you wish to say to me?”

“No great lord. The man Mufasa passed while you were answering Shendip’s cry. I did what I could to save him," Alamar gestured to the blood on his robes, "but it was not enough. Is there anything that I should to do prepare the caravan to enter Irrakam?”

“No, Alamar,” Faruq sighed softly. The tenseness and after fell away from the man, making him seem old and tired. “You are dismissed. I suggest you go and get some rest.”

Alamar bowed his head respectfully and slipped silently away from the campfire, leaving Faruq on his own with Mustafa’s body. The caravan master sighed sadly and rubbed the bridge of his nose to release some of the tension he could feel building there. Something wasn’t quite right about the situation, he knew. Mustafa had been too alert, too conversant to just pass away silently. He was certain that there was something Alamar wasn’t telling him but he couldn’t quite figure out what.

He would be glad when this night was over and he could leave this all behind him and make his return to Irrakam.

Shendip felt his body temperature raise after all that craziness. As Paavar released him he stumbled to the rug, turning and grabbing his goblet. He took the wine and drank it greedily as he finished the cup; tossing it Paavar’s feet and in a frightened tone demanded more. He had never seen a dead body like that, much less trip over it. To be so close to the inevitable made his flesh crawl and he twitched nervously. This was Faruq’s fault! He did this! These foul omens were his fault.

“Paavar, where is my-“ The servant placed the silver goblet into his hand and he nodded dumbly drinking it, lifting his throat up and swallowing it all as the red wine slipped down his cheeks. When he finished he panted heavily, tossing the cup aside as he looked to Paavar. He stood up and lifted his arms out. When his servant gave him an awkward glance he narrowed his eyes, teeth grinding. “My father will learn of your ineptitude, slave! Now disrobe me!”

His servant nodded once, stepping behind him as his finger’s grasped the sides of the robe. He pulled it up in a bunch over the boy’s head, while Shendip began to mutter angrily. “This is all out of control. Faruq should have known to protect me from this sort of thing. Worldly expierence means nothing in the courts of industry and trade! I am not supposed to be out on this trip! I should be back at home, studying the trade routes and economy, sipping real wine, not this watered down garbage! But instead I am on this hell ride, finding dead bodies, pitching tents, getting my hands blistered and my skin kissed by the sun with a worthless servant.”

He stood naked for a moment, walking towards his chest of clothing. He tapped his finger on his chin. Debating on a robe to sleep in. “Green tonight, Paavar,” He twirled pointing it out to his servant. With a few steps he grew annoyed, feeling the sand between his toes as he let out a frustrated sigh. Tonight was merely too much to handle. He even did not have a concubine to tend to him. What rotten luck did he encounter to endure this?

Paavar stepped behind him, and Shendip looked to the shadows casted off the brazier light outside the tent. He noticed something long and edged in his servant’s hand. He was lifting it up, as if to stab him. Shendip turned quickly, eyes filled with shock as he stumbled backwards, but when he looked to see the weapon, he instead found the Hookah pipe in his servant’s hand. He looked over and saw the device was already working, and with a nervous laugh he stood again, taking the pipe into his mouth. The scent of desert rose wafted into his nose and he took a shuddering breath. Paavar bowed to him as he turned back to the wardrobe, grabbing the heavy green robe to keep his master warm in the cold night.

“You will need to massage these shoulders tonight, Paavar. With this tension I doubt I can sleep.” The servant nodded, returning with the robe. He held the pipe out, letting himself be dressed as he pulled the fabric over his head. Placing the pipe back in he took another hit, feeling the smoke fill his mouth where he released it in controlled spurts. Tiny rings formed in the air and he smiled, stabbing through them all with the pipe.

He sat on the carpet, feeling the grains of the desert on his flesh, and he whimpered, swiping it away as Paavar stood behind him, letting his gnarly fingers begin to rub his back. The boy felt at ease almost instantly, despite the pressure his servant placed on him. But tonight the problems ran deep. He smoked a bit more, letting it out with a pleasurable sigh as he began to talk.

“In two years my father will be retired, and I’ll claim his legacy. I have already made the arrangements for seven contracts to build up my families coffers. With those in, I’ll be set, and I can relax and focus on having an heir to my legacy properly taught! Unlike me, who had to fend for himself to learn everything. Each idea I had my father tossed aside, telling me I do not know the way of the world. That I was naïve! But he is the naïve one!” He lifted his hand out in assurance of his own claim, but Paavar paid him little mind. “If you promise to serve me unquestionably, you will have a proper place at my side. I can even elevate your family and purchase them from around the city…would that not please you Paavar?”

There was no reply from his servant. He waited, but noticed he also felt no resistance on his back muscles. Annoyed he turned to find Paavar’s hands looking like they were ready to choke him. He let out a yelp, the pipe falling to the floor, but with careful movements Paavar merely placed his oiled fingers on his master’s back, rubbing his tenseness away. Shendip laughed again, nervously as he stuck the pipe in his mouth.

“Paavar, this night is going to end me. I demand you stay up and keep watch all night. Acknowledge my command.” Paavar’s hands stopped near the base of his neck. Shendip leaned his head to the side curiously. “Paavar?”

A wind rustled over the tents of Faruq’s caravan, whistling in the rocks like the wails of screaming ghosts.

“Blessed Suravani, take this man to your breast in your mercy and give him the gift of peace in death that he could not have in life.” Karheem knelt piously by the place where he had buried the merchant D’jalf and recited the prayer of the dead over it. He would leave no marker to grace the spot where the dead man rested, and within the hour the night wind would smooth the sand over, erasing any existence of it. By the time Karheem made it back to camp, even he would have forgotten where D’jalf lay buried, reclaimed by the desert. Such was the way of Fallien, he knew, for those who died to go unheralded and unremembered.

“But not me,” he whispered rising from his finished prayers. “I shall leave this place and become a legend. All will know my name, and all will mourn my passing when I return to Suravani’s breast.” The sand shifted suddenly behind Karheem and before his heart could beat again, Karheem had spun and had his klaive in hand, raised, and poised to strike.

“Suravani’s mercy Karheem,” Khaelin backed away, holding his hands up to shield him. “You frightened me.”

“What are you doing out here boy,” Karheem’s low voice remained calm though he was slow to lower his weapon.

“Master Faruq has sent me to inform you that the other merchant, Mufasa, has been overcome by his wounds as well.”

“He too is dead then,” Karheem finally lowered his blade.

“Yes, he passed while we were dealing with his friend.”

“And what of Alamar?” Karheem stepped up to Khaelin and the youth was surprised to see the intense anger and determination on the warrior’s face.

“A-Alamar,” Khaelin stuttered.

“Yes, was Alamar with the body when you found it?”

“Yes of course, Master Faruq had told him to remain with Mufasa while we looked after Shendip.”

Karheem grabbed the sleeve of Khaelin’s robe and began pulling the boy back towards the glow of the distant campfire. “Did Alamar have blood on him?” he asked.

“Y-yes,” Khaelin answered hesitantly. “What does that matter?”

Karheem’s face grew even more focused.

“Evil is upon the caravan boy, and it falls to us to save it.”

Khaelin dug his heels into the sand, pulling his sleeve from Karheem’s grasp. “What madness is this Karheem? It is an ill thing to wish an evil omen on one’s caravan and Master Faruq will know your words.”

Karheem wheeled about, cuffing Khaelin sharply. “Silence your tongue boy when you know not of what you speak.”

Khaelin rubbed a spit of blood from where he had bit his lip when Karheem struck him. “If you are not a brute Karheem, then explain your foul words and fouler deeds to me, else I shall tell the Master of them.”

“Very well boy,” Karheem stepped in until Khaelin could feel the warrior’s hot breath on his face. “Are you so unobservant that you noticed nothing strange about the merchants we found?”

“They were deeply wounded Karheem,” Khaelin tried to step away from the larger warrior but Karheem kept pace.

“And you did not think it odd that they would be so sprightly and conversant while they were wounded nigh unto death? Or of how they seemed unsure of the pain that their wounds gave them? Suravani’s grace boy, as wounded as they were they still managed to walk from Oziman’s Crest to the campsite without aid.”

“Yes Karheem, it is odd,” Khaelin was forced to admit. “But surely wounds that deep cause shock, which makes men do odd things. This does not mean that Mufasa and D’jalf were evil.”

“Of course Mufasa and D’jalf were not evil. They were dead you fool,” Karheem snarled.

“W-what?” Khaelin sputtered.

“Yes, it makes sense. Mufasa and D’jalf were killed and their bodies were possessed by demons of the desert that walk them around like puppets. Demons that took the bodies of the merchants but don’t know how to act like a real person would. I suspected them immediately, and grew even more suspicious when I saw a bloody mark on the back of Shendip’s servant. But it was not until you told me of the blood on Alamar that I knew it to be true.”

“Suravani’s mercy! Alamar may have bloodied himself trying to save Mufasa.”

“Do not speak Suravani’s holy name where these demons are concerned,” Karheem spat into the sand. “Alamar was a lazy, selfish pig. He would not have dirtied himself for a stranger. The blood you saw on him was his own.”

Khaelin held his head and groaned, terrified by Karheem’s words. “Silence dog,” Karheem’s eyes seemed to faintly glow in the moonlight with a terrible passion. He held his klaive over his head, the razor blade catching the moonlight on its edge. “Now is our time to forge ourselves into legends. We must go to the camp and purge the demons.”

“Y-yes,” Khaelin drew his sword with a shaky hand, bolstered by the confidence that Karheem exuded.

“I shall go to Shendip’s tent to confront his servant. You must go to the master’s tent to warn him.”

“Yes, I will make sure that Master Faruq is warned of this danger immediately.” Khaelin did not wait, plunging headlong towards the camp.

“And remember,” Karheem called after him, “if you see Alamar do not hesitate or you will be lost.”

Karheem had never felt so sure in his life. As his sandals kicked the sand out of his way, hand on the hilt of his Klaive, he knew he was sure of his suspicions. He needed to warn Shendip, for when demon’s were concerned it mattered not who was in danger. His duty was to protect all, even those who did not deserve the mercy. He looked to see the tent light flicker, and a bit of a struggle. With hastned steps now in a sprint he charged forwards, eyes casting out as he drew his weapon with a wet sound from the metal scraping the oil leather. He cut the tent flap aside and found the body of the dead servant, and Shendip turning to him with a look of bewilderment.

“What happened?” Karheem asked instantly. Shendip looked to the body, then to Karheem, before dropping on the ground and crying. Karheem looked to the body of the servant, seeing a lifeless peer in his eyes, before he shook his head. “Demon’s are amongst us! Let me see your eyes, so that I know it’s you!” Shendip continued to cry, shaking his head in terror as he scampered away. Something was not right. Karheem peered closer to Shendip, seeing a thin line of dried blood along the wrist of the boy. He looked closer, and found the troubling difference.

Shendip was making little sound for a babbling baby.

Karheem lifted his sword to his side in a neutral manner, as if showing he was calming down, slowly approaching the merchant son. He lowered a hand to his robes, and Shendip peered back to him in confusion, tears staining his face. But his face held no sorrow or terror, it merely hovered open. Karheem felt his heart pound in his own chest, echoing in his ears as his blood sang. He lowered his grip a bit, to get a wide swing ready, before he looked to the boy’s face again. “Shendip, say something…”

There was only silence, before Shendip feigned crying, but this time he could only hear muffled gasps, sounds not normal for a crying human. It sounded more like something was forcing itself out. It was all Karheem needed as he lifted the Klaive upwards with a prayer on his lips. In the span of the movement Shendip’s body turned, eyes glowing green as a hand lifted to grab at his wrist. Anothwr closed fist hit the warrior in the stomach, before long, steel like talons grew out from Shendip’s finger tips. They curved upwards and made to swipe at his face, but Karheem was not some youthful aspiring warrior. He had fought, and learned very well the lessons of inaction.

He roared in defiance, grabbing the clawed wrist and rolling to his side, bringing the demon off balance as it stumbled forwards, crashing into the hookah sending smoke into the air from the released chamber. A dark, weird chiming noise escaped Shendip’s lips as the other hand grew talons, the beast slowly stalking forwards like a patient hunter. Karheem stood to his feet, planting them in ready as he watched.

When the beast charged him it lifted one hand up for a diagonal slash, easily readable, and what it was meant for. He looked to the other hand, seeing a horizontal slash aimed for his abdomen. A pincer strike meant to disembowel him. He placed his weapon down and turned to his side, parrying the diagonal slash so his body turned, avoiding the horizontal. When the beast stumbled exposing its back the demon Shendip kicked sand upwards in a mule kick. It sprayed over Karheem’s knees, but did little to impede him as he slashed down the spine of the old merchant son. He let out a silent scream, back arching as he twirled in a flourish, collapsing like a dying camel on his side, the green glow in his eyes fading quickly.

Karheem breathed heavily as he took a few gasps of breath, the whole ordeal rather unsettling, but with a nod he made sure to keep this one down, slashing its throat as the blood pooled out. Knowing his work done, the warrior turned to the tent flap. He sheathed his weapon, thanked the goddess for watching over him, and stepped into the night where the wind attacked his naked chest.

He prayed he wasn’t too late as he made way for Master Faruq’s tent.

An anguished cry cut across the span between the main camp and Shendip’s tent. Karheem ran across the gulf as fast as he could but feared that he was already too late.

“Curse that fat piece of dung for setting his tent so far from the camp,” he growled. The fact that Shendip was dead didn’t bring a teardrop’s amount of sorrow to Karheem, though he would not wish a demon’s possession on anyone. Still, life in the desert was harsh and only the tough deserved to live.

Shendip had not been tough.

A mass of flesh outside Faruq’s tent was the first thing to catch Karheem’s attention as he ran into the center of camp. He stooped low as he passed the campfire and deftly caught up the protruding edge of a flaming brand so that he could more easily see.

“Khaelin,” he yelled out as he kicked over the body that lay in front of Faruq’s tent. Light from the flaming brand showed the body to be Alamar’s, and a quick inspection proved what the desert warrior had suspected. A long slice, made by a razor-thin object, travelled from Alamar’s pubic bone to the center of his chest. “Suravani protect us,” Karheem murmured, dropping the brand to burn in the sand next to his dead companion.

“Faruq! Khaelin!” he yelled tearing the flap of the tent open with a single slice from his klaive. Inside, lit only by the smoldering embers of a smoke tinged censer, the bloodstained boy Khaelin held his kukri over a cowering Faruq.

“Alamar is dead, Karheem,” Khaelin yelled. His off-hand gripped his chest in pain, seeking to contain the blood that flowed freely from it.

“”Protect me Karheem, he is a demon,” Faruq whimpered.

“Show me your eyes,” Karheem yelled at both men. His klaive raised high over his head, ready to strike out at either man.

“The real Khaelin attacked Alamar outside and I could see the demon leap from Alamar to him,” Faruq yelled, scrambling on his back to try to get away from the blade that the young guard held over him.

“You lie,” Khaelin screamed back at him, “you are the demon!”

“Show me your eyes now!” Karheem’s tremendous voice cried out.

“The blood, Karheem,” Faruq was now pleading. “Look at the blood.” Khaelin screamed an incoherent cry as his kukri reared back to strike. Roaring like a lion, Karheem’s swung, his klaive cutting through the Khaelin before the boy’s own blade could make its fatal journey.

“Ka…,” the breath slipped from Khaelin’s mouth as he slumped dead to the floor.

“You are saved, Master Faruq,” Karheem panted. “I have saved the caravan. I am a hero.”

“Indeed,” Faruq said, rising to his feet. All trace of fear fell from the caravan master as he calmly brushed the sand off his robe, stopping only when he noticed the blood from his hands smearing large swaths of color along their length.

“Master Faruq?” Karheem whispered, eyes widening.

Faruq nodded to acknowledge that he had heard the warrior, though his eyes wandered to the various chests around the room. “I suppose I will have to choose another robe to wear to Irrakam.”

“The blood, Master Faruq,” Karheem straightened, raising his klaive once more.

“Thank you for pointing it out Karheem but I have already made a note of it. We are getting better with each attempt and soon will leave no trace whatsoever.” Faruq waved a bloodied hand dismissively and Karheem could see what appeared to be smooth black stone within hanging tendrils of flesh.

“You are not Faruq,” Karheem snarled, “you are the demon.”

The thing wearing Faruq’s flesh turned an impassive gaze towards Karheem. “If that is what you wish to call us your ignorance makes little difference to me.”

“You have tricked me demon,” Karheem seemed shaken, looking alternately from the body of Khaelin on the floor to the thing that wore Faruq. “I have killed an innocent boy.”

“It was a simple enough thing. Khaelin opened the tent ranting about skin stealing demons and blood. When he noticed your companion’s body outside he drew his weapon and blamed me. He seemed quite unreasonable so I stabbed him.” Faruq held up his torn hand and then gestured to the wound that Khaelin had been covering.

“I shall kill you demon, as I killed the other. Khaelin will have his revenge.” Karheem started forward but stopped when the thing inside Faruq chuckled. It was an odd sound, as if the creature was not used to making it.

“You killed Vyrabron?” The leathery chuckle died out as twin points of sickly green light lit up the darkness behind Karheem. “I think not.”

The gate’s of Irrakan opened slowly as the caravan moved onwards, several guards moving forwards to grab at the reigns of the horses drawing the carriages. Faruq gave a solemn nod to the captain as the man reached his hand out and the two shook with an earnest feeling that hid none of their trust. Karheem kept near the caravan master, fingers softly tapping his chest in a slow rhythm, as if mildly bored, but then again city life was never Karheem’s thing. He was always destined to be a great hero.

“Your caravan,” He asked pointing to the two. “Where is master Shendip and Alamar and the boy, Khaelin?” the captain asked. With a heavy sigh both men looking solemnly to the ground while Faruq spoke up.

“The desert saw it fit to claim many bodies on this journey. We were struck by desert tigers following the trails of two wounded wanderers. They struck at night, and many of us did not have time to prepare. They now rest in the sands of time.” The captain nodded as he looked out the window to the sky above.

“I am truly sorry for your loss, Faruq. It must not be easy to lose so many friends.” Faruq gave a slight shrug, but still kept a solemn face. The captain raised an eyebrow to this odd behavior, but realized that after what he had been through chances were the caravan guard was done discussing it. Perhaps later over wine and cheese the two would open up as friends again. “Well, may Suravani’s grace guide them to her bosom and find them eternal peace,” the guard captain said lightly.

“Karheem and I are a little weary, that is all,” Faruq said placing a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. He looked to Faruq’s eyes, before nodding softly and clasping it back. What troubling tension he had drifted easily away. Faruq was right, and losing so many and still travelling in the desert must have been quite an ordeal to harden one’s heart until the trial was over.

“Many people have noticed that storm clouds are building in the horizon. Suravani’s blessing of rain will be upon us all soon enough.” The captain sat in his wooden chair, feeling the wood creak as he began to fill out papers. Karheem seemed to be stifling a giggle, and a bemused grin passed to Faruq’s face before both silenced themselves. He took out his ledger, copied over information, before grabbing his ring and dipping it in a thick red ink. When it was all set he stamped their papers with a loud bang, and passed it over to Faruq.

“Many thanks,” Faruq whispered grabbing the paper, and the man’s hand. He nodded to them as the three got their things ready to leave. The captian looked out the window, before looking back to Faruq.

“Perhaps it would be best if you visited a priest about your troubles, old friend.” His gaze turned to Karheem’s and he nodded to him as well. “For both of you.”

Faruq stepped towards the door, opening it and gazing out at the storm clouds forming in the distance. He stood there, in silent wonder as Harkeem’s eyes looked to them with a sort of reverence as well. After an uncomfortable wait of silence, Harkeem stepped forward, his fingers tapping his chest as he left. Faruq smiled wide, and headed out.

“Perhaps I will stop by the temple,” he replied. “But first, I’d rather take a moment to look at the beauty of the storm.”

Darkness on the Horizon Judgement
Featuring Herald of the Tempest and Herald of the Storm

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Plot Construction ~ 17/30

Story ~6 /10 -
Strategy ~ 6 /10 -
Setting ~ 5 /10 -

Characterisation ~ 21/30

Continuity ~ 6 /10 -
Interaction ~ 8 /10 -
Character ~ 7 /10 -

Writing Style ~ 19/30

Creativity ~ 6 /10 -
Mechanics ~6 /10 -
Clarity ~ 7 /10 -

Wildcard: 6/10

Total ~63/100

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For creatures meant to be so whole fully…soulless, your characters actually have a remarkable soul to them (given their source material, the irony amused me greatly). All in all, this was a strong debut for these characters, with a good groundwork and a strong, concrete and most importantly clear development of your tale. You fell short on setting due to an overzealous need to describe action, voice, sound, but showed no develop of the other senses. There was all in all a weak descriptive element to the thread.

I would like, perhaps, to see more of the character’s origins foreshadowed in the way they work, the way they move, the way they talk. There is reverence of the goddess Suravani, but no hint of a darker force lying beneath the surface. Mechanically speaking, be careful with run on sentences or heavy use of lifting during action sequences. It quickly became easy to lose yourself in the hammer blow fall (particular reference to post eight, paragraph six. You misspelt Irrakam once or twice too, sacrilege to the il’Jhain and the Harpies I tell you, sacrilege!

If I were to offer two pieces of advice to take into your next project (which I note is already submitted, so the project after that) it would be these. Firstly, take your strong characterisation and implant that interaction into a more vibrant setting. There is a wealth of flora and fauna and geographical information to be found here. I’m not saying you should steep yourself in the lore, but peppering a post here or there with a few choice and relevant selections will improve on setting and continuity in turn.

All in all, this was a pleasant, intriguing and flavoursome introduction to the Heralds.

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Spoils:

Herald of the Storm gains 252 xp and 100 gold.

Herald of the Tempest gains 315 xp and 100 gold.

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EXP/GP added.