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 |  All the GoT stuff, 2024. |
| Apparently this is going to be a load of writing of various types - stories, poems, reviews and, no doubt, just about anything else you can think of. I'll probably update this when I know more. |
| The Road Less Travelled Auberon watched the little caravan creeping along the road far below. From up here on the hill, the people were just ants, the camels mere beetles almost hidden under their carapaces of goods and packages. There were pitifully few of them, too, a less than tempting prospect to a bandit who had robbed some of the richest and busiest trade routes in Asia. Still, beggars cannot be choosers, he told himself. When pursuit becomes too hot for continued operations in the expected areas, one must resort to the unexpected. And this little road, so rarely used because it doubled the distance to Samarkand, was about as unexpected as it gets. Its only travellers were those more afraid of being robbed than of a longer journey. Well, that must mean that these fellows had something worth being stolen, reasoned Auberon. If their cargo was as mean and worthless as it appeared from this distance, they would have nothing to fear from the main silk road to the west. It was time to discover their secret. He scrambled back from the crest, then turned and hurried down to the little group of his ruffians and their horses, waiting motionless in the heat of midday. “We have customers,” called Auberon. “Mount up and let’s go see what delights they have for us.” There was a brief flurry of activity as the men complied, the horses wheeling and pulling away in excitement. They followed the base of the hill toward the point where the road broke through a small pass to lose itself in the shimmering mirages of the salt pan to their right. It was the obvious place for an ambush, with no chance of the travellers escaping. By the time the little caravan appeared around the corner, the bandits were well hidden amongst the rocks scattered at the entrance to the pass. The gang’s sudden appearance, emerging from the rocks and slowly advancing on their horses, did not seem to cause the usual consternation in the caravan. They merely halted and waited for the bandits to come up. Then one man, old and bearded, stepped forth from the line of camels and raised a hand in greeting. “As-salamu alaykum,” he said to Auberon, as though he had already discerned him to be the leader. “And salaam to you too,” replied Auberon, switching the language to his more familiar Kazakh. “And what urgent business brings an old caliph like you to the edge of the Great White Bitterness?” He extended an arm to indicate the saltpan behind him. The old man smiled. “Ah, my manners desert me. My name is Ali Ben Mukhtah and I am old, just as you say, but I am no caliph. What brings me here is much the same as other travellers on this road. I seek to trade my goods with others who have things that I want in return.” Auberon had dismounted by this time and nodded in admission of his own rudeness. “Pardon, my father, I did not mean any disrespect. We are separate from others out here and forget the ways of society. My name is Auberon.” He paused a moment before adding, “You may have heard of me.” “Indeed so, though I knew it was you the moment I saw you ride out from behind that rock.” “News travels far,” said Auberon. He grinned at the idea of a being a famous outlaw. ”Indeed so," replied the old man. Auberon stood for a while, hands on hips as he pondered the imperturbable serenity of the man. Then he shrugged and began. “We should get to business, Ali Ben Mukhtah. What secret treasure are you carrying in your humble caravan? There is no other reason for travellers to come this way, you know. And I will find it if you do not tell me, as you also know.” Again the old man smiled. “Ah, then you are to be disappointed, for I have no secret treasure. I am a poor man of simple means and without goods of great value. When I came to the parting of the ways, I sought in my heart for the correct way to go and knew that this was the road I must choose.” “A strange decision,” answered Auberon. “Why should I believe you in this?” “Because I speak truth.” The man looked back at Auberon without a trace of fear in his eyes. Auberon studied him for a long time. He was inclined to believe the man’s story and felt that such composure and grace deserved the mercy Auberon contemplated. It might damage his reputation but something about the man made him loth to resort to force. In the end he shrugged and turned away. “Alright, old man, I believe you. You may continue undisturbed.” Ali took a step towards him. “Oh no, do not think we have been disturbed in the slightest. It has been an honour to meet you and speak with you.” Auberon stopped and turned around. “Am I really that famous?” he asked. “Not under that name.” “What name then? Come on, old man, what stories of me has your heart been telling you?” The old man spread his hands wide in perfect honesty. “My heart told me that, were I to take this road, I would meet the man known as Ozymandias, king of kings, ruler of the world, who threw it all away to go alone into the forgotten places of this world.” Auberon turned again, mounted his horse, and galloped away with his band, the dust raised in their going settling slowly back to earth. Word count: 935 For Door 1, House of Black & White, Game of Thrones Prompt: Road Less Traveled by Lauren Alaina. |
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