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A desert surrounded by a cruel enchantment undergoes an upheaval that changes everything. |
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Desert of the Lost Prologue: Blinding the Eye There was something different about the desert that day. Or at least it looked that way to Guardsman Gartorius. The Shimmering Waste, the great enchanted barrier that bordered the Great Desert seemed to writhe or dance with a strange anticipation. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and wiped sweat from his brow. Standing at the edge of the desert in full battle armor, staring at nothing for hours on end was more than enough to make even a Knight of the Watchful Eye see things. Gartorius was careful about being dismissive of the power of the desert though, and especially of the Shimmering Waste. There were more than a few accounts of men abandoning their posts and walking into the enchanted wasteland, never to return. There were even accounts of men struck dead at their posts, or gone quite mad. Sometimes it was just the heat, but other times… Gartorius took a drink from the water pail nearby and poured a little onto his sandy brown hair to cool himself. The thick, polished armor he wore was dangerously hot, but it was a test all Knights of the Watchful Eye had to endure. Gartorius smiled to himself and went back to his duties, staring out at the dry, cracked earth that extended past the horizon. A hot wind, bearing irritating grains of sand blew past, but he stared on. Vigilance was the mainstay of the Knights of the Watchful Eye. Not just against visible enemies, though those were quite formidable, but also against opponents that are harder to perceive. Corruption, greed, vagrancy, sloth. These were the things the Knights of the Watchful Eye guarded against. But not Gartorius. Gartorius was a member of the group of Knights that watched over the Shimmering Waste, and all its perils. Every now and then the Waste vomited forth horrible monsters, Wastemen and the like. The Knights were there to guard against such threats. For two thousands years the Knights of the Watchful Eye had guarded the border of the Waste, keeping the world safe from its malicious threats. Most of the time, the Waste was quiet, releasing a few Wastemen or an unlucky soul every few months, but every now and then, worse things crossed over the insidious border, and that’s when the Knights were needed most. Gartorius had helped fight off a hideous spiked beast in the first year of his assignment; veterans spoke of giants with teeth like pikes and claws like broadswords, tearing through phalanxes of men like they were grain before a scythe. The Knights of the Watchful Eye never faltered though. Never in all their years of guarding the last passage of the Shimmering Waste had any Wastespawn reached the civilized world. To be part of such a virtuous order was a point of great pride for Gartorius, and his superiors knew it. All initiates had to spend a few years on the edge of the Waste, to hone their battle skills and test their vigilance. Gartorius was but a few months away from being assigned to a major city, to guard against the vices of men. Even the desolate quality of his post couldn’t distract him from the joy he felt about that. He would watch the vast expanse of sand and rocks for as long as the Knights required it of him. Something caught Gartorius’ eye and he turned his full attention to the swath of land that it was his duty to watch. There was nothing there, nothing but the shifting sands and red-rocks baking in the sun, but as he stared at the wavering air above the Waste, he thought he saw something moving in the shifting waves. He retrieved the looking glass from where it hung at the top of the tower and focused it on where he had last seen the movement. There was a flash of something black, then nothing more. A moment later, he saw it again. He was clueless as to what it could be. It wasn’t one of the Wastespawn he knew of; all the ones the Knights were familiar with wore earth tones, or blended into the desert, like the spiked beast he had fought. It could be one of the poor souls that got lost in the waste, coming out, or it could be something completely new. After a few more minutes, the black flashes materialized into a wavering form, a human, advancing out of the Waste. Putting the looking glass back up to his eye, Gartorius was astonished to realize that it was a woman. As her form became more clear, he saw that she wore a body-length black robe, and a thin black veil over here face. All that was visible of her was her eyes. She was beautiful. The black robe did little to cover her firm body and enticing curves. Through the looking glass, he could see that her eyes had a sultry quality to them, lined with black face paint. Gartorius hadn’t been with or even seen a woman since his last leave, over four months ago. He began to sweat, more than he already was, as she walked towards the tower, leisurely, almost gliding. Her hips swayed as she walked and at that moment Gartorius would have traded his Knighthood for a chance to have stood watched her from behind. A hot wind blew from the direction of the desert, and suddenly Gartorius realized that this was all wrong. No one had ever come out of the Waste except for an insane wanderer every couple hundred of years. This woman certainly didn’t look mad. Instead, she looked determined, and most decidedly sane. Furthermore, there was something about her that Gartorius couldn’t quite place, some lost memory that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that made him decidedly uneasy. Suddenly realizing how amiss he’d been, he reached over and grabbed the curved warning horn, and blew it four times in rapid succession, warning the men in the stone tower below and the men at the next tower down the line that something had come out of the Waste. Beautiful or not, there was something very wrong about this woman. As he blew the horn, her beautiful eyes turned towards him and glared, then fixed on the tower as she increased her pace. She had moved quicker than he expected, and was only about a hundred strides from the tower. A confused phalanx of men formed their distinctive box formation in front of the tower, only to find their opponent to be the strange woman in black. They too, must have felt what Gartorius felt, because they remained in formation. Gartorius knew that there were archers taking up positions in other parts of the tower, prepared to put an end to the threat immediately if need be. The woman advanced to the front of the phalanx and stopped just short of the reach of their long spears. She seemed to be exchanging greetings with the captain. Gartorius strained to get a better look, then remembered the looking glass, and peered through it at the scene below. After a few more moments of exchange the phalanx seemed to lose its resolve, and the tight formation fell apart. To Gartorius’ amazement, a fight broke out among two of the soldiers, the most highly disciplined troops in the civilized world. Soon the entire phalanx had devolved into a chaotic brawl. The guard captain, seeming confused, drew his sword and advanced on the woman in black. She calmly removed the veil in front of her face. She was truly beautiful, with smooth, pale skin and full red lips to compliment her figure. She opened her pretty mouth to speak. Gartorius was knocked on his face by a powerful shout that shook the tower on its foundations. The entire south face, that faced the desert, had fallen away. The tower swayed uneasily on its broken base. The world shook, and Gartorius’ ears rang annoyingly. Even if he survived, he wasn’t sure his hearing would. Blood ran from his ears and nose. Through the destruction he could see a red spray, and shards of wood and metal where the phalanx had stood. The woman in black seemed unaffected, almost bored. She drew in another breath. A moment too late, Gartorius remembered what it was about her that had made him so uneasy. Chapter One Sand and Fury Lucas Mavon’s breath came in ragged pants as he topped the ridge. He threw himself down onto the cracked earth and motioned for the men at the bottom to hold their position. He scanned the desert in all directions for signs of his quarry. To the south was the river Ordron; they wouldn’t have gone there unless they were desperate. The river was deep and swift this time of year, and would be a difficult crossing even if they knew how to swim. To the north lay the ominous Razor Peaks, aptly named for their sharp ridges and the maze of dangerous rocks. His quarry would likely go there, despite its dangers. In the west rose the great spires of Tholar, last bastion of civilization in the great desert. It was home to Lucas, as well as to nearly a million other folk. It was more ancient than any other place Lucas had ever been to; its walls had stood for several millennia. It was a wonderful and dangerous place. But Lucas hoped to make it far less dangerous. His quarry was a group of four men, murderers and thieves, and he was a tracker for the Desert Runners, the mercenary police force that protected Tholar. He was the best there was, and his participation had helped to bring several hardened criminals to the gallows and made the streets of Tholar a little safer. His father would say differently of course. He had always opted for working within the system, for bringing justice to the scum of Tholar through investigation, through careful inquiry and legal process. He called much of the Desert Runners’ work mere vigilantism, and had nearly disowned Lucas when he had joined. Lucas just found his father’s way too infuriatingly slow. His mother had been killed by a burglar when he was but twelve years old. The man had escaped the clutches of law enforcement and was never seen again. That was when Lucas swore to make sure that would never happen to anyone else. And that was why he was crouched on a ridge east of Tholar, with the hot, dry wind blowing back his short, dirty blonde hair, and a squad of trained killers awaiting his signal. Squatting close to the ground, he checked the faint footprints that had lead him to the ridge in the first place. The four men weren’t doing much to cover their tracks, but if Lucas had been in their position, speed would have been his priority as well. To his surprise, the tracks lead off to the east, towards the desert. It seemed counter-intuitive to Lucas. The area around Tholar and most of Landur was fairly fertile, and could sustain foraging somewhat, but if one got too far from the river, deeper in the desert, it was nearly impossible to survive. What had possessed the men to go that direction, Lucas had no idea, but at least they would be easier to spot than in the dangerous mountain passes. He signaled to the men below that the coast was clear and they all climbed the ridge to where he was. Their leader, a tough man named Ularic, squatted next to him and awaited his report. “All four of them went off to the east. They’re moving pretty quickly, but there’s no way they can keep up that pace for long,” Lucas said, gesturing to the tracks next to him. “I don’t think they know we’re following them, so we can expect to catch up to them at nightfall,” The grim man nodded. “We can match their pace, if you think it’s necessary,” he suggested. His men stood around behind him, looking bored, but Lucas knew that the squads were always poised on the edge of violence, constantly ready for anything. “No, I don’t think that we’ll need to. We’ll push for a few hours, see if we can’t get to the point where we can see them, then prepare to take them down at nightfall,” Ularic nodded, then turned to his men. “Double your pace. Helar, I want you in front, and keep your eyes peeled for our quarry. Lucas, you stay up there with him and keep us on the trail,” the men nodded, and Lucas and Helar started off at a swift jog. |
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