THE ORB OF SEMERKHET (SATHANO THE WANDERER)

THE ORB OF SEMERKHET, OR SATHANO THE WANDERER, by Jeremy Farkas, artwork by Gary McClusky

 

 

In the Hall of Semerkhet, darkness ruled as it had for many thousands of years. It was an inky blackness, deprived of any light, any warmth, any detail. The weight of time only served to deepen the dark, so that the haze of lost aeons obscured obscurity. Then, like a white lance, light leapt forth. A stone doorway at the far end of the chamber was forced opened with a miserable groan, and with it came the revealing light of a flaming brand.

The light shone through the musty, forgotten space, and the masonry came alive with reflected scintillation. Through the dust and film, and through the webbing long abandoned, jeweled walls of ruby, agate, blue topaz, and pearl glittered, sending back the orange hue of the torch in a kaleidoscope of color.

Isu the Spry and Dalia of Tuthenya raised dirty hands to shield their eyes from the dazzling array. It was unlike anything the pair of thieves had seen before, and immediately Dalia’s mind raced at the incredible riches at display.

Spread before their sandaled feet, marble tiles of black and white were dusted with ashy sand and heavy looking ingots of ancient gold. On either side of the vaulted chamber, the walls were lined with urns of clay, statuettes of brass and jade, and great chests of gilded stone. The riches of the chamber were enough to buy a kingdom tenfold, if only any of it were light enough for two to carry.

Wordlessly, Dalia nudged the wiry youth forward, and when he did not at once go in, she pressed him in a whisper.

“The coast is clear, Isu. Go and fetch what we came for!”

At her words, the boy only nodded meekly and took a step forward, into the glittering chamber. Dalia looked on, scanning the chamber for unseen terrors. Finding nothing but dark shadows, her mind turned to mounting avarice, inspecting the heaps of glittering jewels which were strewn before her so callously.

“These will no doubt come in handy”, she thought to herself, leaning down to collect a handful of brilliant rubies which had fallen loose of the masonry and lay scattered upon the floor.

Her dark trusses were managed by two long braids on either side of her square face. Her dark skin was chapped and peeling. She was clad in the wind-whipped robes of the Dune Riders, a white and red striped sleeveless tunic over which was draped a heavy woolen cloak of deepest blue.

At the far end of the chamber, still steeped in flickering shadow, a raised dais of lead sat. Flanking the dais were two marble blocks with the snarling visages of leopard-like monsters carved in bas relief. Their bodies were unmistakably feline, but their faces were those of men—ugly and warped. Their eyes were shimmering sapphires, their depictions so lifelike it made Dalia’s skin crawl to look upon them, but Isu seemed undisturbed. Either that, or he did not notice them, being so singularly focused on their goal.

Dalia admired that about Isu. Though he was still barely more than a youth, he still had the focus and resolve of a man many years his senior. The fact that he was the younger brother of the head of their gang was also a bonus, but that was neither here nor there.

Isu advanced, the light of his brand stretching deeper into the chamber, only stopping once it illuminated fully the lead dais. Both Isu and Dalia’s breath hitched, and their minds raced, for the firelight beheld the object of their heart’s desire; The Orb of Semerkhet!

The dark stone, perhaps the width of a hand and a half in diameter, did not shine as the other stones did. Instead, it seemed greedily to drink the light of the brand, and the other gems. It was a perfect, matte black sphere, otherwise devoid of detail. It sat in a stand of finely worked brass, untouched by time, upon the lead altar.

“Go on!” cheered Dalia, the excitement electric in the air. “Grab it and let’s be off! Your sister will be glad to have the thing, and I’ll be glad to get out of this ghoul-haunted place!”

Isu turned back and flashed a sheepish grin at Dalia. “What, you don’t enjoy our time together?” It was obvious to Dalia that the boy was fond of her, and that was fine by her even if she didn’t reciprocate his feelings.

“Go on, you dog! You know what I mean. Hurry up…” Dalia snapped in a faux-whisper. She watched as Isu shrugged and turned back to the black orb. She saw him ascend the steps, the light of his brand going before him. Yet, as soon as he started, he stopped dead. A cry of terror escaped his lips, and for a flash, Dalia was filled with terror as well. Behind the dais, the sputtering brand showed a golden face, with rosy lips curling up in a gentle grin, while vacant eyes glinted dully.

Fear faded to embarrassment, and mild annoyance, as Dalia called out to Isu. “It is merely a sarcophagus, Isu!” Though she couldn’t see it; she was sure that his face was hot and red with the embarrassment of his boyish cry.

It was indeed a sarcophagus, though one of unpleasant appearance. It was plated in gold and lapis, likely erected by early, witch-weary men to watch over the Orb of Semerkhet.

Dalia watched as Isu mustered his courage and closed the gap between himself and the orb, though she noted that never did he fully relax in the presence the soft smile of the gilded casket. Even from this distance, Dalia felt there was something unnerving about eyes of the sculpted grave.

The little eyes seemed to blaze with mad desire, though Dalia’s mind was ensorcelled by her haunting surroundings. She was suddenly instilled with a sense of urgency, and a desire to leave this place.

“Go on,” she commanded, “pick it up.” At her bidding, the boy looked down from the tiny, yet undeniably lifelike eyes of the sarcophagus, into the black orb set before him, but he would not do it.

“O Isu, you are a child,” chided the girl. “Whatever fellow was placed into that box is nothing more than waxy dust by now. His bones are gone, and his spirit has left for the next world.”

This seemed to animate him, for he slapped himself once to shake the tingling nerves and reached out to seize the Orb of Semerkhet. Once it was lifted from the shrine, both their eyes shot up to the smiling face in pulse-pounding fear. Nothing happened.

Isu did not move, and Dalia waited ten or so heartbeats, paralyzed in dread. Still nothing. She realized she was holding her breath and exhaled dramatically.

“Nothing to worry about, Isu, now get over here!” she said aloud for both Isu, the golden watcher, and herself to hear.

 

#

 

The night gale of the Sea of Sand chilled the bones and made gooseflesh rise, when the two graverobbers made their way out of the dark gloom of the vaults of Semerkhet.

Dalia heaved her body up and out of the sandstone opening into the ruins half-buried in the sands. She looked about herself and shuddered. She was perched upon a massive slab of ancient sandstone, cracked and weather worn. The surface barely bore evidence of carvings put down by long-dead men. Images of birds and lions and serpents and suns crisscrossed the faded slab. What was once a towering wall had since been consumed by the sands, laying at a crude angle.

Where Dalia emerged, wrapped in her night cloak, was about three-quarters of the way up the length of exposed masonry. There, beneath her feet, was an opening—once a window many centuries prior—into the mysterious world below the sands. Braced against the threshold were the hooked prongs of an iron grapnel, from which descended the knotted rope she had just climbed. About midway down its length was suspended Isu.

The wind howled, and the sand sprayed up and into her eyes. She coughed violently and shook her cloak in turn.

“Isu,” she went down on one knee and reached into the opening to assist the boy, “I’ve never known you to lag behind in athletic concerns. What is wrong?”

“The orb,” he mumbled. “It’s… heavy.”

He was almost in arm’s reach now.

“It did not look heavy when first you lifted it—are you ill?” A twinge of panic ran through her. If he fell ill out here, he’d never make it back to the Dune Riders alive, which in addition to its own sadness, would also likely spell doom for herself at the hands of Isu’s sister Zamash, and the rest of the Dune Riders.

“N-no,” he huffed, struggling his way up the rope. “I just feel drained and weary is all. Some distance put between us and this ruin will likely do me some good.”

Already the horizon was stained rosy pink. Soon the light of Sonlir the Sun would shine down upon this valley, and they’d have spent a full day and night in these ruins.

Unwilling to wait any longer for Isu, the lean-bodied woman sprang to action.

“Come, my dear Isu,” she called down, seizing the rope and hauling its length hand over fist.

As he emerged, she embraced him with ill-contained relief, though at what specifically, she was not sure. She squeezed his thin frame to a point well past discomfort. She released him then, holding him at arm’s length. Were he in better spirits, he might have relished in her affections, as they were so rarely shown.

“To the camp,” she suggested “then once you’ve rested a bit and we’ve packed, off to see that sister of yours, hmm?” Isu only nodded tiredly.

 

#

 

The pair sat huddled around a low fire. At the edge of their light, a pair of hobbled camels knelt together, their bodies peppered with whipping sand. A crude tent was pitched at an awkward angle. Having since donned heavy cloaks for warmth in the desert night, the two spoke.

“You’ve warmed your bones enough. Let’s see it up close!” Dalia nudged young Isu gently.

Wordlessly, the boy produced from his weather-worn satchel the artifact in question. Even under the light of the dwindling stars, the orb cast no reflection upon its smooth, glass-like surface.

Dalia exclaimed in excited delight. “You’re a king among thieves!” She took it from him and hefted it appraisingly. It was deceptively heavy, but not nearly as heavy as Isu made it out to be, and its surface was almost as ice. “Such weight! Zamash will be pleased. After all, I would not be surprised if it was worth its weight in gold!” Isu said nothing in response to her speculation.

He’d been more quiet than usual since leaving the crypt beneath the dunes. When she leveled a gaze at him, he sat up somewhat, nodded weakly, and managed little more than “Aye”.

“You doubt the value of such a spectacular stone?” Her brow creased in disbelief.

“No, it’s just—” Isu was cut off before he could finish.

“Just nothing! This is exactly what we’ve needed. Zamash said it herself that we’d be honored members of The Dune Riders with this job out of the way. And with her help, we’ll get a cut of the sale to that Baramath fellow. I’ll bet we can leverage the stone to get double our shares! A paltry fifty-and-one-hundred gold Alrum is insultingly low.” In appreciation, she held up the cold stone to the dancing flame, noting how it remained as cold as ever, and bore not the light of the fire upon its surface.

The wind died down for a span, and the purplish pink of the horizon began to solidify. Soon the sun would be up, and the agony of the desert day would come with it. The pair knew they would have to start moving soon.

Dalia passed the stone back to Isu, and stood, dusting the sand off herself. “We’d best away soon,” she commented, turning away to pack up their camp.

Ghostly thin, Isu’s voice drifted to Dalia’s ears.

“By the Gods,” he managed, raising a trembling hand to point back toward the ruins.

Dalia turned, and the wind howled and cast the sands in mighty waves. The camels bellowed furiously, fighting against the bind each one had around a leg, hobbling madly toward the horizon. Dalia leapt to her feet to fetch one of the camels, crying out to Isu to halt the other, but the boy was seemingly petrified, unmoving in the sudden sandstorm.

Dalia caught the beast by its reins and lead it back to camp just in time to watch her tent collapse in on itself as glittering sand began to consume it. Barely could she see the shape of Isu in the chaos of the sandstorm, and leading the camel behind her, trudged her way in the boy’s direction.

Then, of a sudden, the wind halted, and the sand fell from the sky all at once. Their fire had been reduced to glowing embers, and darkness was all about them in the early morning twilight. Naught but one feature was discernible.

Between the buried camp and the ancient ruin, the gold—almost luminous—visage of a man hovered. Its gentle smile, and tiny, human eyes were inexplicably hideous to behold.

All was still, and Dalia’s heart thundered in her chest. The face was uncannily human but moved not at all. A voice issued from the visage, in a piteously wavering manner, it croaked and crackled like a one unaccustomed to speech.

“Give it… back.”

From the dark, the form of a man coalesced beneath and about the face. An arm, swaddled in moldering wrappings and prehistoric accoutrements reached out in a pleading, loathsome manner.

“W-what deviltry is this? Are you some dedicated thief who dons the garb of the ancient sarcophagi to do his robbing, o-or an illusion come to beguile us in the night?” cried Dalia, trying to arrive at an explanation that did not suggest what she supposed. She could think of none. Instead, she shot a glance in Isu’s direction. He was visibly trembling.

A low hiss issued from the stranger, but the face remained static, and the wind whipped up in lashing tendrils and the stars dimmed to nothing.

“THIEVES,” Roared the voice, as the figure went forth in a limping, pathetic way. At the sound, Dalia’s camel broke from her grip, and hobbled away from here, though to where she was not sure. She was transfixed in terror, for in the glow of the embers, the shape of the shambling thing could be seen.

Its body was frail and thin beyond reason, draped in dry, crackling dressings, stained brown by primordial blood and the filth of time. The long arms of the fiend lashed out violently, yet its immobile face remained placid in its gentle grin.

A long, bandy arm reached out and grasped a wildly shrieking Isu by his throat. His body was raised with ease from the sands, and he gazed into the tiny eyes of the gently grinning face. He knew the face.

The boy howled wildly as he beheld the visage in all its sinister glory. The face was a golden mask, wreathed in black, hair-like tendrils that lashed wildly. They groped and held fast the mask to a dark, oozing head. Whatever lay beneath was not for mortal eyes to behold.

“Please,” cooed the thing, “I want it.” The voice emanated from the entirety of the shambling corpse, for corpse it was.

Isu wept and beat his fists against the unfeeling body of Semerkhet, the living-dead sorcerer, his animal mind consuming his rational one. It was to no avail, and he felt the crushing strength of the clawed hands bite into the flesh of his neck.

Dalia stood paralyzed in shock, watching the abominable display before her. Black, inky splotches, resembling leeches or dark worms seeped out from beneath Semerkhet’s wrappings, only to crawl up his arm and onto the flesh of Isu.

Isu’s body shook and he spat feebly as the black worms bore into the flesh of his face, seeking especially his mouth and eyes. The worms coated the boy’s face, and the screaming ceased, giving way to violent convulsions instead. His body began to shrivel as though dried, wrinkling and turning in on itself.

Semerkhet released his grip on Isu, deeming his punishment sufficient. A heap of cloak, tunic, satchel, dagger, and sandals struck the earth, along a showering of dust and writhing worms. Isu was gone.

The presence of such blasphemous sorcery was nearly mind-shattering, and a storm of curses and cries tangled in Dalia’s throat. Her hair stood on end, and she realized she felt the hot streak of tears on her cheek. Her mind reeled, and she turned to flee.

The mummified sorcerer lurched toward her. A heavy hand fell upon her shoulder, and icy chills ran up and down her body. She was forced to look upon him, and she beheld the evilly grinning mask.

“I… I can feel it,” whispered the leering thing. “It is close… It… calls to me.”

Dalia watched in horror as the black squirming shapes rose up out of the corpse’s wrappings. The static smile regarded her mockingly as it spoke.

“Be with him in the blackness between stars.”

Dalia closed her eyes, braced for death indescribable. After six or so heartbeats, it did not come. She fell earthward and looked upon Semerkhet the Sorcerer.

The shape was writhing violently, hissing in impotent fury. The first rays of the sun had crested the dunes of the horizon, casting the ghoul in the light of day. Black smoke vented from beneath the robes and bonds of the corpse, and it gurgled with seething hate. The smoke consumed the body, and once it ebbed, nothing was left in the sands but the mummy’s footprints.

Dalia, beyond shock, looked around dumbly. Isu was gone, her camp was in ruins, both camels—though hobbled—had fled a few hundred yards, and the stink of death lay heavy about her in the warm glow of morning. Isu’s satchel lay near her feet.

 

#

 

The lingering chords of the qanun echoed out into the cool chambers of the lounge, where it mingled with the subdued exchanges of the comfortable patrons. A smell of Quarum spice permeated everything, from the ornamental tapestries to the ornate rugs to the film coating the tiled floor. Accompanying the music of the qanun was a lilting song of beautiful expression. Everything was muted, gentle, and dull. The dim light allowed for deep shadows and drug-induced slumber.

At the far end of the chamber, an ornately carved door swung open with great fervor and impatience. Light flooded in, and a cry of frustration rose among the dreamy patrons.

In strode Dalia, exhausted from a great trek, though mustering herself to appear outwardly strong. She threw her shoulders back and called to the crowd.

“Where is Zamash,” she demanded. The music died down and a din of irritated grumbling came from the men and women sitting in shadowed recesses or lounging upon quilted divans. One among them, with blue-black beard and gentle eyes- pointed wordlessly toward the back of the chamber, where heavy tapestries of brilliant concentric ringlets hung from floor to ceiling.

Without another word, she let the doors shut behind her as she strode purposefully toward the wall-hanging. Drawing it back, she found another, smaller alcove, In the dim light of a few oil lamps, she saw a space decorated with swords and bronze shields, low marble tables and cushioned couches all around.

A small circle of men in the middle of the room were all staring at her darkly, a silver dish heaped with lotus powder in their midst. Their hands drifted to knives and edged swords at their waists as they considered the intruder. A long-faced man with pupils so large they looked to be cats’ eyes, spoke in a low voice.

“Be at ease, men. It is Dalia.”

She nodded in recognition of Obaan, the cat-eyed man.

“Where is Zamash the Smuggler?” she spoke, maintaining an air of cool disinterest.

“I am here,” spoke one of the circle, who drew back their hood. A woman of some twenty Summers, dark of complexion, with intricately braided hair and tired looking eyes stood from among the watery-eyed men. She was the smallest among the imbibers but seemed to command considerable respect among them.

“It is good to see you well, Dalia my sister in arms, though I would expect my young brother Isu to be with you.” Her eyes flashed with suspicion. “Did you and my brother make it to the Ruins of Semerkhet?”

“You doubt our skill?” inquired Dalia, doing her best to seem casual, even conversational. She was inwardly pleased with the way she sounded.

“Isu is a capable thief, if he is on the younger side. It’s you I’m worried about,” intoned Zamash. There was a chastising tone to her voice. She enjoyed teasing Dalia, and it frustrated Dalia to no end. Despite herself, Dalia’s temper flashed.

“Ha! You’ve never been much of a charmer Zamash. Maybe that’s why it never worked out between us.” It came out meaner than she meant it, and the men in the circle exchanged surprised glances. The air itself became electric with a sudden harshness.

Zamash was clearly too intoxicated to respond at once, swayed where she sat. “Obaan, grab her.” The words dripped venom.

The long-faced man put a hand on Dalia’s wrist, though gently, unsure of what all was going on.

“Unhand me!” spat Dalia, tearing her wrist free. “We still have business to discuss.”

The reavers nodded, muttered among themselves. With a hand, Zamash silenced them.

“Fine, but we will resolve our personal matters later.” Her words were weighted with an unspoken portent. “What of Isu, and of the Orb?” Dalia could feel a perceptive increase in the tension of the room. An unspoken suspicion was cast upon her almost immediately. She would not lie to Zamash.

“Isu was slain.”

An uproar of shock, accusations, disbelief, and lamentations exploded from the ring of intoxicated bandits.

“Did you slay him yourself?!” hissed one.

“He was a crafty boy!” moaned another “Much too sly to be caught in so obvious a betrayal.”

“Who else would do it?!” spat one.

Zamash raised her hand once again and the conjecture ceased.

“What happened?” Zamash inquired, showing no outward reaction to the news of her brother’s death.

Dalia let loose a long sigh of anticipation. Surely they wouldn’t believe the tall tale she had to tell, at least not all of it, but what else could be said? Mustering her convictions, she squared her shoulders and spoke bluntly.

“He was killed by a wizard.”

This was possible, the men agreed, as wizards are crafty and often prone to deviltry.

“Which wizard?” called one from the circle. “The only one we know in these lands is Hamash the Illuminator, and he sells us the Blue Lotus.” His hand pointed to the smoking bowl in the center of the circle, whose fumes made Dalia light-headed.

“I think it was Semerkhet of the Old World,” spoke Dalia, bracing herself for an expected wave of ridiculing questions.

From this came a mixture of laughs and scoffs.

“Semerkhet is dead and buried for untold millennia,” Zamash chided. “Do you expect us to believe that even a wizard could stay alive for so long? You are either mistaken or lying.”

“It was Semerkhet, but only a shadow, like his walking corpse. He was a ghoul of the night, a cadaver given life!” Dalia spat, her heart racing with the memory of the shambling thing.

“But all is not lost!” Dalia declared. “Isu’s last act before his death at the hands of the Wizard Semerkhet was retrieving the prized Orb of Semerkhet from the depths of the earth. It is ours!”

“Where is the orb then, girl?” hissed Zamash.

“I am a year older than you, girl,” retorted Dalia, and when anger flashed in the eyes of Zamash, she continued. “If I tell you, will you vow to believe my tale as I have told it, and to admit me as a member of the Dune Riders?”

There was a long, expectant pause, but eventually Zamash nodded lazily.

In response, Dalia reached into her satchel and produced the pulsing black stone. Silence filled the room, and the pure black of the orb became like a hypnotic focus for all who looked upon it, save Dalia who had seen it once before. Gradually hypnotic amazement gave way to creeping dread and uneasiness of an unguessable nature. There was something evil about the stone. The silence was cut by the captain Zamash.

“Obaan, cut off this treacherous killer’s head, and bring me the orb as penance for her lying, and the murder of my brother.”

Dalia’s heart sank, but she had not a moment to recover her thoughts, for at the order, the long-faced man drew his tulwar, and sprang for her. Ducking under his wide slash, Dalia stuffed the orb back into her satchel and fled. Behind her she heard the barking cry of Zamash the Smuggler.

“After her!” she demanded, and the host of bandits about her went forth.

Dalia flew through the doors of the lounge and out into the noonday sun of Il Ruman. Without a pause for direction, she turned up the busy road, past beggars, thieves, merchants, and holy men. Behind her, surging through the crowd she could hear the many feet of sword-armed bandits.

Her lungs gulped for air as she surged down a narrow alleyway. Dalia could scarcely believe how her legs pulsed and flew beneath her. She looked back and saw the grimacing men coming her way. They numbered maybe ten, two abreast in the narrow pass, but their curved swords spelled certain doom.

She rounded another corner and dove behind a stack of wicker baskets, waiting for them to pass. They raced past her hiding spot, thinking her somewhere up ahead. Dalia waited for a span of several heartbeats before, like a creeping cat, she left her hiding place and peered around the bend. She could see the men plodding away in the distance, turning back onto the main thoroughfare.

A sigh of relief half escaped her lips when she heard the footfalls of someone coming from whence she and the Dune Riders came. She turned about just in time to see a rapidly approaching, cat eyed Obaan, who had evidently either fallen behind or elected to take up the rear. He moved like a great panther, and closed with her at an incredible speed. She fell back as he tried to seize her by the jellaba, and she hit her head against the hard-packed earth.

For a moment, Dalia’s vision blurred, then refocused on the looming, scowling face of Obaan, who had sword in hand. His features were set in a cruel expression, and he seemed ready to deal death.

“Wait!” Dalia cried, hoping to stay his hand. “Obaan please, you know me… Please… Spare me my life!”

The bandit was unconcerned with her words as he took a fistful of her hair and yanked her up to better expose her neck.

“Obaan, wait! I-I can make it worth your while! Nobody knows you’ve found me, afterall!” Desperately she reached into the pouch at her belt and collected the fistful of rubies she had collected within the tomb of Semerkhet. “I can pay you handsomely for my life!” She appended, thrusting out a handful of glittering red gems. This stayed his hand, and he released his grip on her.

“I’ll take all those rubies off your hands, but make yourself scarce, girl.” He spoke disinterestedly.

If she was terrified before, now she was furious.

“I’ll give you these four,” she corrected him, holding up four among her collection. The nerve of that dog to threaten her life, insult her, and imply that he deserves everything she has in exchange for a shred of human decency.

Long-faced Obaan balked at her, and his leathery fist encircled her wrist, trying to wrest the jewels away. Apparently, he was done talking.

Dalia cried out in pain as the pressure on her wrist proved too great, and she released her grip on the gems, which scattered to the dry street, mixing with the dust that lay thereupon.

Evidently their struggle had been observed by an unseen audience, for as soon as the gems hit the ground, beggars, destitutes, thieves, and vagrants came from egresses, shadowed awnings, or unseen avenues, not to rescue to poor girl, but to collect her dropped treasures.

Obaan looked wildly about, and turned fully away from Dalia to fight off the incomers, but the clash never came. Another onlooker entered the space, and his presence gave everyone pause.

He was larger than any man Dalia had ever seen. He was built with a primal power that emanated from his very being. Pythonic muscles rippled supply beneath skin of umber, and his beard grew in tight black ringlets, close cropped. He dressed like a local, with white tunic stretched across his broad shoulders, and the keffiyeh wrapped around his head, but she could tell he was a foreigner. The Abari tongue was not his native one.

“Away from here,” ordered the giant with some disgust. All present were only too happy to oblige the umber giant’s command, save Dalia and Obaan.

“Aside, outlander!” spat Obaan the long-faced bandit. “This matter concerns you not.” He raised his tulwar against the giant in a menacing pose.

In response the stranger simply bent down to collect some rubies. Obaan howled in rage and closed the gap between them in the blink of an eye. What none could have guessed was that the massive hand of the dark stranger would closed around the wrist of Obaan with such swiftness and ease. Like when Obaan sized Dalia’s wrist, the stranger applied pressure to Obaan’s. This time, however, it gave with an alarming crunch. The bandit cried out, and the tulwar clattered to the ground. The giant collected the tulwar and stood once again to his full height, and pushed the bandit back, who was cradling his twisted hand with the miserable look of a beaten dog.

The outlander held the weapon with an expertise that was obvious to Dalia as he aimed it at Obaan. Inwardly she was simultaneously amazed at this feat of speed and tenacity, and relieved that she was not on the receiving end of it.

Once he was gone, the broad shoulders of the man slouched and he lowered his head, wiping his brow. Dalia swallowed hard and emerged from behind the corner. She had watched as the man fled up the street and was astonished at the quick work the stranger had made of the Dune Rider. She grinned, mentally comparing the defeated reaver to a scolded pup, slinking away with his tail tucked. No man had so casually defeated Obaan before. Dalia realized that this was no ordinary man, and that she would be a fool not to capitalize on this chance encounter, for already an idea was formulating in her head. She approached the man cautiously, and at the sound of her movement, he turned to regard her.

His face was set hard, not ugly but marred with the long experience of a trying life. His skin was a deep umber hue, with a tight beard of black ringlets, short but untrimmed. He was clad in a white, woolen tunic and sleeveless overcoat. His shaved head was wrapped in the traditional headdress of the land, though it was stained with sweat.

A head taller than most men, and as broad as can be, he exuded tigerish strength in the muscles that rippled beneath his sweaty skin.

“It was fortunate you came along!” commented Dalia, hoping to ingratiate herself with the man. “What name have you, warrior?”

His brow creased in annoyance. He girdled the scimitar then inspected the split in his knuckle given to him by the bandit’s jaw.

“I am Sathano,” he spoke curtly, letting his hand fall to his side, “and I am no warrior. I know how to fight, but only to survive.”

“You sure made short work of Obaan,” admired Dalia, looking up at the incredible height of the man. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Al Subakh.” He dabbed the sweat beading at his dark forehead.

Her brow raised incredulously. Al Subakh was one of the greatest cities in Abar—a gleaming jewel upon the mantle of the Sea of Sand. Only the most honored of swordsmen, native-born to the Emirate were deemed worthy of the soldiery of the city. However, this was not the case, as he bothered to specify. “In the Pit.”

She understood. The Pit was the arena in the center of Al Subakh, where bloodsport ruled. There, men flayed and were flayed for the entertainment of the spectators. That this man had survived any time in the Pit, let alone found freedom from it, was a mark of his prowess.

Sathano looked over his shoulder, back up the way the bandit had run, then bent down to finish collecting the rubies he had started collecting earlier.

Dalia wanted to protest, and urge him to stop, but perhaps she could frame this another way. An idea formulated more fully in her mind, and she spoke again.

“Yes, you’ve more than earned those rubies. Help yourself. If it’s riches you need, I may have further use for someone with your skill set.”

Sathano grunted as he stood, the rubies clenched in one fist. “You have more?” he inquired.

In truth, he held all her wealth in his massive fist, but she couldn’t tell him that. Instead, she opted to stretch the truth. “Oh, there is much more.”

“Before I agree to anything, I want to know… Why did that man come after you?”

“Let’s find a place away from the sting of the noonday sun and I’ll tell you,” Suggested Dalia.

 

#

 

This Sathano character was the exact sort of fellow Dalia needed, she decided. He was a man of iron, who didn’t argue, dissent, or have much going on in his own life. She deemed he was polite enough, and soft spoken for such a giant of a man. Despite his softer nature, passersby gave them a wide berth, regarding his tremendous physicality. Dalia noted this and thought of how the reavers fled from him. When Zamash’s men inevitably returned, she would need someone like this giant for her own safety. She would need that sort of protection if she hoped to make it the long way south to the estate of Baramath, where she knew she could sell off the orb for a massive payout.

They settled beneath the wide palms around the azure pool of the Oasis of Ruman, for which the little village was named. The low buildings were all about them, but for now it was uncrowded. A few men were watering camels at the far side of the shimmering pool, but Dalia and Sathano were among the tall grasses, in the deeply cast shade of a mighty palm.

There, the air was cooler, and the oasis did much in banishing the tight air of the close-packed village. A bird sang somewhere overhead, and a gentle breeze was swaying the grass, dry but not agonizingly hot.

Dalia told Sathano much of her journey. She spoke of Baramath, a wealthy collector and historian who advertised hearty compensation in exchange for relics from the age of Semerkhet the Wizard. She told him of her friend Isu, and of their relationship with The Dune Riders, and Isu’s older sister Zamash. She explained how, for many years, the two looked up to Zamash as a bold, adventurous sort, and desperately wanted to join her band of reavers. She did not mention the romantic entanglement she had with Zamash, as it was none of this man’s business, but she did say that things soured between them with time, and the friction flared up from time to time. She explained that eventually, it was decided that the only way they would be admitted into the Dune Riders was with some sort of test of skill.

The two were tasked with the retrieval of the Orb of Semerkhet, which was supposedly near the top of the collector’s bounty. She explained how Isu and she journeyed across the sands, and how they came to the ruins of the Tomb of Semerkhet. She spoke of the black orb, and mentioned that Isu died in its acquisition.

Sathano nodded in understanding as she explained how Zamash had ordered her to be beheaded when she returned with the orb without Isu.

All this she told Sathano, save the encounter with the ghoulish figure at the ruins. She wished not to dwell on the outlandishness of it, and doubly wished not to cast doubt on herself yet again by its telling.

When she finished her tale, she was herself amazed at all that had transpired. Isu had fallen only the day before, and yet it felt a lifetime had passed between then and now.

Sathano did not say anything right away, instead picking at the tall grasses all about him. A single blade had been stripped down in his huge hand, and he was fiddling with the strands absently. When he had finished, he turned to her.

“I mourn for your Isu,” he consoled. “How did he die?”

Finding herself unable to answer the question, she spoke vaguely. “The desert is a cruel mistress.”

Sathano nodded in agreement, adding “I have noticed much the same,” before changing the subject again.

“You wish me to escort you to your Baramath, and there I can expect to be paid?”

Dalia was impressed at his assessment. This was perfect! Now she could skip town, hand off the accursed orb to someone else, make a hefty profit, and have the means to escape anywhere she damn well pleased. She nodded emphatically, grinning from ear to ear, and his face wrinkled in frustration.

“I have no stomach for killing,” he warned, the deep-set creases in his face evidencing a lifetime of scowling.

“Worry not. I suspect most bandits wouldn’t dare cross blades with you.”

Sathano cast the blades of grass into the water, where they floated and swam in tiny circles. Both were silent again for a long time, then the giant spoke again.

“Where is Baramath?”

“In the deepest south of the Sea of Sand, in Tuthenya.” Sathano perked up.

“It is well that we met each other,” he grinned, almost unaccustomed to the action. “I too am travelling south, for I seek my people in the land beyond.” He slapped his knee and let out a low, sharp laugh. “I will travel with you to Tuthenya. It will be easier going with someone to keep my company.”

“It’s settled then,” she declared. “Do you have a steed?” When Sathano shook his head to say no, she couldn’t help but remark. “You are a strange man to wander the desert on foot.”

The giant only shrugged, saying “I did not have a choice.”

“Not to worry, we’ll fetch my two camels from the stables near the north gate.” She was glad she purchased new provisions before inadvertently giving all her money away to the giant.

 

#

 

Riding south along the crests of a string of mighty dunes, Dalia and Sathano traversed the Sea of Sand under the cover of darkness. The wind sent their traveler’s cloaks flying about them, casting their moonlit shadows against the earth in the forms of undulating specters.

Their shadows made Dalia think back to Isu, and his fate at the hands of the mummified Semerkhet. Her heart panged with anxious dread, and her very spirit was on edge. She noticed she was gritting her teeth, anticipating some horrible fate she could not describe. It had been her suggestion they ride that same night, to avoid the knives of Zamash’s reavers, but now she regretted the decision.

Within the walls of the village, under the blazing sun, Dalia felt confident, and undeterred by the memory of the ghoul. Now, out in the wild, exposed to the elements and cast in darkness, she felt afraid.

Behind them was the village of Il Ruman, and the Dune Riders. For these, Dalia looked over her shoulder often, yet a deeper and more frightened part of herself looked too for the specter of Semerkhet, whose temple lay further north than the village.

Her dread drove her to ride harder, pushing her camel to its limit. Sathano struggled behind her, unaccustomed to travel on the back of a beast. It groaned at him in an ornery way, and fought against his every instruction, though it liked to charge—much to Sathano’s displeasure.

He hailed the woman riding before him, heaving mightily at the reins of his mount. The two stopped at the crest of a low rise. They had ridden some hours into the night.

“By Utuh and Trelb,” swore the outlander, shifting miserably in the quilted saddle, “We’ve enough distance between us now. Let us rest till dawn.” His breath came in foggy streams in the bitter cold.

“It would be better to keep going,” suggested Dalia, her voice barely audible over the miserable wind.

“My fingers are stiff and my body aches, both from cold and camel,” Sathano complained, clenching and unclenching his fist with some effort.

Dalia acquiesced his request, and they quickly set about pitching a low tent, but she forbade him fire-making.

They slept fitfully, back to back, as stars and wind whirled overhead.

 

#

 

Sometime in the dead of night, a hideous cry cut the winds like a knife. It was a dry, sorrowful wail that lingered miserably. Both Dalia and Sathano awoke with a start, Dalia taking up her knife in alarm.

The camels bellowed and spat their fear, stamping their feet into the sand.

“What beast makes that noise?” whispered Sathano.

“No creature I know,” Dalia breathed, stiff as a board.

They sat in silence, and again the cry rang out, only this time it felt closer. Their hair rose and their skin came alive with gooseflesh. Sathano scanned the horizon but spied nothing in the dark. Both camels snorted noisily, swaying their long necks from side to side in blind fear.

He was rising to go investigate, when Dalia seized him by the belt and pulled him back earthward, hissing at him furiously.

Her eyes were wide with fear, and noiselessly she pointed toward the bank of a wide sand slope. There, steeped in darkness, two sapphire lights shone in the darkness.

Both were silent and frozen in place as they watched the lights shift and glide down one dune and up another, drawing ever closer. Gradually, the pinpoints of light came up along the bank nearest them, toward the dune’s peak. There, silhouetted against the dim gloom of the moon, they beheld the shape of a hideous thing. It was like a great black leopard whose sleek movements melded into the twilight, but its visage was painfully human. The head of the thing resembled that of an old man, with beard and long hair. In lieu of eyes, massive sapphire gemstones bulged from the sockets. It stopped at the top of the dune, never pulling the blue glow of its faux eyes away from Dalia and Sathano.

White fangs flashed in the dark, then it threw back its human head and released an awful shriek. It was like the wedded howls of a baying dog, a wailing woman, and the explosive crash of thunder.

Their hearts sank with a nihilistic glamour that came over them in waves, and their minds reeled in the presence of the lank stalker. The camels fled southward as fast as their hobbled legs could carry them. Then, just as soon as it appeared, the midnight demon vanished.

They sat for a long time, unable to compose words or even thoughts. Slowly the fear seeped out of them, and their rational minds took hold. Quickly they collected their things and dismantled the camp, fetching the camels, who were still mad with fear.

 

#

 

On into the frigid night they rode. They did not speak of what they saw, for neither seemed ready to put it into words. When at last they did speak, it was when the sky was painted bright pink with the rising sun. Its life-giving warmth and glow brought to them courage and comfort. Sathano was first to speak, but Dalia did not anticipate what he said.

“How did Isu die?”

Dalia sighed, and the two slowed to a halt.

“He did not die naturally,” she confessed. “I would have told you but—”

“But it would have frightened me too much to help you?” His brow wrinkled in deep frustration. “What, was he slain by that night-stalker? Do you need someone fresh to put between yourself and it?”

“No! It’s not as simple as that,” swore Dalia. “That beast is as new to me as it is to you!”

“I have seen beasts, and that was no beast. It was closer to the demons who rule the Outer Dark! Tell me what you know, girl.”

She made to reply, but something caught her eye along the northern horizon. A dark smear along the dun landscape, which glinted against the light of the rising sun.

“The Dune Riders,” she swore, and Sathano turned to face northward.

They dropped their conversation, unsure of what to do. There was no haven in this trackless wilderness, and even if they hadn’t been spied, their tracks in the sand were evidence enough of their passing.

It was a foolish hope to think the winds had totally erased their trail. No, they’d be found. Flight was their best hope.

First, they rode at an even pace, hoping to maintain the distance they had already. In the distance, the glinting blotch grew slowly, and they urged their camels to quicken their pace.

The beasts raced across the sand, drooling and bobbing their great heads as they went, and Sathano and Dalia would look over their shoulders often.

Late into the day this continued. Sweat-soaked, stiff-bodied in their saddles they rode. Never did they stop for rest, and the camels grew irritated at the unceasing march.

Casting a glance back, Sathano saw that the smudge on the horizon had grown into riders astride bulky dromedaries. He heard their excited whooping, teasing cries, and the general thundering of their many mounts. Tulwars waved and glimmered in the afternoon sun.

He counted eleven riders and saw among their ranks the man whose hand he had broken the day prior, and the smallish figure of either a youth or a woman.

Reeling, he barked at Dalia to fly, and the two urged their tired steeds to feats of incredible movement. They flew across the sands, the wind whipping in their faces as the earth raced beneath their wild feet. So too did the riders increase their pace.

In the distance, Dalia spied a range of low mountains—the Tehruhks. Over the wind and the slowly growing shouts of the riders at their heels, she cried to Sathano.

“Make for the low mountains! We may lose them in the rocky passes!”

Sathano nodded wordlessly, and the two turned slightly in their direction.

The sun was low and warm in the sky, and the riders inched closer. They were almost within bowshot, and Sathano could see arrows flying loose on the air; not quite making their mark, but drifting alarmingly closer.

The rocky crags of the Tehruhks grew before them, and they could spot deep rifts and winding canyons with ease. There was hope—if only they could reach the safety of the rocks!

Sathano’s camel was wheezing beneath him, it’s lungs exploding with effort as he urged the beast faster. Dalia was just ahead of him, careening across the expanse—the mountains inching closer. An arrow embedded itself in Sathano’s pack, and he knew there wasn’t enough time.

He stopped the goading of his beast, and quickly it slowed from exhaustion. Perhaps this was certain death, but he needed to buy Dalia time. This tactic was unexpected on the part of his pursuers, and soon the gap was closed by a pair of riders, white cloaks flying furiously from their shoulders. One came up on either side of Sathano. Dalia rode on, confident in her guardian’s ability.

The sky was tinged with the first colors of the evening hours when first the blades crashed, and red sparks flew. With the gap closed, he urged his camel to new speeds, and the fight screamed its way across the expanse.

Sathano’s steel met that of his aggressor as the two hurdled across the desert expanse. On the edge of his vision, he could see the glint of drawn steel—the blade of the rider at his other side.

Never one to be paralyzed by indecision, Sathano seized up the reins of his mount and heaved back with frenzied haste. The camel bellowed and reared, slowing to a halt. The two raiders raced past him, looking furiously over their shoulder at the giant outlander. They heaved into wide turns to meet him, forgetting the girl entirely. Dalia rode on, unaware of what was happening behind her, head lowered, urging her shaggy beast to the limits of its physical abilities.

In escaping the two swordsmen who would’ve surely butchered him in the saddle, he found himself in the company of the rest of the troupe. At seeing him rear and stall ahead of him, they had slowed to a canter. Eleven brigands of the dune-scape surrounded him, their drooling mounts wheezing and trembling as did Sathano’s beneath him.

The dust settled, but none spoke. Toward the horizon, Sathano could see the last evidence of Dalia on camelback, dwindling into the blur of the Tehruhk Mountains. Sathano’s heart was pounding in his deep chest, his hands were shaking, and adrenaline was coursing furiously through his veins. The rush of the chase was still forefront in his mind, and it took time to adjust to a static environment.

The sound of the grumbling, wheezing dromedaries was augmented by the clatter of drawn sabers. All around, the grim-faced men bore glinting blades that reflected the reddish hue of the setting sun.

Among them were the long-faced Obaan, whose broken arm was cradled in a sling about his neck, and a young woman whose bored expression was betrayed by the glint of menace in her eye.

“Dismount,” ordered the woman.

The ring of blades did much in persuading the umber giant, and so he dismounted the camel.

“Shall I water the sands with this dog’s blood?” croaked Obaan, his wicked grin separating his hard-set face like an ugly wound, framed by a wagging black beard. Sathano’s hand rushed for the scimitar at his hip, and the blades narrowed in about him.

“No,” spoke Zamash the Smuggler, raising a hand to halt the bloodshed. “We may have need of him. Our dear Dalia has fled to the mountains.  She gazed upon the mighty giant, smirking gently.

“Besides, a fighter this exemplary may fetch a fortune of his own, were we to sell him in the markets of Al Subahk. The arena always needs new fighters.”

Sathano felt as though a great weight fell upon him. He couldn’t go back. Enough of his life had been ruined by the barbarism of pit fighting for the glory of others.

“N-no,” he stammered, and a phantom memory of the agony of life in captivity came upon him. His limbs became restless, and the great muscles of his frame tensed with ill-mastered panic. “By the Black Hand of Fate, no!”

A tiny flame thought dormant within him sparked to life, and a hatred flared up within poor Sathano.

“NO!” he spat ferociously, ducking beneath sweeping blades and diving between the wide-spread legs of one of the camels.

The men cried out in surprise, and Zamash shrieked above them.

“After him you dogs, or I’ll sell you to the slavers of Al Subahk along with him!”

With mighty strides, Sathano crossed the sandy expanse, but was quickly met by Obaan astride his bulky camel. With a shrill cry, the reaver brought down the flat weight of his blade against the side of the giant’s head.

Stars shone in Sathano’s eyes, and a sharp pain exploded from behind his left ear. He felt cold, then all turned black.

 

#

 

When Dalia at last reached the rocks of the Tehruhks, the craggy place was bathed in the chill of darkness. The beast beneath her was shuddering and croaking and refused to go another step.

Dalia’s thoughts were with Sathano. She could still envision his hard-set face calling out to her, maned in the billowing dust of wicked riders.

Her face felt hot in the cold night wind and was streaked with the stain of tears. She had not knowingly wept, and yet her eyes were bleary with fatigue and distress.

With beleaguered effort and stiff legs, she climbed from the beast’s saddle, and tore the load loose from its back. Then she took the animal’s lead and walked into the rocky barrens of the Tehruhks.

“I should have stopped to help him,” spoke the woman to her exhausted camel, leading it between shadowed rocks painted purple with the stain of the setting sun. The camel groaned.

“But what could I have done? Should I have slain one man only to be cut down by a dozen others?” She paused, letting the question hang heavy in the air. “He bade me ride on… If I turned, both our struggles would have been in vain.”

Her train of thought was cut short by the sound of running water, and a primal drive took hold of her mount. The camel rushed forward, dragging Dalia behind it.

The beast found its way between two great slabs of ashen stone, and into the narrow crevasse of a deep canyon. Down the length of cloven earth, a shallow creek ran noisily. The camel, having escaped its lead, rushed the water and drank with bestial gluttony. Dalia was not far behind it.

She watched the beast, then scanned her surroundings. The canyon was deep, and darkness filled the space, both from shadow and the coming of the twilight hours. A chill wind whipped at her back and sent her locks flying as the camel raced down the length of the canyon.

At the opposite side of the narrow channel, beyond the cool water, a dark maw opened into the stone itself. It was a cave.

The wind blew again, and the twilight began to deepen. Soon the cold would be absolute. With her face hard-set, Dalia took hold of the camel’s reins once more, and crossed the swift creek, vanishing into the darkness of the cave.

 

#

 

When Sathano returned to the waking world, his face felt swollen, and his body was wracked with an aching pain. His limbs rose at his command, but only sluggishly. His head was spinning as he swam in the gulf of semi-consciousness, and his dry tongue felt like a slab of salt.

His vision returned to him, and he saw a fire burning several paces away. All around him, men walked, slept, groomed camels, and talked in furtive tones. His back was against a great boulder, and surrounding their firelit camp, the craggy stones of the Tehruhks lorded.

When he regained a sense of himself, only one thought was with him. Dalia. What became of her? Was he too late? Did they find her? He knew he had to act.

He tried to stand but found his movement restricted. His hands and feet were bound in biting ropes that cut his flesh and forbade his rising.

“Look! The dog stirs,” a throaty voice cut through the relative silence of the camp. It was Obaan the long-faced, his lamed arm was still limp in its sling.

The black-bearded rogue spat derisively at Sathano, who could only wrestle with his binds.

“Don’t waste your time,” the long-faced reaver leered, beard wagging in Sathano’s face. “If you split your bonds, I will split your skull, Zamash be damned.” To accentuate the ultimatum, he struck Sathano across the face with the back of his good hand.

The pain radiated across his swollen face and knocked his white keffiyeh off his head.

“Cut loose my bonds that I might snap your other wrist,” groaned Sathano, the veins bulging in his corded neck, his body tensing and fighting against the cutting knots at his hands and feet. Obaan laughed, kicking dirt in his face.

“I am tempted… You would fail, and your failure would do much to delight me, outland ogre,” Obaan replied with a nod, thumbing the edge of his half-drawn saber. “For while you strike to lame, I strike to maim. I wonder… how would you look with that nose of yours removed?” Obaan seemed to savor each and every word of his suggestion.

Sathano only glowered, the dark shadows cast off the bonfire animating his face with wild menace. “I dislike violence thoroughly—more than you dislike me, yet you tempt my resolve. If I am freed of these bonds, I cannot promise your safety. Your cowardice and love of torture is repulsive, and I fear the world would be better off if someone cut loose your innards and painted the sand with your blood.”

For a moment, the reaver backed away, completely taken aback by the outlander’s oath, only to then fully draw his blade and level it at the bound giant.

“You miserable whelp! I’ll cut out your tongue!” Obaan grabbed Sathano by the face and tried furiously to force open his mouth, the tip of his blade scraping against Sathano’s bruised lips. In response, the giant spat in the reaver’s face.

Obaan reeled back, howling with fury, and was about to split Sathano’s skull when another voice rang out.

“Obaan! Leave the man be. Aburu found the girl.”

Zamash appeared in the firelight from the darkness of the wilderness beyond, looking fey and alien in the sputtering glow. Her normally listless gaze was wild with avarice.

Sathano’s heart leapt, listening intently. He was much relieved to hear Dalia was still at large, but it wasn’t enough to banish his worries. He had hoped she’d have slipped away, or that they’d given up the chase. Neither turned out to be true.

“She hides in a cave in a canyon along the western slopes of the Tehruhks. We’ll find her there even now. I want every man on his feet and heading westward! No foul-ups this time. I want that orb AND her head. She deserves the swiftest sort of justice in my brother Isu’s name.”

“What of the barbarian?” inquired Obaan.

“He will have to come with us… If he causes us undue trouble, then you may cut out his tongue,” the leader of the Dune Riders spoke dryly. At her words, Obaan grinned wickedly.

 

#

 

Sathano, bound in the biting thongs of the Dune Riders, was forced to follow his captors on foot. They rode astride their near-spent mounts, and half dragged him behind as they plodded between the rocks under the frigid ice of the desert night.

Their party, quiet as ever, crept like many spiders among the varied terrain, hiding in the deep shadows and moving wordlessly from one outcrop to another, combing the environment.

Sathano’s sandals had been torn and shredded by the sharp rocks, and his feet were bleeding from the forced movement across such inhospitable terrain. All the while, Obaan, who led Sathano, would look back at him and leer. He among all the Dune Rider took special delight in his agony.

It felt like ages before they finally stopped. The entire troupe was halted by the wiry one called Aburu, who had earlier found the cave. The man led the party around a massive boulder and into a narrow canyon.

Wordlessly, he pointed across a running creek at a dark spot in the base of a cliff face. The rest of the team nodded and moved into the canyon.

Sathano wrestled with his binds furiously but could not free his wrists, nor did he dare to cry out a warning. For one, she might not hear it over the winds he could hear echoing out of the canyon, and for another, he would rather die than be rendered mute at the hands of that sadist Obaan. He was unsure of what, if anything, he could do.

His dread and sorrow mounted as he was led across the shallow creek toward the cave mouth. The wind in the deep canyon was bitter and whipping, but all he could focus on was Zamash and her men, as they crept nearer to the cavern, where a dark stain at the base of the cliff face suggested some egress.

His pulse hammered in his ear, and his mind raced. He had to escape, or warn Dalia, or do something! Bound like a wild animal he was helpless, and it sickened him deeply to feel such a doom as was now upon him.

Swords were drawn quietly in the dark, and the narrow shafts of moonlight made them glow with steely menace. The wind howled like the shrieking devils of the Outer Dark, and Sathano felt revulsed by captivity and impending doom for Dalia.

Only Obaan and Sathano remained, as the other men dismounted, and Zamash, wild-eyed and giddy with bloody avarice, led them on.

 

#

 

The cavernous space was neither drafty nor bitterly cold. It retreated into the stone maybe ten yards and was without evidence of an occupant. There, in the darkness, Dalia sat, trying to warm herself against the hot bulk of the camel.

There, beneath the earth, the darkness of the cave was deep and foreboding, but at the distant mouth of the cave, starlight shone down with pale luminescence. It was eerily quiet, save for the faintest whisper of the winds blustering along the canyon floor. Her mind drifted as she gazed about the cavern, inspecting the ancient rock formations with only vague interest.

Many thoughts occupied her, of Sathano, of Isu, of the orb, of Zamash and her men, and of the master of the orb—Semerkhet.

The torrent of varied emotion blended into a sort of numbness of the soul. She felt as though the woman in the cave could not possibly be herself, and that she was instead a viewer above and beyond the tale of terror and bloodshed.

Isu’s death had weighed on her considerably, and now the blood of two were on her hands, all in the pursuit of wealth afforded by a strange man in a faraway land. She scoffed to herself, and her face wrinkled into a deep scowl.

“What a fool you are, O Dalia,” chided she to herself. “You sit in this cave, haunted by visions of dead sorcerers and demons, hunted by once friends turned killers, and mourning the dead. In your pack you carry a jewel so precious men slay for it, but why?” She mulled the question over, her face burning hot with her own fury. “The respect of a band of cutthroats… A handful of gold Alrum? Is that worth Isu’s life? Is that worth Sathano’s?” Alarm rose in her when she decided that it was difficult to say one way or the other.

Gritting her teeth, she reached into her bag and produced the matte black orb. The clammy coldness of it made her flesh crawl, and she scowled into its featurelessness. She had half a mind to bury it somewhere and forget the damnable thing ever came into her life.

Her brooding was cut off by a sound near the entrance of the cave. It was a vague sort of shifting, flowing sound, like many feet walking on wind. She shuddered, and the sickly feeling in her hand from the orb spread across her entire body.

She looked toward the entrance and beheld as something appear silhouetted against the starlight at the mouth of the cave. It was tall, mannish in shape, and flanked by others. Dalia felt the paralysis of terror upon her. Zamash and her Riders had come.

She sprang to her feet and her sword sang from its scabbard and she felt unafraid. She readied a menacing stance, and tightened like a steel coil, ready to strike. Damned be the orb! She’d cut down a score of men to avenge the two she had lost.

Her camel spat as she leapt to meet the approaching intruders. Sword in one hand, orb in the other, she braced to meet them.

From the darkness, the horrifically familiar glint of sapphire gemstones shone brilliantly. Two separate sets of glittering eyes blazed furiously from the left and right form, and as they approached, Dalia’s mind went blank with terror. Now there were two of them.

 

 

They were an exact match to the howling thing Sathano and she had seen in the desert the other night. Both were like great leopards, with sleek, shining fur. Both had the ugly, drooping faces of old men, and both had massive gemstones for eyes, whose multifaceted shape glittered dazzlingly in the dusky cave.

Both creatures gibbered nonsensically, with fat tongues wagging and lolling like wolves. Dalia’s camel exploded into a fury of bellowing terror, and it fled into the darkness at the back of the cave.

With the sensation of many knives against glass, a voice issued from the darkness. It was familiar to Dalia, but she wished never to have heard it again. The pitiful voice whimpered and chimed after a dreamlike fashion, calling out to Dalia from the dark.

“You have it… The… Orb of Semerkhet. My orb… Give it to me…”

In the darkness, she felt the form approached, and heard the ponderous gait of its steps upon the sandy stone floor. The starlight silhouetted the form clearly, and she knew that the sorcerer Semerkhet stood before her. Dalia cried out, reeling from the nearness of the sorcerer and the baleful eyes of its monstrous cat servants.

Dimly she could see that Semerkhet’s rangy body was swaddled in ancient rags, bandages of ritual burial. It was a foul simulacrum of life, adorned in the garb of an ancient high priest, long since eroded by the gnashing teeth of time.

A golden mask hung upon its black, dried flesh. It smiled in a permanent grin which was not welcoming, but somehow mocking and derisive. It was unnervingly, uncannily human despite its simplicity. Dalia felt her flesh come alive when she looked into its black, vacant eyes.

“Give me the Orb,” it beckoned, its long, mummified claw reaching out, questing. The creature had completely closed the gap between them, and its reeking body was repellently close.

Its bandaged, rotting hand touched her flesh, and it was like the sensation of the orb multiplied tenfold. Her body was wracked with the cold, radiating pain of untold sorcery. Her stomach retched and was near to coming up. She swung her sword in wild terror, and it met the wrist of the mummy, embedding deep into the bone of the corpse, but the thing did not seem to notice.

The shaggy cat-things gibbered at Semerkhet, and the mummy stepped back, forgetting Dalia for a moment. Someone else was coming.

Past the ghoul’s mangled body, Dalia could faintly make out a company of men enter the cave. They stumbled blindly in the fresh darkness, and one among them struck up a torch. Light exploded into the room, and Dalia, the mummy Semerkhet, his wicked servants, and the black orb were all illuminated by the brand.

At the head of the company was Zamash, her dark features set with wild intent. Her eyes fell first upon the orb of blackness, her ultimate prize. Then it drifted to the hideous form between it and herself.

The troupe recoiled, and many men let loose shrieks of terror, their minds reeling at the sight of the golden-faced corpse, and his man-faced slaves.

“A ghoul!” came Zamash’s shout through the chaos. “Dalia means to give the orb for which Isu spent his life to this demon! To me, you dogs!”

“NO!” Exclaimed Dalia, “Stay back! This is Semerkhet himself!” At the words, the sorcerer turned mechanically to fully face the newcomers.

If Dalia had hoped to evoke caution in Zamash, she only wrested rage from the other woman’s heart.

“The very fiend who slew my brother in cold blood! Bah! Avenge your fallen brother-in-arms, my Dune Riders! Cut down this horror, for what is flesh can be slain with steel. When it is no more, bring me the girl and the damned orb.”

The men lunged in a great force; curved swords poised to rend flesh from bone. The light of the lone torch danced and cast wild shadows as the men moved. Dark shapes raced along the cave walls, and all felt bathed in unreality.

The man-faced demons only watched, slinking into the deeper shadows cast along the cave walls, unwilling to do battle, a fact for which the reavers were glad.

Swords struck bone, rags, dust and the formless shape, but the golden-masked sorcerer did nothing to strike back. Instead, he stood, his gentle grin unchanging.

During the struggle, Dalia sank back, deeper into the cave, orb in hand. The men were absorbed with the hideous sight before them, thinking not of valuable orbs. After her came the familiars of Semerkhet, intent on keeping their gleaming eyes on her and the prize she carried.

When she realized she was being followed by the gibbering man-things, she broke into an open sprint, fleeing further into the deeper into blackness beneath the earth. Behind her came the heavy fall of padded paws on stone as the gibbering servants of Semerkhet pursued.

 

#

 

Dalia came to a point in the cavern too narrow for her to pass through. There, sweating and shuddering in the dark she could make out the shape of her camel. She went to the beast, but at her approach, and at the approach of the two drooling fiends, the beast reared in mad fury and rushed forward, trying to barrel through the two familiars and eventually out into the freedom of the desert night. Unfortunately, it never made it past the two demons, for it was quickly disemboweled by the wide, razor-like maws of the horrors. A piteous and horrifying cry echoed through the cavern as the camel died, and Dalia, orb in hand, looked on in blasted horror.

Once that deed was done, the loping man-faced things regarded her once more, and began to approach. Not knowing what else to do, and maddened with wild fear, Dalia held the orb up to shield her face and cried out to the demons.

“Away with you!”

The demons stopped in their tracks! They exchanged looks with one another that could almost be described as worried, if Dalia could even make out their alien features in the darkness. Then the gibbering began. They reached out cloying forelimbs as if in supplication, gesturing to the orb.

“You want this?” Dalia knew that Semerkhet had asked specifically that what was his be returned to him. But the fact that these demons seemed unwilling or unable to attack her while she held the orb was something of a terrifying thrill to her. The mystery of the stone only deepened the longer she possessed it, she noticed.

With her heart rattling in her chest, she took a very nervous step forward, and the demons did not spring to do unto her as they had to her camel. She took another step, and they only watched. She took another. Nothing. She knew what to do.

 

#

 

Semerkhet, in the midst of the assortment of fear-mad reavers, reached out a long, mangled arm to seize one of the men by the throat. The others fell back in startled horror as the poor fellow, flailing wildly, cried out in blind terror.

The corpse whispered to him, and the sinewy black substance that clung like tar to his bones came alive, surging down the length of his arm to burrow into the flesh of his victim.

As the others looked on in horror, the reaver thinned, wrinkled, crumpled in the sorcerer’s hand, until naught was left but ash spilled between the bone fingers of Semerkhet.

The cave exploded in chaos as all the men turned and fled. Their sword strokes had failed them, and sorcery was abounding.

“Black magic! Preserve us!” Zamash howled, turning with the rest of her men to flee out into the canyon.

 

#

 

Sathano heard a hideous commotion from within the cavern, and the sounds of frenzied battle. Obaan was deeply troubled by the myriad shrieks coming from within and had halted momentarily in his torment of the outlander.

In that moment, Sathano seized his opportunity. Though bound, he stepped around to face Obaan full on, awkwardly taking hold of his head in both hands. Obaan’s eyes were wide with shock, but his reflexes were too slow to save him.

Sathano brought the reaver’s skull down to meet his up-thrust knee. There was a terrific crunch as the bandit’s nose was broken upon impact. Obaan cursed, his teeth spilling from his gums as he fell to the rocky ground.

In an instant, Sathano was upon him, delivering blow after blow at his tormentor’s face. The bonds made things clumsy, but his tremendous strength and pent-up frustration for the man more than sufficed.

Obaan could do nothing to fight back, as with each blow his face was ruined beneath the force of a mighty fist. Sathano’s knuckles bled and mixed with the bloody pulp of Obaan’s face.

“Damn you, torturous pig,” thought Sathano, unable to speak. He had been fully taken by the rage which boiled within him. In his heart, Sathano was alarmed at the damage dealt to the prone man, and his blows slackened. The whimpering man beneath him trembled, leaking blood and tears.

Despite the torture, despite the curses, and despite his own threats, Sathano found that he could not bring himself to kill Obaan. Instead, he took up the blade at the reaver’s hip, and went to work cutting his binds. He felt the blood rush back to his hands, and he clenched and unclenched them with much relief. Then tore loose the gag, spitting out the damp rag which had been stuffed into his mouth and tied about his head.

The same moment, Sathano found himself surrounded by chaos, as the raving men burst from the cave, casting their blades to the earth as they fled. Zamash was among them, but the outlander could not spot Dalia in the confusion.

Then followed a nightmare form—a ghoulish shape, which made his flesh crawl incessantly. The golden mask upon its rag-swaddled form blazed stark in the darkness, its gentle smile a cruel mockery of human expression.

Under the moonlight, he could see the thing move at a limping, labored pace, catching a fleeing warrior by the back of the tunic and throwing him to the earth with inhuman strength. A flash of blinding light flared from the hands of the living dead sorcerer, and the man upon the ground was enveloped in green fire. The scream echoed throughout the canyon, and Sathano felt ill.

Another man was caught in the vice-like grip of the mummified thing and was strangled with incredible efficiency. The body was cast aside unceremoniously.

Zamash cried out, trying to rally the remainder of her men, but most were lost to the throes of primordial terror.

“To me, men! This be Isu’s murderer! We must fell this demon sorcerer!” she exclaimed, trying to appeal to the men’s desire for vengeance. Only three among them fell back to her position across the river and drew bows to slay the ghoul from afar.

Arrows peppered the sorcerer’s body, but the gold-faced devil did not react. Instead, he released a long, high-pitched whistle that stung the ears. To his call came bounding a pair of monstrous shapes from out of the cave. Sathano recognized their appearance as like the lolling, man-faced demon lion Dalia and he had encountered in the desert, only now there were two—both soaked red with gore.

With gibbering replies, they bounded to their master, and then, with a gesture, were directed across the creek to the bowmen. The gore was best left undescribed, but still Zamash stood, furiously swinging her glinting scimitar at either demon. They shrieked their piteous howl-cry, their jaws stained red with the blood of the fallen reavers. Zamash, overpowered by the animal sense of terror, cast down her blade and fled.

Before she could travel ten paces, an arc of red light leapt from the sorcerer’s mummified claw and enveloped her completely. A nightmare cry ran out, and her smoldering body collapsed with a splash into the running stream. Her undulating body let loose a final cry. It was Isu’s name. She then burst in a mist of red.

Sathano had lost his sense of presence. Nothing before him seemed real, so he divorced his mind from it. Instead, he looked about, hoping desperately to spy Dalia in the melee. He did not.

Fearing the worst, Sathano approached the cave, though he never did enter. He nearly reached the mouth when a great weight fell upon his back. His balance gave, and his mighty frame fell to the rocky ground.

Sathano only had just enough time to roll onto his back to behold his assailant. The gore-riddled face of Obaan dripped at him in all its pulpy glory. In his good hand, a long dagger glinted. Madness shone in those bloodshot, cat-eyes.

“We’ll see whose innards will paint the sands,” gnashed Obaan savagely, and poised his dagger to strike. Sathano raised his sabre as the maddened reaver lunged upon him.

The knife sought Sathano’s heart but was knocked away by the unwieldy sword. Instead, it tore a gash in the outlander’s corded arm, and Sathano let out a throaty cry, dropping the saber in his shock and pain.

The two lamed men lay in the dirt, wracked in agony. Both struggled to their feet, each man with only one good arm. Once at his knees, Sathano desperately sought his blade, but could not spot it in the dark.

Obaan made ready to strike again, but both men paused. A hideous sensation came over the pair of battlers. Their skin came alive with writhing displeasure and their hearts raced with animal fear. Sathano saw it first, followed by Obaan, who cautiously looked over his shoulder to spy the new assailant.

The great mummy stood stark against the midnight battlefield. His golden mask shone evilly, and his body radiated an aura of such indescribable dread that neither man could move. Neither felt breath escape them, nor the beating of their own heart.

Sathano and Obaan cried out in terror as the mummified Semerkhet seized Obaan in one hand. Caught by the throat, the reaver was held aloft and brought close to the grinning mask of the sorcerer.

Obaan retched and wailed his child-like terror, looking back to Sathano with savage desperation. His eyes pleaded wordlessly to the outlander, but Sathano could not have risen even if he wanted to.

“Your face is… wounded,” the corpse whispered, the black eyes of the mask looking unseeingly upon Obaan’s bloody visage. “Look upon my face, that you may know you are not alone in your suffering.” With those ominous words, the mummy pulled loose his golden mask and revealed a sight vastly more hideous than the false one it wore.

An ancient skull, wrapped in black-stained cloth stared back at Obaan, who was shrieking wildly. Beneath the wrappings, black, wormy tendrils writhed and pulsed with the regularity of a heartbeat. The skull was fleeting, as the black worms ebbed and flowed, taking shape and losing shape in the same instance. It appeared as one thousand agonizing faces at the same time it appeared as a formless mess of tar.

Obaan kicked at the fiend to no avail, and the sorcerer shook the reaver’s body furiously. He was beyond help.

The ebbing blackness lashed out and enveloped Obaan, and his screams were muffled by the formless bulk of the mummy’s ever-changing face. Great worms rose from the blackness, and bore their way into the flesh of Obaan, leaving weeping holes in their wake.

Black ichor dripped from Obaan’s eyes and mixed with the bloody pulp of his face. His skin faded to a dull gray, and his body wrinkled and aged. Rot overtook him, as his hair and fingernails grew long and brittle. His skin pocked and sagged and soon his jaw rotted away from his skull, falling to the earth.

Sathano looked on in horror as his ex-tormentor rotted away into unrecognizability. The mummy cast aside the husk and looked next upon Sathano. The air reeked of death, and the outlander knew it was coming for him next. The mummy shambled forward, its shifting face writhing maddeningly.

A voice, stern and confident pierced the veil of doom. It cried out, “Sorcerer! Take that which has been stolen from you!”

Sathano and the mummy turned to regard the source. Even the sorcerer’s demon familiars turned from the devouring of human carrion in curiosity. There, standing at the mouth of the cave stood Dalia, shoulders thrown back, black orb in hand.

The ghoul let out a sound like the boom of thunder, and turned to Dalia, pinpricks of purple light blazing in its black sockets. Its body shambled and contorted toward the woman; demon-things close behind.

“My… heart,” droned the voice from the squirming skull, and its bony hands reached out slowly. “Give it… to me…”

Dalia’s whole body tensed at the sight of the foul creature’s visage, but steeled herself, instead staring directly into the matte orb. She hoped desperately that she was right about this.

“Take your orb and leave this place!” she commanded.

The expressionless eyes in the hideous face regarded her for many heartbeats. The pathetic gibbering of the man-cats started up again, and the sound deeply disturbed both mortals present.

“You… offer it to me?”

“I do,” Dalia declared. “Just leave us in peace.”

The sorcerer took hold of the orb, and in the brief moment that the two held it, a withering current of energy surged through Dalia’s body. She let out a groan and fell back. Semerkhet held the orb aloft and croaked some unintelligible oath.

“Now… I can resume my dreaming. My heart is restored… my spirit can be cast across the gulfs of infinity once more. No longer will I have to endure the indignance… of the mortal plane.”

The wind kicked up with a sudden ferocity, and great whirlwinds of sand and dust were cast into the canyon. Dalia and Sathano were buffeted by the coarse granules, and covered their eyes as the wind roared around them. Once it settled, they were alone in the dark canyon, surrounded by the bodies of reavers felled by sorcery or tooth and claw.

Sathano lay stunned in the sand for time, then managed to master his nerves and body, hauling himself off the ground. Quickly he went to Dalia, whose body had been wracked with the sorceries of the mummified wizard.

“Dalia,” he whispered hoarsely, trying to rouse her. She groaned at his words and writhed in semi-consciousness. “Dalia you did it!”

Her eyes opened groggily and she looked about her in confusion.

“I… figured if we gave him what he wanted, he’d do as we ask…”

Sathano exhaled heavily, his body still coursing with adrenalin. Dalia did not speak anymore. Sathano noticed that her hands and arms looked shriveled and dried, as though her contact with the sorcerer had depleted her of some of her vitality.

 

#

 

The first rays of the sun came up over the rocks, and the purple sky was fading to palest blue as the two came up out of the narrow canyon. Dalia was on trembling legs, and Sathano, crudely bandaged as he was, paid his own knife wound little mind, for despite its vigorous bleeding, it seemed not to cut nearly so deep as he had first assumed. His attention was on Dalia, who had received the brunt of the sorcerer’s black aura. Indeed, he took great care to guide her among the rocks.

Neither had been able to speak since their initial reunion. It was almost as though there wasn’t anything that could be said in the wake of such perilous events.

When at last Sathano did speak it was to tell her to sit upon a large boulder.

“I will return in a moment. I must fetch one of the camels that have fled into these hills. I spy one over on that ridge now.”

Dalia nodded. Her body was still wracked with the agony of sustained contact with Semerkhet and his ghoulish orb. The sun washed away much of her aching, and she closed her eyes to revel in the warm caress of the golden rays as they came over the horizon. After a time, Sathano returned, two camels in tow.

“I’m not much for appraising steeds,” he admitted, “but these two seem stout.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, and she was surprised at the sound of her voice. It was weak, but not nearly as frail as she would have expected. She continued, “Sathano… I cannot lie to you. I am penniless. Without the orb, I cannot pay you for all the help you’ve afforded me.

Sathano thought about her words for a moment, then spoke. “You have already paid me for this service,” he explained. “You bought me my life from the sorcerer with that orb of yours. For that I thank you.”

Dalia could hardly believe his willingness to accept the harsh reality, let alone to thank her for a deception. She felt truly indebted to him for all he had done.

“So, where shall you go?” asked the umber giant.

“Where?” she parroted and wondered to herself. The orb was gone. Isu was gone. Zamash was gone. The reavers were gone. There was nothing left for her, and in her heart, she felt a mixture of mourning, sadness, confusion, anxiety, and an odd liberation.

“I do not know,” she admitted, “but… I hear that the lands south of Tuthenya are peopled with kind and heroic souls.”

Sathano grinned, almost sheepishly, still unaccustomed to the act.

“You would accompany me to the southlands?” he wondered.

“At least for a time,” she nodded, and stood on unsure legs. “So! Which steed is mine?”

Sathano helped Dalia up into the saddle of one of the beasts and claimed the other for himself. So it was that the pair rode southward, into further adventure and splendor, in search of Sathano’s long-lost homeland.

 

________________________________________

Jeremy D Farkas is a gloom-haunted barbarian who dwells in a land of vast inland seas and endless winter. At 26 years of age, he is younger than most authors of the genre, as well as most readers—a point for which he is both prideful and terrified. He spends his time caring for his dragons Oscar and Goji or mumbling over ancient texts penned by sorcerers named Howard and Wagner and Saunders and the like. Very occasionally he will write, but only when all else fails. Of late he has foolishly elected to make his way into the tabletop rpg industry with an upcoming Sword & Sorcery project called Swords & Chaos.

 

Gary McCluskey has been a professional artist for more than 20 years. He’s done book covers for every genre imaginable from fantasy, horror, romance and sci-fi to an afterlife memoir, as well artwork for children’s books and RPG games. Recently he completed 4 issues of comic book about a vampire-shark and several interior illustrations for a new hardcover version of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ ‘The Oakdale Affair’. He’s currently working on a creator owned comic book ‘The Dawn Hunters’ for the near future.