The Conquest of Kiynan

Simion squeezed at his water skin, greedily swallowing the thin trickle of liquid that dripped onto his parched tongue. He replaced the cap on his skin, not daring to drink any more, despite his fierce thirst, for fear of having nothing for later.

He trudged through the grey sand, listening to the wind blowing across the dunes and the grumbling of nobles unaccustomed to long periods of discomfort. He winced every time he put his right foot down. He had managed to get a healer, in one of the towns they had passed through before entering the Silver Sands, to look over his injured ribs. An herbal poultice had been placed on the wound and a clean bandage had been firmly tied over it. His right side still ached, but he did not complain, for he could barely tolerate all the complaints that were already being uttered every day. Simion looked up at the silvery expanse ahead of him, constantly shifting under the steady force of the chill nightly wind. A pale light could be seen growing on the horizon, already outshining the gentle moonlight reflecting off the dunes. He stopped, and turned to speak to the others.

“The Sun is rising, we should stop and set up camp for the day.”

The men stopped moving, squinted at the horizon and dropped their packs. They had become accustomed to taking Simion’s advice, to the point where he now felt that he was their leader. He had rallied soldiers to rescue the King and his nobles during the battle at Vidliank, and had led them away from the Qumish riders. The nobles had decided Spire was the only haven they could safely reach, and the only way to get to it, without being overrun by Qumish and Iceborn pursuers, was to travel through the Silver Sands, where no one would dare to follow them, for few ever survived a journey into the mysterious desert. Knowing Brockton would very quickly be taken by Iceborn troops, Simion found himself with nowhere to go and decided to remain with the only allies he seemed to have. Much to the dismay of the nobles, the townsfolk and farmers they encountered near the edge of the desert were unimpressed by their high birth, and would offer them nothing freely. Simion again took charge, and bargained for sufficient supplies of food and water in exchange for their horses, which would have fared poorly during their arid sojourn. Then, they began their journey through the desert, but many of the soldiers felt their loyalty wane and abandoned their King to try their luck on their own. Others died, some for want of drink, but most simply to escape their despair.

As he rummaged in his pack for something to eat, Simion looked around at the dozen other men that remained. The King was despondent, an empty shell who had not uttered more than half a dozen words since the battle. The King’s primary advisors, Vikor Seastrom and Darryan Fleetfoot, had survived although Simion doubted it was their loyalty that motivated them to remain with their King. Archibald of Brockton, Simion’s captain who had lost an eye and his will to command, and Cole, another conscript in Simion’s squad, were the only other men Simion ever spoke to. Some of the other men were nobles, related in some way to the King or his entourage and the rest were professional soldiers. All avoided Simion because of his past and because of their jealousy of the King’s apparent trust in him.

While Simion chewed on a thin strip of dried meat, the men started settling down, stripping off cloth while ensuring all of their skin was covered, a lesson the merciless Sun had taught them quickly with painful burns. As he prepared to settle down, Simion noticed Cole walking away from the group. Sighing, Simion jumped to his feet and jogged over to the former farmer.

“Cole,” he said gently, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Cole let out a panicked scream, and shrugged away Simion’s hand with such intensity that he lost his balance and dropped to the sand. Cole’s eyes shifted nervously and his breathing was ragged and quick.

“It’s alright Cole, it’s alright,” Simion reassured the man.

Carefully, he helped Cole back to his feet and led him back to the group. Simion helped him undress, and covered him with a light cloak before heading back to his own pack. Archibald looked at Simion as he lowered himself to the ground. The one-eyed captain looked back to where Cole was resting uneasily, then offered Simion an admiring smile. Simion nodded to him, then lay down, pulling a thin blanket over his face and closing his eyes. Through his eyelids and the blanket, Simion could still see the bright light of the almost risen Sun. He took a deep breath, preparing to spend another long day in the heat.

Suddenly, through his eyelids, Simion saw darkness sweep over him quickly before letting the full sunlight return. He opened his eyes, doubting his senses. A few moments passed, and Simion had almost decided that he had imagined the darkness when it returned as suddenly as before, but lasted slightly longer. Simion pulled the blanket off his head and saw that Archibald and some of the others had jumped to their feet. Archibald pointed into the sky, and Simion looked up to see a flock of large birds circling above them. After a moment of observing them, he realised they were not birds, but large triangular kites, descending toward them in long spirals. Dumbfounded, Simion stared at them as they grew larger, their shadows blanketing the ground around his group. As they drew nearer, he could distinguish small figures suspended by ropes from the underside of the kites. Cole apparently noticed the darkness at last and leapt to his feet, drawing his sword with a cry of fright. Simion snapped out of his daze and fumbled in his gear to find his own sword. The other men followed suit and quickly formed a circle with their backs to each other, their swords facing the enormous kites that now surrounded them, flying just above their heads.

As they neared the ground, the kite people undid their harnesses, suspending them from their kites, and deftly leapt to the desert floor. The kites themselves, slid to a halt smoothly in the grey sand. Within moments, more than three dozen of the kite riders had surrounded Simion and his group. They towered above the Gaurvians, some of them nearly seven feet tall. Their bodies and limbs were long and emaciated, almost skeletal. Their skin was black as night and no hair grew anywhere on their bodies. Men, women and children alike wore nothing but ragged loincloths. They carried long sharp sticks held ready as javelins, long bows drawn ready to fire sharpened stakes, and some brandished carven bone knives. Unusual as their bodies appeared, Simion could look at nothing but their eyes. Their eyes were oversized and had two concentric irises instead of one. Looking around, he noticed that those facing the Sun directly did not squint, instead, their irises contracted, shaping their pupils into a cross. The Gaurvians all stared with mouths agape, their swords low.

Long moments passed, and no one moved. Simion realised that if these folk had wanted to kill his group, they would already have done so. Further, he realised his band could not hope to fight against so many foes, especially ones who were obviously far more comfortable with their surroundings than were the Gaurvians. Simion ceremoniously laid his sword on the sand in front of him and turned his hands palm up to show that he meant no harm. After some hesitation, the other men followed his example. More long moments passed until finally, the kite folk parted their ranks and one of their number, his skin sagging and his back bent, hobbled forward. The old man stopped near Simion and spoke in broken Berish.

“I am Moi Abinske, Sirdar of Valkans. You are in our sand,” spoke the man, his voice deep and booming despite his frame, “what want do you have?”

“We wish to travel south in your desert—in your sand—to reach Spire,” he enunciated slowly, his voice thin and dry.

The old man did not reply. Worried that he could not understand, Simion pointed to the southwest, toward Spire.

“You will die in our sand, Valka,” replied the Sirdar thoughtfully.

The Gaurvians all tensed, glancing from one of the Sand People to another. Simion steadied himself with a deep breath and spoke slowly again.

“Yes, will you help us, so that we do not die in your sand?”

“Who you are?” returned the old man immediately.

“We are Gaurvians. We live in the lands west of your desert—er, sand.”

The old man scrutinized Simion’s face for several long moments without replying. His unease increasing, Simion awkwardly broke the silence.

“I—ah, we—did not know this desert was inhabited by, um, people. Who are you?”

“Our sand is Valka, your say ‘Land of the Wind’. We are Valkans, your say ‘Citizens of the Wind’.”

Another silence ensued. Although Simion could feel the tension mounting in himself and the Gaurvians behind him, the Valkans all seemed perfectly calm, patiently awaiting some kind of decision from their leader.

“Why you here?” spoke the Sirdar at last.

“We were attacked. Our land was taken by invaders. We’re fleeing to another of our cities, called Spire.”

Simion pointed to the southwest again.

“What invaders?”

Uncertain whether the old man was asking Simion to explain the word ‘invaders’ or name the people that had attacked them, he hesitated. The Sirdar showed no outward sign of impatience and seemed prepared to wait as long as necessary for Simion’s reply. Realizing this, Simion began to relax. He was now convinced these people were friendly and were merely being understandably cautious with these strange foreigners.

“The people who attacked us,” began Simion, choosing his words carefully, “were people from other lands. Some are called Iceborn, they come from far to the north. The others that attacked us come from the south and are called Qume.”

“Qume!”

A murmur went up among all the Valkans at once upon hearing the Sirdar’s exclamation. The Gaurvians shifted uneasily, warily eyeing the Valkans’ weapons. Simion’s eyes inadvertently darted to a long javelin held by a nearby Valkan, before returning to the old man’s face.

“The Qume hunt you?” asked the old man intently.

“Yes,” replied Simion simply, figuring that was as good an explanation as any of their present plight, and probably the most complex explanation he would be able to make the old man understand.

The Sirdar looked thoughtful for a moment, then turned to his people and spoke at length. Simion could not be sure, but he thought he caught the word ‘Qume’ repeated several times. As the old man finished speaking, the Valkans all seemed to be nodding and discussing something among themselves. To the great relief of the Gaurvians, they lowered their weapons as they conversed.

“The wind cross our sand safely,” said the Sirdar turning back to Simion, “we and the wind help you, so you do not die in our sand.”

Simion hesitated for a moment, trying to ensure that the expression on the Sirdar’s face was indeed a smile.

“Thank you,” he replied at last, trying his most diplomatic voice. “We greatly appreciate your help.”

Simion watched as the great silvery expanse of sand rolled past beneath him. The wind stroked his hair and face as he hung from the enormous kite. He could feel the warm currents of air upon which the kites floated. The sand, cooled by the desert night, heated very quickly under the Sun’s all-encompassing gaze. The hot surface in turn heated the air above it, which rose in currents that lifted the kites into the air. That much he had understood from his evening discussions with the old man, the Sirdar of this tribe. When they landed, the Valkans deftly disassembled their kites, and reassembled them into enormous tents, where there was more than enough room for all to spend the night. They found water by prospecting under the sand with long, thin wooden tubes. They ate insects, snakes and other desert animals they could kill with their spears and bows. Simion was amazed to discover that despite its barren appearance, the Silver Sands teemed with life, one needed only to know how to look. The way of life of the Valkans was altogether alien to the Gaurvians, but far easier than their crawling pace through the harsh landscape had been. Even Cole was slowly adapting, aside from the occasional fit.

As they flew now, Simion saw a camel far below, casually strolling along. It paused to crane its long neck to pear up at the strange creatures flying by, then continued on its unending trek. Suddenly, Simion heard shouting. He swivelled around, trying to locate the kite that carried Cole. He found the lunatic, and saw him in the midst of a panic attack. The madman struggled against his harness, despite the shouts of the Valkans and Gaurvians around him.

“Calm down, Cole, it’s alright. You’ve done this before, you’ll be alright,” shouted Simion, but Cole didn’t seem to hear.

The Valkans sharing his kite pulled on the guide ropes, steering their kite down. Cole continued his struggle, and finally succeeded in freeing himself. He instantly plummeted to the desert below. As with one mind, all the kites swooped downward. Simion watched with dismay as his countryman hit the sand rolling. With a sigh of relief, Simion watched Cole struggle painfully to his feet.

Instantly, a cloud of sand was thrown away from the desert floor to reveal a gaping hole beneath. Emerging from the hole in a flash were four long hairy legs that pulled Cole toward a man-sized set of jaws. Cole’s scream of terror was cut short as the creature sank its enormous fangs into his chest. An instant later, legs, jaws and Cole had vanished back into the hole. The Gaurvians watched in horror as two legs emerged for another moment to pull a membrane over the top of the hole, and with a quick shake, sand covered over it again. Simion stared in disbelief at the seemingly undisturbed desert floor. The kites immediately swooped back up, the Valkans apparently unmoved by the Gaurvian’s fate.