Prince of Sand Part 1 (Rewritten)

The tall man staggered into the tent town of the Obatah people. This was not his home, far from it, and neither was it a place he would ever desire to call home. The Obotah were a nomadic tribe, dark of eye and skin, they wore flowing robes and head gear designed to keep them cool despite the sun, the way the clothes were layered it made the natives always seem walk in the shade. All wore three javelins slid into a quiver on their back and the long curved blade of the scimitar. From what the young man had seen, they were all incredibly deadly with both weapons, able to take the preverbal wing off the fly at a fifty paces with the javelins and remove a humans head from his shoulders in a single sweep. Finding good wood in the wastes of the desert was difficult preventing the use of more conventional weapons like a bow, and the glint of Drake tooth and claw at the tip of the spears glinted in the sunlight marred only by the poison lathered liberally on it. The training for such weapon mastery began the day of man and womanhood, for every person in the tribe could fight with a lethalness that would shock the more civilized world. The desert was unforgiving, those that didn’t know how to fight and survive, didn’t. As such, all of the Obatah walked with the calm assurance of a warrior, even the children, more trained in the arts of war and fighting than any many veteran warriors exhausted man had ever met. The tribe was four hundred strong with nearly a third being women and children, the tribe moved throughout the desert, following and herding their flocks only returning the legendary lost city once a year to pay tithes to the Sheik. The tribes constantly warred on each other except at watering holes and their precious holy city. He still had yet to even learn the name of the city, much less have been invited to view its wonder.

It was a hard life, harder than the teeth of a full grown Drake, teeth that had been known to sever bones and slice clean through the hardest of steel. He grimaced as he glanced down to his side, he had ripped a long strip from his garments and lashed it to his side in an effort to quench the flow of blood, it hadn’t worked. He’d been bleeding since his first meeting with the She-Drake. Her claws were sharp, and had ripped through his leather armor slicing the skin open to the bone, he’d applied bandages to keep the tears of the wound together but, the trek through the dunes bearing his prize had caused the wound to reopen again. He had a mission to do, and the faster he was done, the faster he would be able to return home… His eyes took on a glazed look as he stumbled again and nearly fell, the sun and the loss of blood had sucked more energy from him than he had first realized, he’d have to find the village shaman. He paused at the crest of the sand dune and stared through the starlight at the camp that sprawled before him. Even hurt he had managed to avoid the sentries the camp had placed around the encampment until the whisper of sand from behind him and the chirping call of a sand bird made him shake his head. He raised his hands high above his head holding the She-Drakes tooth high,

“I am a friend of the tribe.”

He was pushing himself to hard, admittedly he had adapted to the way of life here quickly, far more quickly than then anyone had thought, even himself, but he was from a moist environment where water was plentiful, the dryness was beginning to sap his energy reserves. His skin had taken on the natural dark cast of the Obatah so perfectly, that he could have been mistaken for a native. He was wrapped from head to toe in the flowing white garments the desert people wore, and save for his eyes he looked and walked exactly like them. Even wounded he walked with the flowing staggered steps of one who had to run and walk on the shifting sand and unstable surfaces. He was tall, much taller than the short nomads, standing to the height of six foot, the boots he wore were flat soled and as such added nothing. The second obvious difference was the twin short swords that were strapped in an “X” pattern across his back. Obatah fought with javelin and scimitar, not liking the close combat that short swords forced upon their user, and after fighting the vicious creatures of the desert, and the warrior wished he had learned the ways of such weapons himself. He’d considered learning how to throw the short spears, but after being mocked by the youngest of the children he’d given it up and wished desperately for a bow, arrows simply could not be found in the wastes, and as such he had left the weapon at home.

He winced again as he strode into the camp and stumbled, he caught himself on a tent pole, allowing himself a few seconds of rest. A glanced toward the dark sky revealed the sun’s arms just beginning to enfold the sky and he smiled to himself, he’d timed his return just right, everyone would be preparing for sleep, it would allow him time to clean himself of the grime of the sand, and wake the Shaman for stitches and the proper salves. The wound must be cleaned, for the Drakes secrete a poison that unless countered, would slowly begin to eat the flesh away. The poison was harvested from the sand Drakes by the Obatah, and coated every spear point and blade they owned. Every person in the camp from the youngest to the eldest, carried the antidote with them at all times, one never knew when he might scratch him or herself. The wounded man had used the entire container of dry powder of the antidote on the gash, but he had to be sure he had enough. The smell of the latrines dug wafted through the camp, and the smell of dried dung used to the create the fire that kept the chill of the night away from them. Desert air was thing and retained little heat, though in a few hours it would soon reach the point of unbearable again.

However, with the lure of allies like these people, he had neglected to think about what exactly would be required when he had finally found and joined the tribe. The request of the Elders had not been to slay just one of the giant Drakes, but the entire brood. The nomad had been hunting for nearly three months, and while he had excelled in the desert climate, he was beginning to tire. He had slain nearly eight of the huge sand Drakes. From the local lore though, the smallest were always sent out to hunt first, followed by the larger. If they continued to get much larger, he would have to call in help, he doubted his body guards were that far behind anyways, and they would be more than enough… he hoped. His pride was immense and he was more stubborn than a donkey, he had one more to kill, and he would be free of this cursed place and on his way to the City. He yearned for the oasis of his home, and while he loved the shifting complex patterns of the sands, there was nothing green here. The only water was supplied through a complex system of artisan’s wells. He’d been here for months, and had yet to see anything green in the golden sands save for the few springs that were so rare they almost seemed imaginary unless you were looking directly at one. They last he’d seen, was a week ago, they’d paused long enough for a rest, refill their water barrels and then they continued, staying near such a water hole only invited the Drakes a free meal. The wells were almost always found in rock formations that turned into valleys.

He stepped into the Elder’s tent and through down the eye tooth of the giant sand Drake, he grinned ferociously, “ That one was the female. I believe she will lead me to the patriarch of the brood. I’ve one more to slay and then the price will be paid..“

The wizened old man looked up from where he sat, smoking on a long pipe carved from the eye tooth of a patriarch Drake. Green smoke curled up from its end and escaped from his nostrils. His eyes held the same greenish cast that all his people had, those eyes seemed to stare through him, then shifted to where the tooth lay on the ground. The eight inch long fang was midnight black and seemed to absorb light, only the female Drakes carried the black eye tooth, and they were extraordinarily valuable, through a special process they could be turned into a deadly knife or spear point. He spun on his heels and made his way toward the tent that had been lent to him. He had meant it, the Drakes released a special scent from the sacs beneath their eyes, he had harvested nearly a pound of the foul smelling stuff. All he should have to do, is pour the stuff into the sand and wait. The smell would permeate the ground and bring the last of them out of hiding… He hoped.

The Shaman’s tent was located in the northern part of the village, far away from everyone else, the people respected the old man almost to the point of fear. It was a difficult thing to become a Shaman, the knowledge of herb lore, medicine and alchemy was taxing, and required years of study. The knowledge of ages was recorded in scrolls, and passed down, twice a year a Shaman had to return to the Abbey to record their findings, it was a guild in it’s own right, and from what he had seen of their work and medical abilities, the warrior respected them. The man stepped into the large tent and found himself awash with the cloying scent of incense, it made his nose flare and his toes curl. The smell was intense, and made the room feel stuffy, he had been breathing the cool and crisp air of the desert for so long, he wasn’t used to the… pollution. The old wizened man sat hunched over the fire, staring into it his hand running across the back of a large brown dog. It was huge, large blue eyes stared from under bushy eyebrows and it’s jowls curled back to reveal rows of razor sharp teeth. The rumble that was emitted from it’s throat was low and deep, the normally fearless man took a small step back and dropped his hand toward the daggers tied on to his belt.

The man looked up, his white eyes betraying his blindness, “ Hush Cerberus, he is a friend. “ The dog obeyed, it azure eyes never leaving the young man’s own golden eyes. Hesitant at first, the warrior bowed, and after a gesture from the man, sat across from him. “ You smell of blood, and of the desert, I expect you are the man hired to slay the Drales?“

The wanderer nodded before he caught himself and answered, “ Aye that I am, I was wounded and require stitches… “ He hesitated, “ I was told to come to you. “

The Shaman smiled and pointed at a low cot, “ Lay on that, allow me to get my tools. “ He stood, the dog using his grizzled head to help him, and he made his way over to a small chest, the wounded man sat on the cot and unwound his clothing wincing at the pain, the blood began to flow again as he pulled away the cloth the blood had dried to, he hissed as he pulled away the last bit of cloth and lay down. The old doctor made his way over to where he lay and stood over him. The dog stood beside the man and stared at the wound, whining, “ The wound is infected, poison was injected into it, it smells of Drae saliva..” The Shaman reach beside him and took a rag dripping a black liquid, “ This will hurt bite down on this. “ A piece of wood was jammed between his teeth, and he bit down hard when the rag touched the revealed injury. He nearly screamed when the liquid came into contact with his raw flesh, “ Bite.” was all the pity the shaman had for him, when it was finally done, he lay panting his eyes rolled back in his head, stars were shooting off in his head, “ It’s done. “

Groaning, he pulled himself to a sitting position, “ You’re lucky, it missed the muscles.“ Spitting the man looked at the would be doctor,
“ Lucky would have been missing me entirely. “ Smiling the Shaman handed him a small packet of leaves, “Chew on these, they will help with the pain.”

“How do you survive here Elder? The people caste away those that are too weak to fight or survive on their own, and you are blind…” His voice drifted into the night as he ended his question hesitantly. The shaman settled back and made his way back to the warmth of the fire, his voice was clear and strong
“Ive been alive for nearly a hundred passing of the moons, Ive seen thousands of young warriors come and go, Ive healed many, and performed rites over many more. None has ever asked me such a question, and I’ve never asked them any questions. The people here know that I am a healer, and you are correct, they do leave the weak in the desert to, it is a dream of all to die in such a way, the honor of letting the desert take you back.” The shaman shook his head violently, “It’s a waste. A waste of knowledge, of wisdom, but still they continue!” He shook his head, “Me… I have not chosen to step into the wastes, and they will not ask me to even though every one of them believes I should. I will not, and they will not make me, I will continue to heal and to teach until I can no longer move, and then…Then I will die either here, or in the City.” The old man’s milky eyes turned to his patient’s, “ So, who are you that has exterminated so many of the Drakes. A wandering warrior that no one has bested in a duel, that speaks so little but has learned our language and our ways with an alacrity that would be considered alarming. The Elders fear you are a spy sent by our enemies across the sea to learn of our weaknesses, yet the warriors respect you. You come asking to be welcome into our city, and set about to prove your worthiness by slaying not a single Drake, but an entire brood, something that every warrior dreams of doing but never accomplishes, yet here you are attempting the unlikely… Tell me, who are you?”

The man’s golden eyes had dilated to a point where he could no longer see the Shaman sitting in front of him, he was beginning to feel the effect of the leaves the man had given him, “My name is Joshua Drakken.”