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Smok Taunter

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Canteens filled with blood they continued on. Leaving the bones and organs behind. What was once a tall stallion was now red bone and ropes of gut in the sand. DeLoren rode double with Chandler on his horse. Looking back mournfully at the site of the butchering.

On the fourth night after they planned for their journey to the Elid a snake visited upon their camp. All eyes cautiously watched as the deadly adder slipped silently through to the center of the circle. Coming to rest by the fire. Goswick raised his finger to his mouth, silently ordered his comrades to be still.
Slowly reaching behind him he grabbed his sword. With disciplined hands he brought it out without a sound. The snake knew now what was going on. It slid and slipped around the fire, feeling at every angle its reviving heat.
Taking his chance, the prince swung the sword down onto the serpent. Severing its head. The body writhed grossly. Its blank face thrashing its jaws and it chewed out its own soul. Satisfied Goswick re-sheathed his sword and hissed, “Damn snakes. Agents of Abu-Bakr!”
Not missing out on the opportunity Millard quickly gutted and stuck the body on his sword. Cooking it over their open fire. The head was thrown into the desert so it would not glare at them with its dead eyes; a curse to be set upon them.

The following day something peculiar happened. They saw it while continuing their ride east. It was a noticeable blemish on the desert’s surface. A grey and dark mass that approached them slowly. Goswick halted his small band as the much larger group of soldiers passed them by. The four eyed the newcomers curiously and cautiously, a few of them watched back, their expressions hidden under their helmets.

07-Jul-2009 03:33:35 - Last edited on 13-Feb-2011 01:08:44 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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They wore no sigil or crest on their person. They wore only their own mail and a thin brown tunic which clung loosely to their body. There was in all sixty men and horses, all bearing lances that rose high into the air. Hanging at their sides were their swords, those too were unadorned in the same way their garb and lances were.
“Mercenary unit.” said Goswick in a hushed tone as the company passed in a long line, each knight having another at his side. Columns of two.
“Who for?” asked Chandler.
“Who knows, they could still be looking for work.”
“Or going to It.” said DeLoren.
“Should we follow them?” Millard asked, “Perhaps they’re hired by us.”
“And if they’re hired by the enemy?”
Silence fell upon the group as a painful question dawned on them. They forced themselves to only watch the remainder of the procession. Even after the mercenary unit had passed the group stayed to watch the long streak of black crest the dunes in the distance; behind them was a beaten trail that followed their progression. After a fair time they set out again.
“I would not have myself travel with them anyways.” Goswick narcissistically crooned.

It was nights again before something interesting happened. DeLoren was again appointed to be on watch reported to his comrades that he heard the neighing of horses in the distance. Goswick claimed that he was tired and hearing things. The two others agreed and they set out again. But as they did DeLoren thought he saw horsemen in the distance.

07-Jul-2009 03:33:40 - Last edited on 13-Feb-2011 01:09:01 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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Abu-Bakr
As the men silently traveled through the desert a question manifested itself in DeLoren. He had heard the name, uttered by his superiors. There were he was a ghost or a demon. A shade who travelled in sandstorms and upon the hot wind. It was how he travelled with haste. The attack were compelling him to ask. To know his enemy. Feeling it an appropriate time he posed the question aloud: “Now, who is this Abu-Bakr?”
His fellow knights pretended to not to listen. Gazing zombie-like into the expanse of the sand. But not for long. Millard shifted in his saddle, turning to look him in the face: “He’s a monster,” he said with a carefully hushed and superstitious tongue, “traveling through the desert at unnatural speeds. His men are but ghosts, how do you think you never see their faces? There is nothing there to see!”
“Is this true?” responded DeLoren, continuing with his quest of knowledge, *I’ve heard from my fellow knights he traveled on the sandstorms.”
“He could very well be the sandstorms.”
“A demon he is,” stated Chandler, piping up from along side them, “He could be watching us now. Unnaturally breezy day. And the sand-storm that hit us before we were ambushed! The most violent wind-storm my skin has ever felt. Could strip a man bare before it blinds him. That was he and all his men!”
DeLoren considered. Not wishing to be outdone by the conversation Goswick butted in, “He’s no ghost and he is no demon,” he said rudely, “He is a man. He has chosen to shroud himself in stories to back his cowardice. It’s all trick of the mind.”
“What are you talking about?” said Millard
“Any solider or wanderer who stays out for too long in this weather is bound to create some absurd story. A man like Abu-Bakr just takes these stories and bends and distorts them into something that strengthens him. In doing so he makes his self appear stronger and scarier to the ear of any common man. Any man who survives to see how human he or his men are gets executed...

07-Jul-2009 03:33:45 - Last edited on 10-Mar-2011 00:36:04 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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It’s the only reason why no one has ever been found after battle.
“He is a cunning commander I’ll give him that. His swiftness is the only thing to admire. Other than that he’s just another sand-skin who only wishes to meddle in righteous affairs. These deserts, as useless they are, are ours. They belong to Saradomin, to Mishtalin. To the Mother Church and not a maddened race of goat herder. Not his, Saradomin and Misthalin.”
“And what of Asgarnia?” asked an annoyed DeLoren, “Why must we come in to try and fight a fight that should be yours only?”
“Boy, you know not how Gielnor is ruled. You wear the mark of a crusader on your ******. And you forget the cause for which you’re fighting! The men of Abu-Bakr raised many important sites here and the men of the cloth declared it time to defend what’s right.”
There was general silence for a few moments. “You said he was a man.” Chandler said, How do you know this?”
“I fought him in battle once. It was a small skirmish but it was where I broke my nose. He was a wretched thing, shaggy beard with a scarred, pitted and decaying face. He may look like the undead to anyone else. But I know for a fact he is not. He’s a leper and he’s dying. If not he has already. What’s going on now is likely some deathbed order to his lessers.”
“It could be his ghost that commands these men and drives them on the sands.” Said DeLoren
“I digress,” responded Goswick quickly, “He’s more than likely dead and his spirit burns in hell.”
The conversation stopped.

In the distance a small gathering of horsemen watched. The reflecting rays of sun betraying them roughly. As was the desert’s will.

07-Jul-2009 03:35:46 - Last edited on 10-Mar-2011 00:36:18 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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The Mamelukes
The conversation of that previous hour still had only lef DeLoren’s image of Abu-Bakr more muddled and conflicting. He now had three conflicting stories about who he is, instead of the one curious description. Of the three two seemed to agree he was some supernatural force; a ghost or demon. Of the experienced – albeit arrogant – man said he was human and he had brushed up against him in battle. Goswick’s story described him as weak, almost too weak. Failing in health. A man who shouldn’t be fit for the ambush that happened now weeks previous. The one battle they were still fleeing from in hopes of finding refuge in Pollnivneach. And for them they gained no ground.
This however was the illusion of the desert. They were in fact very close. If recent actions dictated so they would reach the lush lands on the borders of the Elid. But, the desert and faith have ways of conspiring against people in favor of more powerful forces.
From the falcon*s eyes the unfolding actions played out on a vast landscape. The parts played by scarabs. Chess pieces in a larger game called war. From some mile away a small force of lightly armored and armed warriors rode on a course set straight at them.
Clothed in loose fitting robes with hooded heads and veiled faces, a force of those in service to Abu-Bakr ascended on the unwary group of stragglers. At half a mile’s distance they noc*ed their arrows. At a quarter to a mile the strings were drawn. Then once they had come right on top of them the arrows were released.
They had no sign that they were attacked. Caught in surprise they jumped and screamed in shock and horror as the arrows whistled by their faces. Much of the arrows skimmed the air, finding home in the sand. But to the few that found their decided target there was only the strength of steel. One such arrow burying itself in the hindquarters of Goswick’s horse. And in pain and fear triggering it to rear up and knock him off...

07-Jul-2009 03:35:52 - Last edited on 21-Mar-2011 23:09:02 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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He hit the ground with a heavy “oomph”.
After this first volley the combative instincts of the knights were triggered. They drew their swords and sought to engage. Adrenaline, excitement, and hearts pounding. But the swiftness of the riders proved too much an advantage and another flurry of arrows flew at the knights. Several arrows felled Goswick’s horse in its desperate flight. A few more brought down the horses Millard and DeLoren rode. The dying beast fell onto its side sending the two to the sand. Chandler was still mounted on his horse. The only arrow that had made its mark on him was buried into his leg.
He bore the pain and rode to try and meet their attackers. Screaming loudly as he charged them, sword hoisted high. He was shot down midway by the arrow of a lone rider. Death buried itself in a fault in his chain mail and he went limp. The horse ran on, his body bounced randomly about before falling from the horse taking the saddle and riding gear with him.
The three still standing were rapidly surrounded by their enemy. Now no longer excited. Now they were afraid. Their hearts beat rapidly in their chests as they came to the enlightenment that Abu would claim them. Surrounded, they crept to the middle. They found cover at the side of Millard’s dead horse. It was the only thing they could do.
DeLoren and Millard held their swords tightly in their hands. Goswick was the only one unarmed, his weapon now being pounded into the sand by the horses. He clutched shakily at his knees. Eyeing death, he knew no god could save him.
Millard muttered a prayer under his breath. DeLoren looked about at the fiendish entrapment of man and horse. Watching in morbid awe as they drew and re-knocked their arrows. Drawing back their fire, they aimed it at the middle. Then they let go. The ensuing barrage was lightening fast, there was no salvation.

07-Jul-2009 03:35:59 - Last edited on 21-Mar-2011 23:09:27 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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DeLoren was turned to a maiden’s pin cushion, a multitude of sharp pains digging into his body, having once again found faults in the mail. As did Millard by several more. The crippling missiles landing in his legs, shoulder, and chest. Goswick was the fortunate one, although his armor guarded him from the majority of the devilish missiles, a few found their way into the visor of his helmet and his unarmored neck. He died instantly. Goswick collapsed dead before the horsemen.

Millard breathed heavily as he lay on the desert floor bleeding. Each breath he took was like a heavy punch to his chest. He wanted to cry in agony, but he could only groan. The horses still circled the arena; he watched their hooves in his fading vision. A wild whirlwind of dust marking the edge of their last stand. Black hooves appeared and disappeared from this curtain The rhythmic pounding of hooves drummed in his ears, slowly lulling him to sleep. And as he drifted off something he never thought he would ever do when he died: he cried. He always held close to the belief he would die at home surrounded by his family as they watched him pass on in happiness. Or he would be slew instantly in battle. He wanted to live for more years; twenty-two is too young to die. But as he watched the parade of the hooves through slowly tearing eyes the Varrockian slipped into darkness.

DeLoren, his mail having not quite failed him, retained some amount of consciousness. He lay in the dirt gritting his teeth in the sharp agony. The arrow-heads were sharp and terrifyingly painful. Each pressing breath hurt. Every flinching twitch a sudden and unexpected cut.
The horses continued to circle. But, the pounding of hooves were rapidly slowing. He drew his eyes off the sand. In the sand that clouded his eyes he could see still shadows. They stood silently, waiting as the cloud settled.

07-Jul-2009 03:36:07 - Last edited on 21-Mar-2011 23:09:50 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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He saw next a pair of feet dismounting from a horse in front of him. The man’s shoes were eloquent and pointed at the ends, light weight and silk. But when he landed his robe quickly hid his footwear. It dragged across the ground, nearing the crippled bodies. It stopped just a few feet away.
Words were exchanged between several of the riders. The language was unfamiliar to DeLoren. Although, several words sounded very familiar to him; “Falador”, “Varrock”, and “Michael Goswick”. But they somehow did*’t spell comfort. It made him afraid. If they knew who they were, could they know their worth? But soon called the familiar call of pain.
The man who now stood in front of him was poking with his sword at where the arrows had hit. He tried to hold back the urge to scream. But a pained grunt came from his lips, a horrible mistake.
“Ya Y’shun!* the man exclaimed excitedly. Strangely enough, his comrades laughed and cheered. DeLoren could feel hands around his waste and then he left the ground. The arrows ground at his bones sending out torrents of pain as they cut through flesh and nerve. He screamed in agony. The man who had lifted him up laughed. He was now staring into the face of his captor. Although most of it was hidden.
Although reddened and beaten by riding in the sand, the dark green emeralds that served his eyes glowed gleefully. His browned and sun-beaten face rolled happily as he hauled his captive to his horse and tied him to the saddle. Unsupported DeLoren slumped weakly forward. Displeased, his captor wrapped his hands to the back of the beast, pulling him back and up. He then saddled himself and waited for the others to stop checking the bodies.
More men dismounted and checked the bodies of Goswick and Millard. Having several arrows protruding horrifically from his face and neck it was obvious the noble did*’t need to be stolen off. Instead, he was mounted on a spare horse – armor and all – and quickly ushered off in a quick gallop into the desert.

07-Jul-2009 03:36:13 - Last edited on 21-Mar-2011 23:10:47 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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They went to Millard; they looked down at him. Doubtful of his living status. They stood their calculating. The man had received several arrow wounds to his body. A man bent down and put his fingers to his neck. He talked amongst the other the men, they must have pronounced him alive for the arrows were broken or removed. They then threw him with a rider; there he leaned bleeding upon the robed figure he shared the horse with.
The corpses of the horses themselves and what little baggage that was with them was left behind as the riders rode off.
It wasn’t until that night they made camp. The two prisoners were set up back to back. A spear driven deep into the ground to lash them to.
A guard watched them silently as the rest of the band sat around a fire chattering in low voices. The wind blew softly and coolly over the exposed skin of the captives. One of the men around the fire got up and left the crowd. He entered a small tent. Then exited a moment latter holding rags and a water skin. However, this would have seemed normal if he had returned to his comrades. But it struck DeLoren like an odd blow to his head he was approaching them! He knelt before Millard and tipped the skin over onto the rag wetting it.
He dabbed the rag carefully around the broken arrows that still stuck up from his skin. This doctor gave attention to the wound on his arm. It had healed somewhat since it was inflicted by their own bows days ago. The bandage was removed two days earlier and had scabbed over. It looked to form a handsome scar. When he was finished he went to DeLoren who sat watching him curiously.
The same treatment of water was repeated. The area around his injuries treated by the wet rag, as the curiously chivalrous enemy cleaned him up. He looked at him and in a questioning voice asked: “We’re going to Abu?”
The man, having understood him looked up. He nodded his head and replied nodding, “Na’am.”
Yes, they were to go to Abu.

07-Jul-2009 03:37:05 - Last edited on 21-Mar-2011 23:11:23 by Smok Taunter

Smok Taunter

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The man finished and put away the bloodied rags and sipped from the canteen. He turned and walked back to the camp. Moments later DeLoren joined Millard in sleep.
It was an unfortunately short sleep for his captors had other plans. He was quickly awoken with a kick to the side. He jumped at the damning pain. The foot had caused one of his arrow wounds to flare back to life. He looked up to see a man dressed in lighter robes. His head wasn’t covered by a hood but his figure was still silhouetted by the moon. He was grabbed roughly by the shoulders and stood up. He was then shown to a horse which they lifted him up on; the horse was tethered to another whose rider glared back at him. Millard also accompanied him on the same horse and both were bound together. Dismal wonder danced, taunting him with the mysterious of where they were going.
The company soon set off. They moved at a brisk trotting pace through the desert. It was a lot different at night when the light of the campfire was not hindering your sight. Around them a field of moon-lit blue sand stretched for miles turning softly black as it neared the horizon. It was a still sea, caught in a frozen dance with darkness. A complimenting couple together in time.

The sky was the perfect definition of clear. Not a blemish floated in the sparkling and ebony dome that flew over head. With no obstruction from weather of environment each star was a candle that lit for them their path. The moon a massive lantern and a sun in its own right. A solid silver coin, filled with magic.
The desert had also shed the appearance being long dead. From the desert the cries of Jackals and wolves drifted on the breeze. Small lizards ran out of the way of the hooves. Small insects buzzed around the heads of the riders. Bugs and rodents who knew no fear watched the procession, or followed suit.

07-Jul-2009 03:37:16 - Last edited on 21-Mar-2011 23:11:59 by Smok Taunter

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Abu-Bakr