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Smok Taunter

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In a little less than month’s time since his admission to Mustafa’s house he was allowed to get up and out of his bed. He felt much better healed. He did*’t ache as much as he used to. Under the eye of Mustafa he cautiously walked about the room. His arm was tied to his ****** to keep pressure off of his arm. At times his care-giver would ask him to stop and turn around. Here he would lightly tap his shoulder or his sides with his knuckles. He gave a loud yelp of pain as his nerves fired up in agony at the sharp sudden contact. Mustafa hummed in satisfaction. “I may be able to let you out soon.” he said.
“Soon?” he said, the thought scared him. The mystery of what would come of him was great and it cast a depressive black shadow.
“Yep. There’s going to be a race in a couple days. If you can get your balance back before then – which you should – I’ll take you there to see how you fare out there.”
DeLoren nodded. A race…
The next few days passed now with an even greater feeling of uncertainty and anxiety. Brought now by the race. Why did it make him more uncertain? Shouldn’t he be happy to now what’s to come of him? It made no difference; he nagged himself more and heavier. He paced about his room, stretching his bed-cramped legs pondering the nature of the race. Would Abu be there? Would he be set free? Readmitted as a slave elsewhere? Or – Saradomin be merciful – executed?
His anxiety grew until the day came. Then held fast, like a men waiting on the charge. It was time for it to do battle with the fate. And DeLoren was caught ***** in the middle.

04-Feb-2011 02:20:39

Smok Taunter

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Mustafa opened the door. He was wearing finer clothes. Cotton Pyjamas and a maroon vest over a loose fitting cotton shirt. DeLoren looked at himself. Feeling humiliated at his bed-dress. The same ripped clothes he had been wearing throughout his time here. It was quiet humiliating.
Mustafa stood at the door, waiting to see what his patient would do. Without word he moved towards the door. “You think you can walk it?” he asked, “I would hate to take you if you think you can’t make it. They can wait for another day.”
“Yeah,” he said, fearing not to delay the inevitable, “I can make it.”
Mustafa nodded and led him out.

The racing track was crowded. Never before had Louis DeLoren seen it in such the active and lively state. It had long been showed to them empty, or in sparse use. From the humble position below the rider’s saddle and the sweat-drenched interior of the stables. Now, much of the space had been put to use. Pavilions and various sun-shelters were erected all throughout the center. Men, women and children of all varying dress of celebration strolled throughout.
Many of these attendants were just finding their place to sit for when the thundering spectacle that was to be, begins. But others were not so mobile. Underneath the cool, paradisian shades cast by their shelters, men held the pipes of hookahs as they smoked the sweet flavors of shisha tobacco on soft feathery cushions. The rich scents flooding the air. From within the tents were a subtle haze of grey-ish blue and echoed with laughter and jubilation.
Then there were the hagglers. Men of fiscal career. They hung around the horse traders or the riders discussing and making deals in quick frantic speech. Horses were compared and praised like fine art and beautiful clothes. A subtle war of lies and exaggerations was waged. Discounts, sales, bartering. A rapid and enthusiastic trade of speech.

04-Feb-2011 02:20:52

Smok Taunter

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And in the middle of all of these were the men of state. Granted a private tent they sat in the middle, for all to gather around. The flags of Abu-Bakr, of which DeLoren saw for the first time, flew in the air alongside the banner of the village. On his flying standard he noted a golden semi-circle, pointed down at the ground, laid overtop a blue as dark as the night sky. Upon the very top of the golden crescent was a star. The banner of the village was simply Khardian writing stitched over top a flag colored the same brown as a camel.
Their tent was large, peaking out over the heads of the crowd and fellow shelters. Easily passable as its own building, and challenged only by the Cyprus trees. But it was with good reason, much of the village’s administration, Abu-Bakr, and his staff and their guard were centered there. This was the tent DeLoren and Mustaffa approached, pushing past the crowd which was beginning to reach its zenith.
Throwing back the tent’s flap they entered with a slight, welcoming nod from a guard.
The tent was welcoming in its cool air. Oil lanterns burned from atop small table tops positioned around the posts of the tent. Criss-crossing rugs and dancing rays of sun light danced across the floor. It had a very warm glow, every bit of the fabric in some soft, brown or red.
At the far end stood Abu-Bakr. In his company were Asuf and Naradine; whom DeLoren hadn’t seen once after the night he had coffee with them. A small, officially dressed man was obviously in conversation with him. Abu looked up as the two entered his tent. He politely finished with the man before turning his attention to his new company.

04-Feb-2011 02:21:03

Smok Taunter

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“Marhabbah, Mustafa!” he said in a voice of booming joy, “How have you been these passed few days?”
“I have done well your honor.” Mustafa cheerfully responded, kissing Abu’s hand, “Your friend has kept me plenty occupied.”
“I should hope. Idolatry only leads to trouble. And trouble only causes you to fall out of grace with Shallah. How then are you, Northerner?” he said, turning to address DeLoren.
DeLoren was hesitant for a moment. Unsure how he should word his response. “Well.” he said in a restrained voice.
Abu-Bakr said nodding: ““It is good to see a man alive. It is a waste to loose any blood in the desert. Much more so than blood shed in battle. But it is that shedding that’s done when no other options are at hand. There is no option to die in the desert, only fool heartedness. Now, correct me if I am wrong on this: but your name is DeLoren?”
“Yes, Louis DeLoren.”
“I thought so. And Millard was the one who escaped. What was his full name?”
“Johnson, Johnson Millard.” DeLoren responded with strained, cracked breath. Like the memory of his escape, there was a great deal of pain in reciting his name.
Abu nodded and turned to address Mustafa. But in a wave of heated desperation he raised his voice. This he believed would be the only opportunity to do so: “What has become of him? Of my brother-in-arms?”
Abu returned his attention back to him. He played with his beard. “My friend,” he began, “We have not found him. Nor any trace between here and Pollinevneach.”
DeLoren bowed his head. Tears welled in his eyes. He fought to hold them back, shutting his lids tight. There was a heavy force on his shoulders and one clenching tight his test. This force was anger and sadness. Swallowed by the desert! Saradomin have mercy. Why couldn’t he prevent it earlier?

04-Feb-2011 02:21:24

Smok Taunter

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His sorrow had not gone unnoticed by Abu. “If he is dead,” Abu said, comforting him from across the way, “he is in the grace of Saradomin now. He’ll take care of his immortal self. You’ll see him in time.”
DeLoren kept his head bowed. He stayed silent. Abu turned away from him and went back to Mustafa. Together the two talked to one another in the Khardian tongue, walking over to a set of chairs where they sat down. But DeLoren stood in silence.
‘Is it possible Millard is dead?’ DeLoren’s head raced. ‘There was no news of him, why he never came back. But, where was his body? Which direction did they do? Benni was with him, he knew how to navigate. Did he not? Where did they plan to go? Where did the sands swallow him?’
He clenched his good hand contracted and retracted in anger. Anger not at any Khardian. Anger and Millard. Anger for himself. He tried to shake of the emotional weight that rested on him. But it stayed.
“Northerner, come over here!” Abu-Bakr called.
DeLoren raised his head. Snapped back to the present he went to him.
“Sit down.” Abu said. DeLoren obliged.
“Mustafa was telling me of your injuries.” he said, “How confident in your ability are you?”
DeLoren had a rock in his throat. Apart from walking, he hadn’t done much. Fighting the cork in his throat he squeezed out: “I’ve only wal-“
“How confident are you? Can you work or not?*
*Pretty much…”
“Until your other arm is working again we can not do much with you. But I imagine you can do house-hold choirs. Other-wise you are a useless. A cheap slave.”
DeLoren was puzzled. House-hold choirs? Cheap slave?
Abu continued, “You can use a broom, use a rag, maybe carry a cup and a tray. It’s only temporary. You’ll come to use the other arm. Northerner, once the festivities are done and the night comes, you’re going to join my house-staff. You’ll be out of the sun, out of the heat, and there’ll be no horses for you to escape on.”

04-Feb-2011 02:21:42

Smok Taunter

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DeLoren opened his mouth to speak, but Abu cut in: “This isn’t something you agree to DeLoren. I’m only telling you this personally because of the situation. And I hear you’re already frightened of your future. I am by no means going to kill you, but you will work for me until I see fit to let you go. Your situation may change once your arm gets better, but we’ll see.”
“Yes sir.” DeLoren added.
Abu-Bakr laughed. “Aneh Gebin’dal.” he roared, a big smile across his face.
Mustafa returned the laugh. Outside the rippling of applause and cheers could be heard. It came like a sudden storm. “The race must be starting!” Abu exclaimed excitedly, “Outside, now. Yallah!”
The tent emptied into the blinding sun. DeLoren flinched at its strong golden glare. His vision turning into a blinding sea of white. But as his eyes re-focused and the track came into view. Now a mass of organizing spectators.
The crowd that was mixing and seething back and forth had found form. A circle of people formed around on both sides of the dirt-track. Above the faces rode in slow gallant procession today’s racers. Rugged men, dressed in loosely fitting dress. Men tempered by the recent war and adept at their skill through generations of practice. Thirty in the whole lot of them. They smooth rode blackened stallions who obediently kept their step. Their nostrils flared and sides heaved in the excitement of their coming charge.
“Where did these people come from?” DeLoren asked, peering out over the heads of all the people who had assembled in amazement. He had no knowledge that the village had so many people within its borders.
“Many are my own men and their families who decided to flea your people.” Abu-Bakr said, “Many more are volunteers who answered the call to defend their home-land; ghazis, mutaween. You wouldn’t see them much in the village; they’re posted around the surrounding mountains. This place would be crowded otherwise.*

04-Feb-2011 02:22:07

Smok Taunter

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“Wa-mob!* the man next to him shouted; the same one he was talking to later. He continued, but it was only in low muffled mumbles.
“Corbab, Sadiq.” Abu returned in a calming voice. The man only grumbled.
The racers finished their lap, stopping at the far end of the track. From within the tent several servants ran out with chairs. They put them down behind Abu and his company before being dismissed with a thank-you from their master. They sat down in the silence before the race started. It was a tense moment. The on-lookers standing stiff and silent as they waited for the coming storm.
The racers seemed to be the only ones mobile in the slightest. They shifted and moved in their saddles. Bent over the horse’s heads and tightly gripped at the reigns. Each move they made seemed to be with the purpose of starting just right. Just as they wanted.
And then breaking the silence with the force a ram a deep bellowing horn sounded. It was their trigger. The release they needed to be shot off. And within an instant the horses were thundering down the track. The ground rumbled in the thunder of a thousand drums. The earthquake at their hooves growing louder and stronger as they circled. Then it died as they took the bend.
They rode in a tight formation. Bracing tightly to their rides as they pushed furiously onwards. Their muscles pulling and pushing at each powerful step. They kicked up a mighty dust-cloud that chased them with the ferocity of a sand-storm. Flying up to the air and following after horses.

04-Feb-2011 02:22:31

Smok Taunter

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The crowd was also a bemusing spectacle to behold. Those who had gathered in the middle turned, jumped and stood on their toes as they watched every moment of the race with interest. Some had the wisdom and foresight to bring a stool, or a crate to stand on above the crowds. Others held aloft their children on their shoulders. And all of them cheered. And they did so in powerful fervor. A great roar of voices that served as the soundtrack to the hooves that circled around them.
Abu took the races in fan-fare equal to the rest of his brothers and sisters. He yelled and applauded, jumping out of his seat when the riders made another circuit. And then another. His companions were no different and shared a keen interest in the riders; leaning over to each other and surely commented on each of the racers.
The spectacle had DeLoren much confused. He had seen many horses run in the fields around Falador in the north. Their riders taking them out for their daily exercise, or to train them for work or for war. He had seen the knights ride them through town. He has watched them practice their acrobats as they practiced mounting and dismounting again. He too had done this, and in full armor. But he saw little excitement, or was lost. The riders rode much the same way. There was no amount of physical endurance or might shown. All bent forward, gripping the reigns. Urging their horses on wards.
Their horses…
On their tenth pass he saw it. In the hair of the beasts matted in sweat. They glistened with each ripple and pull in the muscles. The suns rays played across the flowing skin and hair that enveloped the beasts. White rays and rivers raced across the surface in complex and awe-inspiring patterns. It was as if the sun had enveloped these beasts in magic. A kind of magic that gave them speed, grace and the control they needed to press on with endurance no man could show.

04-Feb-2011 02:22:40

Smok Taunter

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The riders themselves seemed to be enveloped by this same magic, but in the very opposite sense. Their clothes rippled and ripped in the wind. Instead of silvery streams of light that crawled over their surface it was shadow. Ebony rivers and canyons crawled over their garments from head to toe. The whole thing wasn’t about the rider personally, but the synchronicity between the two. A single being bound at the moment, polar-twins bound by saddle.
And the thunder. A terrifying and awe-inspiring sound. Simple and constant. A rhythmic beat all the horses’ own, yet in synch. Hard hooves on packed dirt created a king’s roar up until the very end.
The race ended in a thunder all the crowd’s own. The leader of the race took victory by a head and crossed the finish line in triumph. He very quickly urged his horse to a slow trot before throwing his arms in the air in triumph. The crowd applauded in congratulations. “For his victory he gets the other’s horses.” Abu said to DeLoren with a wide grin on his face, he too was applauding,
“And what of the losers?” DeLoren shouted over the jubilation, “They’ll have no horse!”
“Northerner, the men who do these races are no poor men. Their rides are not provided by my self. Nor do they own just one. They’re either merchants or small land-holders. I know that I have a fair collection of the later who found their land threatened by the Crusaders.
“But should this be the circuit of Sophenom the riders would hold greater stakes. That is the circuit of champions and of legends. All horses are for bet.”
So there was reward to these races. Abu made off for the winning racer. The ensemble of men who were with him followed suit. A guard gave DeLoren a tough push to get him walking. The crowd shuffled then closed in behind as he and his retinue approached the victor. They followed after the man they considered their leader.

04-Feb-2011 02:23:03

Smok Taunter

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Abu reached his hand out in congratulations to the rider. They exchanged words, wide smiles, and laughter. The exchanges were unofficial and merely casual. From what DeLoren saw there was no ceremony behind this. Just Abu-Bakr taking his own personal interest in the victor. The exchange came to close after several minutes and he turned and left with a blessing for the rider. A wedge was formed by the, parting crowd to allow them passage.
As they left the ocean of bodies closed in. Cheering for the victor and complimenting the losers for a race well made (who were in the process of handing over their horses). Various forms of music filled the air then as the jubilation grew greater. Rebab, lauto, and keval filled the air within moments after the surge.
But at this point Abu was already leaving the tracks. Conversation flittered amongst the group, but DeLoren could understand little of it.
They came now to Abu’s house. As they walked through the square much of the guard and company were dismissed. With small respectful bows they turned and left. Only Asuf, Naradine, And DeLoren followed Abu-Bakr into his house. Approaching the door Abu came to an abrupt stop. He looked in DeLoren’s way and pointed to the door. He could only look around, thinking they had forgotten something. After a few moments of silence Abu spoke up, “Open the door.”
Embarrassed, DeLoren acted. He ran to the door and opened it. The knight flinched as Abu passed, with images of being thrown to the ground for his disobedience as Imal would have done. But no attempts at physical harm were made and no scornful looks or words made. As his masters passed into the house he followed. Perhaps his days were to get better? Maybe servitude in the house of Abu would help spell some kind of good end.

04-Feb-2011 02:23:10

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