Page 21 of Blood of the Sands

“We know the desert becomes harsher by the day,” the lord of Clan Padra conceded, “but it could be Lord Alasdar fashioning himself as a false Champion of the Desert that has stirred her ire.”

“The desert has no Champion,” I spat. It was an absence felt by all the clans, but Clan Katal most sharply of all. After the last Trials, the competition held every twenty years to crown the desert’s Champion, no winner had emerged.

“Perhaps that is why she is angry.”

“Even if it is, Kelvadan must fall. The city has taken over the Trials so no true Champion of the Desert may emerge. The abandonment of the old ways, of the clans, where strength and survival were the only rules, has made her angry,” I argued. It was the truth, but only part of it. Kelvadan had ushered in an era of peace between the clans, when the constant struggle for power was inherent to the old ways. I knew why it was imperative that Kelvadan fall to restore the glory of the desert, but that secret belonged to me and Lord Alasdar alone.

The lords before me seemed unconvinced.

“Surely you have felt the magic stirring.”

The lord of Clan Padra shifted on her feet.

“On my way here, I was attacked by a Sichat. You can still see its claw marks on my horse’s leg. I managed to fell it, but how many lesser riders would it kill? How long before other creatures of legend, lava wyrms and flying terrors, rise and attack the clan? We must do something.” My voice remained firm, and I pushed aside the notion that I was begging. The Viper did not lower himself.

The assembled leaders looked between themselves. They too had sensed the growing sense of foreboding in the magic holding the desert together. It had begun years ago, so subtle that nobody could pinpoint the day it first appeared. Perhaps something had always been there and was just amplified so those sensitive to it could notice. By now, it was so pronounced that even those not attuned to the magic of the desert could feel the heaviness in the air, the thick sense of a threat lingering just over the next horizon.

“We will only follow the true Champion. We will not risk angering her further by uniting the clans under one who has not been victorious in the Trials,” the lord of Clan Tibel declared.

I gritted my teeth. If the old ways had been upheld, Lord Alasdar would have been victorious in the Trials twenty years ago, but the weakness of Kelvadan kept him from being crowned Champion. Before the founding of Kelvadan, the Trials had been fights to the death, the duels conducted in the old ways of the clans. Now, those who killed their opponents were expelled from the competition.

“The Trials are a farce,” I argued.

“The Trials are one of the oldest traditions of the clans, from far before Kelvadan was carved from the mountainside. While they may be held in Kelvadan and presided over by the queen now, if you claim to follow the old ways, you would be wise to honor them as tradition,” the man with the scar interjected.

“The Trials are to be held at the end of the dry season, a few new moons from now. If a Champion emerges, we will unite in this war against Kelvadan,” the lord of Clan Tibel announced.

“Lord Alasdar would not be permitted to enter.” I gripped my sword tightly again, the bite of metal against my gloved palm keeping me from losing patience with the conversation.

The lord of Clan Padra tilted her head, and the hint of a smirk toyed with the edge of her lips. “You could enter the Trials, Viper. If you are as fearsome as the rumors say, then you should be able to best all the competitors and emerge victorious.”

I stiffened, remaining silent. The Trials were months away and the desert was fraying faster by the day. I was wary of visiting Kelvadan without an army in tow—and without Lord Alasdar.

“These are the only terms we will accept. You must win the Ballan Trials, or we will not join with Clan Katal,” the man with the scar declared. They had clearly discussed this prior to my arrival.

“Your clans will be vulnerable until then,” I pointed out.

“It is why we have camped together.” The lord of Clan Padra folded her arms. “Our numbers are even greater than what you boast at Clan Katal’s encampment.”

My gaze darted down the line of clan leaders, and I knew this was the only way forward without killing many riders who would be needed if the clans were to ride against Kelvadan.

“Then it’s agreed.”

I would ride in the Trials.

As much as I would have rather rode out that night, camping on my own somewhere in the wilderness, I found myself accepting the lord’s begrudging invitation to stay at their combined encampment. We had settled on a truce of sorts with our agreement, and so there was a hesitant peace. More importantly though, as healed as Alza was, she could benefit from another day or two before we set out.

I spent a long while tending to Alza in the enclosure a rider showed me to keep her in. I brushed her out, ensuring she obtained arrowgrass and water, muttering praises to her under my breath as I fussed. At one point, the horse master had approached me, offering to look at the wounds on her leg for me.

Rounding on him, I glared for a moment, prepared to shoo away anybody who would dare touch Alza. I had been raised to take care of horses and knew how to treat many of their ailments.

In the face of my silent stare, the horse master began to back away, hands raised.

“Wait.”

He paused. I chewed on my tongue. He would have supplies I did not carry on the road.

“I do not want her wounds to become infected.”