Page 6 of Blood of the Sands

“You are needed here for a little longer,” he insisted. “The riders of the three clans that are already here need training and to be shown the prowess of their captain. They have sworn their allegiance, but they will not follow us into battle unless they see you as the viper you are.”

I remained silent, gritting my teeth behind my mask. I didn’t appreciate being paraded around as a figurehead for the united tribes of the Ballan Desert—not when I earned the title by being a lethal weapon, and I much preferred to perform my purpose in obscurity. Still, the mask helped.

I also didn’t relish being in the encampment during the new moon. In accordance with the old ways, it was the time at which sacrifices were made to appease the desert, a time of death before rebirth. I had delivered the exile to her doom, but I didn’t itch to witness it.

Lord Alasdar was sure to be in fighting form, preaching to the clans about the importance of restoring the old ways and the anger of the desert, whipping the crowd into zealotry. When faced with desperation and scarcity, the common enemy of Kelvadan gave the clansman something to fight for.

Where the residents of the Great City sat safely behind their walls, denying the desert the sacrifice and death she demanded in return for the life she gave, the people of the clans suffered and starved. Kelvadan had abandoned the old ways where strength and survival were the only law for a softer way of life, breeding resentment in those who still tested their mettle against the fury of the desert. Lord Alasdar played that resentment like a finely tuned instrument to gain their loyalty.

I, though, had no interest in hearing the half-truths that haunted me. I was all too aware of all that was at stake should the clans fail to unite and fulfill our mission to destroy Kelvadan. The desert’s magic would rip our home apart. There would be no survivors, and the Ballan Desert would return to the lifeless land it had been before our ancestors first crossed to the ocean.

“It will give your horse a chance to rest, as I know she has been on many hard journeys lately,” Lord Alasdar continued, probing at my weakness. If it wasn’t for the truth of his words and the fact that I could sense Alza’s weariness, I may have insisted on leaving for the other tribes in the morning.

“She has carried me across the sands often,” I admitted.

“And she bore an extra burden today. The sacrifice comes at a welcome time. The sand will drink her blood in celebration of our latest step toward a return to the old ways and hopefully buy us the desert’s favor and freedom from the storms for a few more weeks.”

This time I did remain silent. I preferred to spill blood in battle and didn’t share Lord Alasdar’s fervor for sacrifice. Killing only bought me silence in my mind when it was in service of the desert. Still, the desert gave us life and often demanded life in return.

“Why don’t you perform the sacrifice in a few days? As a show of strength and to allow me to honor your successes?” Lord Alasdar’s expression remained neutral, but his hard gray eyes pinned me as if he could see beneath the metal of my mask, daring me to refuse.

I bowed my head in acceptance. “The desert gives and it takes.”

Chapter Six

Keera

Ilet the men who dragged me away throw me into a tent without resistance, and I rolled across the ground. I stayed lying on my side, spitting sand from my mouth, although it was a hopeless cause. Grit always found its way between my teeth, especially when I had so little water, the stickiness of my mouth trapping the particles.

The sound of the tent flaps closing announced that the men had left me alone. I briefly considered how foolish of them it was to leave me unattended so that I might escape, before I realized I was too weak to mount much of an effort. The journey had sapped the last of my strength. They would have known I couldn’t escape my bonds, let alone attempt to run, from the dead weight of my body as they dragged me across the camp.

The size of the clan’s migrating encampment surprised me, at least twice the size of what I remembered of the last clan I had scavenged supplies from. The clash of swords drifted through the air, but the lack of panic spoke of a population used to the background of combat training. Even now, the metallic clangs filtered through the thick canvas of the structure around me. They must boast a large contingent of riders for such training to be a regular occurrence. The sounds of so many people jangled my nerves, at odds with the strange calm of resignation that had dawned over me.

I struggled to sit, flopping around uselessly for a few moments before getting myself upright without the use of my arms. From the baskets and bundles piled around me, along with the lack of rugs creating a floor, I surmised myself to be in a storage area. Apparently preparing me to be sacrificed included treating me as a bag of grain until the appointed hour.

I slumped back against a stack of baskets in relief, happy to be left alone and in the shade. It seemed the last few days of my life in captivity might be more comfortable than the preceding years. After all, this tent did more to block the sun and sand than my lean-to at the oasis. Instead of clinging to survival by the tips of my fingers, I could spend my final days contemplating what I was leaving behind. I almost laughed, the noise dry and strangled in my throat. Everything that a person might regret leaving—a horse, a clan, a family—they had all left me years ago. My eyes burned and my throat closed. Nobody would remember me, and the desert winds would scour away all traces of me. The only person who knew my name was the one delivering me to my doom. Maybe I was already dead, if nobody knew me, let alone cared for me. This could be a mercy.

A whispering in the back of my mind drove those thoughts away, telling me I needed to escape. I grit my teeth at the thought, recognizing the voice that had driven me to crawl to shelter each time the elements bested me, and I considered laying down and letting the sands take me. The voice always came when I was on the edge of starvation, of thirst, of delirium from the heat. It insisted that there was something worth staying alive for, although I had yet to find what it was—what purpose my existence may yet serve. Maybe the isolation had truly made me delirious. I bargained with the voice, saying I would have a better chance of running if I gathered my strength.

The whisper urging me to run died down enough for me to close my eyes and let a dreamless sleep take me.

I roused to a hand on my shoulder, the foreign feeling of human touch chasing all relaxation from my limbs, and I tensed. I tried to thrash, not remembering I was bound and only succeeding in wriggling where I lay on the ground.

“Stop struggling, or you won’t get food and water,” commanded a female voice, although I could not see the owner.

I froze. The promise of food and water cut through my addled brain like a knife.

With my fighting ceased, I found myself hauled to a seated position, meeting a curious gaze. We contemplated each other for a moment, and I took in her sharp eyes and freckled complexion. While her expression was hard, it didn’t hold the cruelty I expected from one of my jailers.

With business-like efficiency, she lifted a water skin to my lips, and I swallowed greedily. She tsked lightly, but I didn’t get the sense that she disapproved of me.

As she pulled the skin away, I tilted my head in silent question.

“The desert is harsh these days,” she said.

I frowned at her words. “The desert is always harsh for an exile.”

She ignored my answer, instead picking up a small plate from the ground next to her, holding a small piece of flatbread and a small lump of what appeared to be goat’s milk cheese. I nearly cried at the sight. As meager as the clan might consider such sustenance, I had survived on little but dried meat and dates from the palms at my oasis for too long, without even spices enliven the flavor.