Tamachaku knew, even before his messenger had started talking. There was only one reason for the panic and fear he could sense practically radiating from the man.

“Warlord, the crops- “

“Have died, yes. Was the plague contained?” An impatient gesture from Tamachaku made the messenger shake off his gaping mouth of surprise.

“Yes, Warlord. The fields were burnt once the plague was discovered. But- “

“Dismissed, warrior.”

As the messenger hurried off, undoubtedly to panic over this latest development in the company of friends and family, Tamachaku pondered. That was their third crop this year to have failed, and their stores of food were already running low. Without this harvest, many would starve in the fast approaching winter.

The Warlord of a nomadic people, who now had begun to set down their roots, Tamachaku gazed over his pride and joy, the greatest of his accomplishments. Nothing more than a collection of huts, built of dirt and mud, yet standing for so much more. Smoke rose from the campfires dotted throughout the growing village as his people cooked the last of their supplies, most kept unaware of the growing issue with the crops.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It had started so well, all those years ago. Uniting the warring tribes of the Bayati people under a single banner, a man painting battlefields red with the blood of his enemies. Forcing the ignorant and short-sighted chieftains under his heel, crushing them when they resisted.

And his dream had been achieved. He had created a home for his people, a place where they could be safe. Learning the ways of the southern men had allowed his people to grow, to live and not just survive. No longer did his people flee from the harsh winters, now that they had a roof over their heads and a fire to keep the cold out. No longer did great warriors die in meaningless skirmishes, now being able to train the next generation to take their places.

And now everything was falling apart. And he was powerless to stop it.

Wisps of red, crimson and bright, unseen and unnoticed. They spoke, and Tamachaku was filled with clarity, for the minds of even the mightiest of mortals are pliable to a gods’ whims.

He knew now why they had suffered so. Theirs was a people of war, who took what they needed. Yet he had brought them low, in his dreams of peace and home. He had forgotten their roots, for to them there was no peace, only stagnation. To them, the battlefield was their home.

Turning his gaze south, he saw nothing but empty sand, but what reached his eyes did not matter. For towards the south was the weak southern men, who had to rely on walls of stone for protection, their people turned weak and soft while his own people starved. They had grown arrogant and complacent, thinking the northern “barbarians” were quelled.

He would soon show them how wrong they were.