image [https://i.imgur.com/01PdlIW.png]
CHAPTER VII:
The Marauders of the Alnujum
Morning,
23 Flamestar 1011,
The Age of Night
26 Days until the Night of the Moon
Great Nabi Desert
The hot desert winds whipped through the jagged peaks that surrounded the canyon. Íbolín, Dathan, and Prince Nedraj pressed forward, their caravan forging a path through the unforgiving landscape, each step bringing them closer to their coveted destination. The sand crunched beneath their feet. Sweat was once again dripping from their brows, as fatigue had diminished Nedraj’s ability to accommodate them with magic. Íbolín had been practicing conjuring the spell, but still was struggling to master it.
“Ye' predicted it, Íbe. Four desertions, so earleh'. Even in tha company of the Hellflayer, they fell inta' fear. Don’t they realize the comin' legions will force them inta' service?” Said the old knight. His armor was clanking, but he seemed unphased, with iron resolve.
His young companion stared on, unperturbed.
“We still have some time ahead of us.” said Íbolín. “Now they see that the journey to Glory and Excellence lives up to the title… It’s not so easy, is it, friend.”
“Don’t we know it.”
The relentless heat of the desert weighed heavily on their shoulders. The shimmering waves of heat distorted the air, creating an illusionary haze that played tricks on their weary minds.
Nedraj's frustration simmered beneath the surface, mirroring the scorching intensity of the Flamestar above. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, a testament to the discomfort he felt. He longed for the cool shade of the Den, where treasures awaited, and where the notion of desertion seemed like a distant memory. The heat seemed to exacerbate his irritability, and he found himself directing his mounting frustration at Íbolín and Dathan.
The Prince's voice dripped with annoyance as he grumbled, "I don't see how desertion was more attractive than the treasures of the Den. Are they blind to the inevitable fate that awaits them? The Imperial legions will surely force them into further service. Far less accommodating and luxurious as mine, I tell you!"
Íbolín remained unfazed by Nedraj's outburst, his eyes fixed on the endless expanse of sand before them. He understood the allure of the journey they embarked upon, the call of glory and excellence that echoed in their hearts. It was not an easy path they had chosen, and Íbolín knew that firsthand.
Dathan nodded in agreement, his voice tinged with a mixture of understanding and weariness. "Indeed, the path to greatness is paved with hardships and sacrifices. It separates the true seekers of fortune from those who simply dream of it.
Íbolín's gaze shifted to Nedraj, his eyes filled with a quiet empathy. He recognized the Prince's discomfort and his longing for the comforts they had left behind. His waning magical ability, diminished from fatigue, had rendered the trip far more difficult than he had imagined. However, he also understood that the journey they embarked upon required steadfast determination, even in the face of adversity. He also knew he would soon have his power back after they had rested.
"We must persevere, prince," Íbolín said, his voice carrying a note of reassurance. "We are nearly inside the Alnujum. The desert tests not only our physical endurance but also our mental and spiritual fortitude. It is through these trials that we forge ourselves into something greater. If we can survive here, we will survive the Den’s traps."
As the caravan trudged forward through the scorching desert, the weight of their ambitions hung in the air. Each step brought them closer to the Sultan's treasury, but the journey itself was a test of their resilience and resolve; their worthiness for whatever awaited them there.
As the Flamestar reached its apex in the scorching desert sky, Íbolín's steps faltered, a nagging hunch pulling at the edges of his consciousness. He raised a hand, signaling the caravan to come to a halt. The shifting sands settled around them, the silence of the desert enveloping their surroundings.
Dathan and Nedraj exchanged puzzled glances, their weariness and frustration momentarily forgotten in the face of Íbolín's intuition. The tension in the air thickened, each breath fraught with anticipation and unease. The desert seemed to hold its breath, as if aware of the impending danger lurking just beyond the horizon.
“What is it, Hellflayer?” Said Nedraj.
Dathan looked upward and began to take a deep breath.
Íbolín's senses heightened. SHINK! He drew his sword. His eyes were scanning the dunes with a razor-sharp focus. A faint rustling sound reached his ears, like a whisper carried by the wind. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his instincts honed from years of survival guiding him. The faint sound of a whinnying horse cut through the arid air.
And then, as if materializing from the very sands themselves, a band of twelve marauders erupted from the desert's embrace, screaming war cries and flailing their weapons. Their figures were obscured by ragged black garments, gold encrusted turbans and swirling dust kicked up from their horses’ hooves.Their eyes gleaming red with a predatory hunger. The glint of sharpened blades reflected the harsh heat, and arrows began to land in front of Nedraj and company, with a few striking their cargo.
Panic rippled through the caravan, voices rising in fear. The camels began to grunt and cry. The air crackled with tension as Dathan drew his bow. It was a Drümmargian Longbow, encrusted with their sacred runes. The remaining mercenaries fell into defensive formation, gathering their halberds whose violet banners were flying high through the wind and commotion. faces etched with a mixture of determination and apprehension. They formed a line, a united front against the encroaching threat.
Nedraj jumped off his camel, drew his golden dagger and held it together with both hands nervously. He dropped behind two of his guards and pushed them in front of him like human shields.
Íbolín's eyes dropped to a pin-prick as he gripped his sword tightly, the weight of the blade a familiar comfort. Adrenaline surged through his veins, sharpening his senses and fueling his determination. He stepped forward, taking his place at the forefront of the defense, his eyes locked on the approaching marauders. He tucked the blade of his weapon, a standard issue Imperial Longsword, behind his elbow and crouched at the ready.
WHISH! WHISH! WHISH! In quick succession, Dathan had loosed three arrows. Three marauders were downed, or their horses struck, casting them into the sands. The others shouted even louder, and picked up speed.
As the raiders were within twelve feet, Without a word. Íbolín charged into the fray. Somehow, he was able to push himself up from the sand and spun. He did not get as high as he would have off of solid ground, but he was able to launch himself to the rider’s height. His sword became an extension of his being, his movements honed through countless battles. Each swing and parry was executed with deadly precision, his skill and agility allowing him to dance through the chaos. Like a vortex, he spun and danced, slicing and downing three of the riders with a few successive flips.
Nedraj's eyes stretched open, his brow furrowing in shock as he witnessed the incredible display of Íbolín's skill. His jaw dropped wide open, momentarily speechless. The mercenaries, witnessing Íbolín's prowess, felt a surge of adrenaline and determination coursing through their veins. With only a split second of respite, their morale soared as they bravely thrust their halberds into the oncoming charge.
Dathan, despite the weariness etched on his face, smiled with determination. He swiftly slung his bow over his back, freeing his hands to wield his sword and shield. His sword, a simple yet sturdy weapon, had a single emerald embedded in its hilt, glimmering with a hint of mystical energy. His shield, emblazoned with the symbol of House Alemar—an elegant crescent moon and a majestic lion—reflected his noble lineage.
As the battle waged on, Dathan's heavy Jadeiron plated armor noticably weighed him down in the sand, hindering his movements with each swing of his sword and deflecting blows from his adversaries. Despite the protective qualities of his armor, the weight and restrictive nature of the Jadeiron plates proved to be a double-edged sword.
In the heat of the chaotic skirmish, Íbolín's keen eyes briefly caught sight of Dathan's momentary vulnerability. His instincts kicked in, a flicker of concern coursing through him amidst the flurry of battle. "Dathan!" he called out, his voice cutting through the clash of steel. It was a momentary pause, a fleeting break in the relentless fight, as Íbolín's attention turned to his comrade.
Dathan, momentarily caught off balance by the weight of his armor, stumbled slightly, leaving an opening for an enemy's strike. A marauder seized the opportunity, delivering a swift blow that grazed Dathan's side, drawing a sharp gasp of pain from him. The impact sent him staggering backward, his movements momentarily slowed as he gritted his teeth, fighting through the pain.
Íbolín, his senses sharp and his reflexes honed, sprang into action. With a swift and precise movement, he parried an incoming attack aimed at Dathan, deflecting the marauder's blade away. In that fleeting moment, Íbolín's eyes locked with Dathan's, silently asking if he needed assistance.
Dathan, despite the pain coursing through him, shook his head, determination etched on his face. He knew he couldn't afford to falter now. With a grimace, he regained his footing, readjusting his stance, and renewed his focus on the battle at hand.
Íbolín, acknowledging Dathan's resolve, nodded in understanding. He swiftly reengaged in the fight, his movements seamless and calculated, providing support to his wounded comrade. The battle raged on, the clash of weapons and cries of combatants, becoming a cacophany of chaos.
The clash of steel filled the air, mingling with shouts of defiance and pain. The desert sands became a battleground, each grain witnessing the struggle for survival. All of the fighters, aside from Íbolín and the marauders, struggled to find their footing. Still, the mercenaries, frustrated and emboldened by the display of Íbolín’s awesome skill, fought with an increased ferocity.
The marauders, undeterred by the caravan's resistance, fought back with equal ferocity. Their blades slashed through the air, aiming to strike down their adversaries. Yet Íbolín's experience proved to be a formidable defense, his swordsmanship cutting through their ranks. Not a single blow or arrow could touch him, but there were a few close calls, as the sand had slowed him.
Íbolín's body moved with a fluid grace, his sword becoming an extension of his will. His strikes were precise and deadly, each swing finding its mark with lethal accuracy. The marauders, caught off guard by his prowess, faltered in their advance, their confidence was beginning to waver with each fallen comrade.
Dathan, Kite Shield in one hand and Longsword in the other, fought slowly but with ruthless, precise blows. One slash, even if it did not pierce the enemy’s armor, was enough to send a full grown Len to the ground, gasping for air. The emerald embedded in his sword's hilt seemed to glimmer with a radiant energy, empowering his strikes. His shield became a formidable barrier, deflecting incoming blows with practiced ease.
The mercenaries clashed the raider’s scimitars with their polearms, the clash of steel ringing out for what felt like miles. They fought with unwavering resolve, their unity and discipline evident in their coordinated movements.
Amidst the chaos, the desert sands shifted, kicking up whirlwinds that obscured vision and added an additional layer of challenge to the skirmish. The blistering heat intensified, causing sweat to trickle down their brows, but none faltered. The stakes were high, and failure was not an option.
As the battle raged on, Íbolín seemed to move with an otherworldly grace. He evaded strikes with a dancer's elegance, his body contorting and weaving through the melee. His strikes were swift and deadly, leaving a trail of fallen marauders in his wake. Soon, there was only one.
Íbolín curled behind him, wrapped one arm around him and placed the blade in his free hand to his neck.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Nedraj, seeing that the battle had all but ended, rushed over to Íbolín.
“What do you want.” Nedraj demanded in the Nur language, pressing his own dagger into the raider’s chest. The marauder gasped for air as he tried to wiggle his fingers between Íbolín’s arm to help free his breathing.
Íbolín, realizing he was struggling but could sense he knew it was over, released, and kicked behind his kneecap, which caused him to groan and hit the ground, disarming him.
“What do you want, thieving scum!” Nedraj contined, pressing the blade enough to break a little skin beneath his enemy’s armor.
“We were traveling to the Den of Glory and Excellence… because we heard that… a company of foreigners… had been found inside it’s gates.”
“And?”
The marauder gasped for breath, his body weakened and defeated. Nedraj's blade pressed against his chest, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. Íbolín stood nearby, his gaze sharp and calculating, observing the situation with a quiet intensity.
"And... we thought you had already plundered the den," the marauder managed to gasp out, his voice strained.
Íbolín's expression remained impassive, his eyes revealing nothing. He exchanged a brief glance with Dathan.
"How many more are coming," Íbolín responded calmly. Nedraj felt a tinge of panic, and then translated.
“I-I don’t know… some...” The marauder said, Nedraj relaying the message in Fioran.
“Some, what?” Said Íbolín, his voice now sharp.
“Some… left the country…. .”
“Why?” Said Íbolín.
“T-they were afraid.”
“Of. What.”
“Of you. The Hellflayer. Others… your Empire…”
The Marauder panted.
Íbolín’s eyes widened. He then shook him, causing him to groan.
“And how do you figure I’m the Hellflayer?”
The marauder slowly and weakly raised his hand and pointed it to the carnage that now stained the dunes. A mix of horses, armor, and humanity lay in the Flamestar's gaze.
Íbolín looked down at his person, there were no cuts made, nothing visible but his many scars. Not even a single thread of his garb was damaged in the attack.
“You’re brave then. If you knew and decided to test me.” said Íbolín.
The marauder was beginning to fade.
“We… we thought the sands… would save us…”
Íbolín shook the marauder once more.
“How many more are coming.”
He was dead.
Dathan stood with his arms crossed, chewing on mint leaves.
“Well. It appears word does travel fast in Nur.” He said.
“Voices carry between these canyons, they say.”
“That should be it, right, Hellflayer?” Nedraj asked.
Íbolín cleaned his sword and sheathed it, and adjusted his Ishran robe. Sweat was collecting in pockets.
“Not likely.” He said. “But these raiders are the least of our worries.”
Nedraj swallowed and shook his face to restore his jovial countenance.
“Y-you certainly are who you say you are, Lord Ithandacar.”
Íbolín turned to him slowly. His dark hair was blowing over his scarred face in the slight and gentle breeze. His emerald eyes pierced Nedraj as they met one another.
“It appears you were right, Prince.”
Nedraj was tickled. “Oh?”
“What you said in Nur-Surra. This confirms it. The hounds of the Empire are moving in.”
Íbolín picked up the corpse and tossed it onto another, and began to create a pile.
“These len…” He said, grunting as he lifted another casualty on his shoulders. “They moved in to try and take advantage of the chaos that the Legions will bring.”
“You gathered all that from him?”
“I know thieves.”
“What do you intend to do with the dead, Hellflayer? Surely you don’t mean to burn them… we will attract even more attention to our trail.”
“The smell and carrion will too.” Said Dathan.
“Bury them!” Nedraj exclaimed.
Íbolín was amused.
“They didn’t teach you body disposal at the Madrasa of Magic?”
Nedraj’s face grew red.
“They might have mentioned it.”
“Why don’t you… make them disappear then?”
Nedraj scoffed.
“Hmm. Yes. Why can’t you?” Asked Dathan.
“Because I’m tired.”
“Ha. You’re tired?” Said Íbolín. “So am I.”
He removed his hood and wiped the sweat from his brow.
In the distance, a disheartening sight caught the caravan’s attention. Several of the Rajhi mercenaries, their spirits seemingly shattered by the relentless onslaught, had dropped their weapons and were retreating, their figures growing smaller as they made their way back towards the Crownroads.
Nedraj's eyes narrowed, a surge of anger welling up within him. He refused to accept their abandonment, their unwillingness to stand their ground in the face of adversity. His voice thundered across the battlefield, carrying a mix of frustration and authority. "H-HEY!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the chaos. He cupped his hands over his mouth, amplifying his words. "WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING!"
“There will be more.” Said Íbolín. “Let them. To be honest, they are actually slowing us down.”
Nedraj turned over and bent down, hanging his arms over his knee.
“You don’t understand!! Do you realize how much I paid them!?”
Íbolín, smiled, cinching up more bodies.
“They will go back and alert the authorities! The Legions, Hellflayer!”
“The legions are coming no matter what.” he said.
Íbolín had taken one of the downed marauder’s lances, and thrust it into the ground as deep as he possibly could.
“So.” He said. “We’re going to use that fact to our advantage.”
Íbolín began laying the fallen against the lance, and tied their wrists, binding them to it.
Nedraj looked puzzled at first… but then realized.
“You don’t mean to…”
“Make it look like an Imperial execution? Yes.” said Íbolín. “Give me another lance.”
One by one he strung all of the corpses and bound them to the plunged lances. The remaining members of the caravan were impressed by Íbolín’s wit.
“There’s one problem, Íbe.” Dathan said. “If we’re going to do this… what arrows were you planning on using? They’re Mystish, not Imperial. The untrained eye will be fooled, but if the Legions do come this way, they will pluck the arrows from their torsos and know it was a fraud. It will draw even further legions into the Alnujum.”
Íbolín nodded.
“I know. However, we could use this.”
He lifted up his sword.
“What about it?” Queried Nedraj. “One standard issue imperial sword?”
Íbolín paced and put his hand to his chin, thinking.
“Can you conjure more?” He asked, turning to Nedraj, holding up the weapon.
“I told you, I am tired.” He replied. “This damn Nur heat has finally taken its toll on me.”
Íbolín continued to pace.
Nedraj's brows furrowed as he shook his head. "I told you, I'm completely sapped of power at the moment," he replied, frustration creeping into his voice.
Íbolín's expression fell momentarily, realizing the limitations of their situation. But then, a spark of inspiration lit up his features. He turned to Dathan, who had been observing the conversation with keen interest.
"Íbolín, what if we employ another strategy?" Dathan suggested. "Instead of transforming the weapons, what if we scatter a few Fenrarii?"
Nedraj’s eyes widened as he processed the idea. "Ah, I see what you're getting at," he said, a smile forming on his lips. "The marauders will see the Fenrarii and be given to the illusion. Any legions who come here will…”
“...will know that it was not their len, but it will have them confused for awhile. Nevermind the lack of imperial arrows. We will use what we have.” Interjected Íbolín.
“But we will have to use some Fenrarii for burial rites.”
Íbolín let out the slightest sigh and smiled.
“Especially if who I think is coming with them happens to be with them.”
“And who might that be?” Nedraj asked.
“My successor.”
“Hellflayer junior, huh? Oh, happy day.” The prince quipped.
Íbolín smirked again. “Something like that. He is a big baby.”
With the plan settled, the trio set to work. Íbolín and Dathan carefully scattered imperial coins around the scene, ensuring they were strategically placed to catch the attention of anyone who stumbled upon the area. The gleam of gold and silver amidst the sand added an air of authenticity to their ruse, heightening the illusion of an imperial execution.
Once their task was complete, Íbolín stood back, surveying their handiwork. It looked as if the Marauding band had met their end by running into a legion – but as expertly as Íbolín made the site look, it still lacked the imperial effects.
“Put the Fenrarii over their eyes.”
The two looked at Nedraj who stared back wide-eyed, shaking his head.
“Uh, why are you looking at me?”
Íbolín sucked his teeth and nodded at him.
“Come on.”
Nedraj let out a groan and began digging in his robe pockets.
He leaned over and one by one placed the two Fenrarii in each of the eye sockets of the fallen.
When he had done so, Dathan and were standing slightly above on a dune overlooking the site. They had their bows drawn.
SWIFF! SWIFF! Two arrows pierced the hearts of the fallen causing the bodies to jolt slightly. They then made their way around, circling the makeshift posts, and fired again and again, until each corpse was pierced.
Íbolín looked down with satisfaction.
“Well, that will have to do.” Said Íbolín. "It's not perfect, but it will confuse new visitors to the Alnujum.
Nedraj and the few mercenaries who remained mounted their horses and camels.
“Do I have your assurance that this will be the last interruption, Hellflayer!?”
Dathan chuckled.
"He just saved your life, good Prince. An' if you think a band of marauders was trouble..."
He laughed again.
Íbolín waved Dathan off and glanced over at Nedraj, shaking his head.
“Not at all.”
“What this has taught us is that we now lack the luxury of time. We need to get to the Den, and quickly.”