Listen, oh child, listen to the names whispered on the winds, of a time of distant dreaming, of a time of sundered realms, wherein brother's hand was turned against brother and the nations raged.
Listen to the whisper of the leaves as they shook in the winds, of the name they spoke; Aedmorn, the Hunter, who walks in the grace of the Green Goddess, Storm and Thunder and Gentle Mist.
Listen to the call upon the desert wind, fierce and hot; Ivkarha of the Ra-Armal, Last and Alone, Voice of the Dead.
Listen to their deeds and trials, listen to their triumphs and tragedies. Listen then to their swordsongs.
The sands skittered across the rock-strewn wastes, beneath the shimmering haze. Winds tugged and gusted, carrying the grains aloft, to scour and scourge any that walked its endless ways. Bleak it stood, a place of craggy rises that thrust askew into a sky of pallid blue, grasping feebly upon the horizon as the winds beat at them, weathering and shaping them. Curls and drifts of sand danced their slow course across sun-beaten earth, banking upon scattered boulders before washing over them to continue their eternal trek.
No paths could be seen across the wastes, no signs of life for it was a place seemingly incompatible with even the most hardy of creatures to dwell in. And yet one walked across it, a man tall and lean and hard, face weathered, dark cloak tugged and whipped and beaten around him. Long strides he took, hood drawn up to shadow his face, to protect from the wind-driven sands, narrowed eyes as hard and deep as the darkest sapphires. With a spear tipped with brightest bronze, he walked, upon boots of soft leather, making his way unerring, unwavering deeper yet into the harsh lands before him.
Ahead rose a mesa from the desert lands, sheer rugged sides encasing it, the ridges opening before him, to reveal it standing alone before him, a solitary sentinel beneath the crimson sun. The ground fell away as he strode between the ridges, out onto salt-encrusted wilds wherein stood the mesa, sides streaked with the vibrant hues of the deserts, the rich reds and deep purples, the greys and the yellows that gave it a beauty stark to behold, one few eyes had seldom seen.
Beneath his boots the salt crystals crunched and shattered, the sound alone bar for the whispering of sands as they were dragged across the surface of the salt pans. Onward he strode never wavering, even despite the heat that mercilessly beat upon him, the sands that scourged, straight and purposeful until at least he stood at the foot of the mesa, where broken boulders had fallen and piled and drifts of sand had come to rest.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
There he stood and gazed aloft, at the wind-worn cliffs before him, with crevasses and creases upon them. A whispered sound came to him, faint heard more by instinct, an itch between his shoulders of eyes upon him. He turned to behold one standing where there had been none before, a young woman, little more than a girl, who had appeared ghost-like and near as silent from among the shattered boulders.
Low she stood, balanced upon the balls of her feet and in her hands, steadily held, a sword extended, long and silvered, pointed at the man. Dark was her hair, and her eyes, and a look both fierce and fell was upon her face. Desert robes swirled about her, ones of hues of the earth around. No fear did she exhibit.
The man twitched back his hood as he studied her, making no moves of hostile intent. In a land seemingly inhospitable life existed still, hidden and rare, clinging to a precarious existence, and this he could feel, the fragile skeins of life, yet of her, he could feel naught, for it was as if she lived not, an illusion, a phantasm, a mirage of the deserts.
It was not though, for he could see the sweat upon her brow, the pulse of veins in her neck. She lived and breathed as much as he.
“Aedmorn I am called,” said he. “I had not expected to find any in this place.”
No easing of her pose did the woman make, eyes steady and unblinking upon him. The sword wavered not, tight grip kept upon it. “So all think who would plunder the fallen of Ra-Armal,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper.
Aedmorn held up his free hand. “Nay, lady, I am no plunderer of the dead. I come to lay to rest those who are denied their eternal sleep, for foulness stalks the lands, and even here its dark fingers have crept.”
The sword tip dipped for a moment and for a moment Aedmorn caught indecision writ upon the woman's face. “You know of what I speak,” he added quietly.
The sword dropped and the woman rose back up, of a height to Aedmorn. “You speak of things that few know. A stirring has beset those resting, a disquiet that the Ra-Armal deserve not. Ivkarha am I, who alone tend the dead of the Ra-Armal.”
“Let me aid you in this, Ivkarha, for you alone shall not bear this burden.”
“Long have I done so, and longer yet will for I am the last of my people. The Ra-Armal are no more, and when I am gone their songs and memories shall fade and be forgotten.”
“Last you may be, but not forgotten shall they be,” he stated. “Come, take me to them and we shall put an end to their disquiet.”
Ivkarha returned her blade to her side. “If the swordsongs you know, you are welcome, but the journey is not easy.” She sprung away, picking her way through the scattered boulders, to stand at the feet of the cliffs, whereupon she began to climb, hands and feet seeking out purchase upon the cliff face. “Upon these sacred heights have ever the dead of the Ra-Armal been laid to rest. Follow, if you can.”