Zan’kir threw a log into his fireplace, breathing life into the dying embers and sending a sweltering wave of heat through his home. Night had fallen over his adoptive home, a fitting end to the progress made by the small village. This heat was the one thing that reminded him of home. The swirling maelstrom of power over the town was the only other thing that gave him a sense of nostalgia. That same maelstrom prevented long-range communication by the normal means, sending him into a flurry to find reagents.
Zan’sal padded over, cooing at her child before coming to rest near the fire.
“Ziz says he has it,” Zan’kir said, smiling.
“Assuming Ziz doesn’t know what it is,” Zan’sal mocked. She wasn’t supportive of the plan, but it was their duty. Their sacred charge. “Surely we can delay.”
“He’ll know.”
“He hasn’t found out so far.”
“That we know of.”
Zan’sal wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a slow breath. She stood, walking away without another word. Zan’kir nodded to himself, rising to find and wear his cloak. He secured his scimitar to his side and left into the oppressive humidity of the night. Most citizens of Broken Tusk were asleep by now, but as he ascended toward the quarry he heard the raucous laughter of the stoneworkers. They were a strange group among strange people.
Ziz greeted the Khahari near the edge of a ring of light, cast by a roaring bonfire. The Half-Ogre pulled him into a hug, free of suspicion and willing to share whatever liquor they were drinking.
“Doing alright there, Zan’kir?” Ziz asked.
“Quite fine, Rotgut.”
“My boys were talking,” Ziz said, withdrawing a yellow gem from his pocket. “We never took you for gem work. Did you get a new core?”
“No. The Kherite is sacred to my people,” Zan’kir said, feeding half-truths. “They say a piece of the Khahari Desert rests within every gem.”
“Ah,” Ziz said, handing over the gem. “If it’s so important, it’s yours for free.”
“Nonsense,” Zan’kir said, producing a gold coin.
Like most in Broken Tusk, Ziz was too generous. Zan’kir didn’t want fellow townspeople to think too little of him. The blood of the town might have been alchemy, but its muscles and bones were adventurers. There was plenty of coin in the swamp, and it would be irresponsible not to pay one’s dues.
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Zan’kir remained there for some time, refusing to drink but joking by the fire. The ribbons of flame, lashing out with the wild wind of the rocky hills, was too inviting to refuse. He saw the desert in those flames. Roving clans of Khahari, all moving under the desert sun with a single purpose in mind. It had been that way of eons, according to their folk stories. Unlike most people, the Khahari had a way to corroborate their creation myths. Their progenitor was still alive.
The Half-Ogres passed out long before Zan’kir tired of their festivities. He made his way back into town, passing by his home to walk the streets. Despite his confidence in the plan, there was a lingering sense of doubt that wouldn’t be so easily banished. Those same stories from his homeland, passed down through stories and songs, spoke of war. They detailed the tumultuous times that plagued the world at its creation. Once a seed was planted, it was impossible to stop the roots from spreading. Like a weed.
Zan’kir returned home after a time, admiration for the expansion this small town had experienced in such a short time. He found Zan’sal sleeping in the bedroom, too tired to stay awake for the ritual. The ritual circle was devilishly complex, but thus was the requirement to pierce the barrier in his homeland. It was an eight-sided star, a reagent in each point and the gem in the center. With a swipe of his hand, a few words, and a pulse of mana, he activated the spell.
The room was filled with the dry, oppressive heat of the desert in an instant. A ghostly face appeared, floating in the center of the star. Zan’kir panicked, smashing his forehead into the wood floor and pressing his palms flat.
“Who calls?” a voice said, washing over him like a dry wind.
“Zan’kir, my lord.”
“Ah,” the voice said. “I expected information sooner.”
“Apologies, my lord,” Zan’kir said.
“Are you giving forgiveness to the floor?” the voice said. “Look upon your patron.”
Zan’kir raised his head slowly, locking eyes with the progenitor of all Khahari. The living ancestor god of all Khahari. Khahar was striking. Even under shaggy fur, and through the distorted image of the spell, he was magnificent. Zan’kir froze for a long moment before his patron cleared his throat.
“Apologies,” Zan’kir repeated.
“Better. What have you found?”
“He lives, as you predicted,” Zan’kir said. “In the body of a Dronon.”
“Soul-sharing?” Khahar said.
“That is beyond my knowledge, oh great one,” Zan’kir said.
There was a long pause after that. Khahar remained in the center of the circle, a ghostly bust that flooded the room with yellow light.
“Theo Spencer,” Khahar said, trailing off. “You’ve done well, Zan’kir. We’ll meet soon, with any luck.”
The image cut out suddenly. The winds of the sacred desert faded in an instant, and Zan’kir was left alone near the fire, shaking. Even through the communication ritual, his power was overwhelming. It was like standing naked against a sandstorm, buffeted by the wind and scoured clean of all doubt.
At the door to the bedroom, Zan’sal stood, her eyes wide.
“He’s coming?” she asked, fear dripping in her voice. “What have you done?”
Not all Khahari believed Khahar should remain on the mortal plane. No living mortal should have that much power.