The Oasis of Broken Bones

© 2013, ANDREW WARWICK

Chapter 3 – The Hermit Unbound

Halakir lounged beneath the glow of the moon, alongside the sweet waters of the fountain with their musical splashes.  In one hand he nursed a small glass of fearsome spirits.  Despite the serene calm, he found that he could not enjoy it.  His hard face stared moodily into the fountain, a grim look upon it.  The two had gone, to their deaths he knew, and it sat not well with him.  They were not of the deserts and the tribes, but they had been good people and companions, skilled in battle and generous.  They were qaslar, those whom oaths had been sworn with.

The clatter of horse hooves came to him, of mounted men riding out of the compound.  He looked up at that, for it seemed a strange thing to him.  From the direction of the gates, one of his band came, a dark and silent shadow.

“They seek to kill them, Halakir,” the Hashalite reported.

“Who do?”

“The honourless dogs of the cities who run this place.  I overheard them after our qaslar companions had left.”

“Are you certain of this?” Halakir asked, rising up from his position.

“Most certain.  They do not wish for them to uncover the secrets of the oasis, and sent riders out after them, to make sure that the job was done.”

Halakir’s face darkened, at once both grim and joyous, and it was a terrible thing to perceive, the look of a desert raider who comes across easy prey from the cities.  “Rouse the riders, oh son of the sands.  Let us seek out our qaslar and end the perfidy of these duplicitous sons of the cities.  Let us show all what happens to those that cross the Hashala.”

The other man grinned, one that held no compassion, and he hurried off, his robes flowing around him.  Halakir strode forth, his hand stroking the hilt of the scimitar at his side.  Soon the band of riders began to spill forth from all corners of the compound where they had been resting, all with their weapons.  They made for the stables behind Halakir.  Behind them a commotion broke out, with the sounds of voice raised in argument and consternation.  The guards that remained behind were roused and came out to see what manner of event was taking place.  With many of their number away, few enough remained to deal with the Hashalites.

“What is the meaning of this?” one yelled, his eyes wide with concern as he watched the Hashalites head into the stables to collect their horses.

Halakir turned to face him.  “We leave to join our friends out there,” he replied.

The guard looked about, eyes flickering this way and that, and back to his companions who clustered tight behind him, seeking out reassurance by proximity.

“No one is to leave the compound,” the guard replied, sounding less than sure of himself.

“Is that so?” Halakir asked.  His scimitar leapt into his hand and it slashed down, splitting asunder the head of the guard.  Even as the body fell, and before the others could react, a flurry of arrows arced out, striking down the rest of the guards, leaving them littering the sandy ground.

With bows in hand, the other Hashalites led their horses out of the stables.  Halakir sprung up on his, pointing to the gates.  “Open them,” he ordered.

Two of his men leapt forward to open it, while the rest of the riders sat atop their horses, watching back towards the compound.  Merchants and their guards had spilled out at the sounds of the fighting though none appeared eager to get involved.

*****

The hooves of horses thrummed through the night, kicking up clouds of dust as the Hashalite band followed Halakir down from the hills, towards the deserts below.  Ahead, they could see the gleam of moonlight reflecting off the dust kicked up by the company of guards who had departed the compound previous to them.  The guards moved at a sedate pace, allowing the Hashalites to close with them.

Halakir stood up tall in his saddle and slashed his scimitar in the air above him.  The whistling of the scimitar was accompanied by a terrible ululating warcry that echoed through the hills.  “Take them, O Sons of the Sands!”

The guards wheeled their horses about at the thunder of hooves and the cry, their eyes widening as they watched the Hashalites come sweeping down from the hills above.  Too late were they to react, only starting to ready their shields and weapons as arrows flashed through the dark, guided home by the keen eyes and wiry arms of the desert men.  Few there were to equal the Hashalites with bow and horse, matched only by the riders of the steppes with whom they had a fierce rivalry.  Riders tumbled as the arrows sleeted unerringly to their mark, sliding from saddles to crash to the ground.

Then the two bands slammed together with reckless ferocity.

The sound of the collision rent the night’s air as horses screamed and reared while men cried out, hacking at each other with savage fury.  Steel rang and sparks danced as weapons clashed together, glowing with a silvery sheen from the moon above.  All was chaos in the dust and the dim light of the moon.  Men were thrown down from their horses, brought low by flashing blades and spears that struck like vipers.

The guards, mercenaries loyal to little more than the coin they received, unprepared for such an assault, proved little match for the desert warriors, men born and bred for battle, and with long experience with raids and plunder.  The first charge of the Hashalites tore through the guards’ ranks, scattering them in their wake.  Riders split off in all directions, the battle breaking apart into a series of individual running duels beneath the shimmering moon, of guards racing for safety while pursued by the Hashalites on their tough desert horses.  Blades sung and danced as they exchanged blows as they rode.

Few of the guard made it through and away to safety, fleeing into the night and the deserts, and an uncertain fate.  With them gone, the survivors of Halakir’s band descended upon the dead, stripping them of any values with swift, practised hands.  Free running horses were rounded up and brought back to the band.

Halakir gazed ahead, to where the oasis awaited, a dark, leprous mass clinging low to the ground.  A chill settled upon him at the sight of it, for he had been raised on the old tales of the place, of the all devouring beast that lurked there for the unwary.  It remained a place of death and dread, more so in the long hours of the night, and those thoughts warred with his duty to his oaths.

“Leave our dead for now,” he ordered.  “We will return for them later.”

So saying, he urged his horse forward, headed down to the darkness that waited expectantly for them.

*****

The cadaverous hermit stalked towards where Blade lay prone upon the ground, still rattled from having landed heavily.  The hermit held a wickedly curved knife with a serrated edge in one hand.  Set into the pommel of the knife was a blood red gem that seemed to gleam with an inner glow.  The hermit’s lips curled back in a fiendish smile while within his eyes lurked evil intent.

Blade’s fingers scratched at the ground, touching on a film of dust, as he sought to shake himself free of the effects of the blow.  He scraped together some of the dust into his hand.  In desperation, as he leapt back to his feet, he cast it towards the hermit, a sharp note whistling from his lips as he did so, a note that carried with it hints and remembrances of breezes as they swirled across fields of flowers.  The dust was picked up by a wind that sprung into being and whirled it about the hermit, gusting it at his eyes, for a moment blinding him.

Then a dark note echoed from the hermit and the dust was snatched up and cast aside, shattering Blade’s spell with a sudden finality that was a display of power unrivalled.  The hermit’s dark eyes locked upon Blade’s and he whispered another tune, one that brought to mind slithering, pale worms and other creatures of the damp, dark places of the world where the rotten mass of decaying matter gathered.  The tune wormed towards Blade, wrapping around him, while the eyes bored into his with a hypnotic intensity, all of it seeking to overwhelm his sense of self.  Sweat beaded across Blade’s brow as he sought to fight back, locked in place to the spot where he stood, calling on all of his reserves of self and song to the battle of wills.

Touches of the hermit’s minds glanced across his as they struggled, and in those moments he caught a glimpse into his opponent’s mind, a dark place of cruel edges, of the vision through his eyes, and more.  Not all that malevolent will was focused upon him, but bent elsewhere, on the beast outside, feeding it and strengthening it, guiding it with a wicked purpose.  He caught flashes of the battle that took place beyond the walls of the old temple, of Peregrine facing down the beast, and he knew that she could not defeat it, not while the hermit remained in touch with it.  Another glimpse of that sinister mind and he perceived that the focus of the power that went into the beast was through the glowing rune that hung in the air in the centre of the chamber.

Veins stood out throbbing across Blade’s brow as he strained against the power of the mind boring down upon him, his hand inching into his left sleeve.  Tearing pain accompanied the movement but he persevered until he grasped the knife that was concealed there.  He shouted a defiant roar as he pulled it out and cast it through the air, straight at the rune, almost crippling agony tearing through him as he did. The spinning blade flew true, striking the rune.  It shattered at the impact and a backdraft of power released from it swept through the room, buffeting all within.  The pressure of the hermit’s mind lessened, and during that crucial moment Blade’s sword leapt into his hand.  He lunged forward and thrust with it, driving the sword into the Hermit’s side, scoring a deep cut along it.

A hand slapped down and the hermit trapped the sword against his side.  Despite the wound, no blood seeped forth.  The eyes focused once more upon Blade and this time the full force of the hermit’s mind was turned upon him.  He felt his muscles lock up and his mind rocked by the full force of that will.  His sword tumbled from his grasp to clatter to the ground.

A sinister smile twisted across the hermit’s face as once more he approached Blade.

“A commendable effort,” came a voice from the man, one that sounded dead and dusty, “But futile.  First you will die and then your friend will.  Even without my aid, my pet is more than a match for you.”

*****

Trees groaned and snapped, their remains toppling over as the terrible beast crashed through them in its furious charge, intent on getting a hold of Peregrine.  Each charge was met by her dodging aside, weaving her way back further through the trees about the oasis.

Time and again her strikes danced towards the beast, only to glance from its iron hide, leaving nary a scratch behind.  It guarded its eyes warily from her razor sharp spear so that no attacks upon them came near to striking home.  Snaps of the beast’s terrible maw had come close to grasping her on a number of occasions.  She knew that unless the current situation changed soon then it would not be long before those jaws closed upon her and she was brought down, fighting and scraping the whole time.  For her surrender was not an option, nor even a consideration, even if she faced off against one who would accept it.

The last of the trees behind her gave out as she stepped back, emerging once more out into the moonlit lands of the deserts.  As she did so, she caught the sound of the thunder of hooves echoing, of horsemen growing near.  She could not turn to face them and see who they were, as that would mean turning away from the beast and allowing it to grasp her in its jaws.

Given vent to a sudden shout, she charged at the beast, making as if to drive her spear home towards its head.  The crocodilian beast reacted as she expected, its maw opening wide to snap at her spear and sunder it.  At the last moment, instead of thrusting it home, she leapt high, using the snout of the beast to give her added lift.  Landing upon its back, she ran on down its considerable length, using her spear to balance herself against unsteady footing.

The beast thrashed about upon the feel of foreign foot on its back and Peregrine was forced to jump clear.  She landed lightly and span about, facing off once more against the beast.  Beyond, she could see the horsemen approach.

They were hard to make out in the dust that they kicked up and in the pale moonlight, though they bore all the appearances of Hashalite riders, their scimitars and spear tips glinting with cold, silvery light.

The beast lurched around to get at its prey once more as the riders spread outwards in an arc.  As they came in closer, arrows began to sleet through the air from the flanks, slamming into the side of the beast.  To Peregrine’s surprise, they struck home, punching through the hide.  The beast growled in irritation, the sound of it reverberating out across the sands.

Then one horseman came thundering out of the pack, a spear in hand, levelled towards the beast.  With the full momentum of his charging mount behind him, he drove the spear home, just behind the beast’s head.  The shaft shattered on impact, leaving the spearhead lodged in the wound.  The horse leapt up and over the beast and continued on the other side before the rider reined it in, scrambling for his scimitar even as he did.

Blade must have been successful in his endeavours in the old ruins, Peregrine concluded, for the beast now to be vulnerable to the strike of weapons when before it had been impervious.  With another loud cry, she charged the beast once more, her spear aimed for the beast.  It rose up to meet her and, with all the strength that her hardened thews could muster, she drove it into the gaping maw of the beast.  The tip struck deep, up through the open mouth and drove on into the brain.  For a moment the beast remained standing, thrashing about in pain, before death finally took it and it collapsed to the ground.

As Peregrine ripped the spear free, the Hashalite rider approached.  Halakir’s teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

“An impressive beast,” he stated, looking down at the monstrous crocodile, “Yet one too easily slain to match the legends around it.”  He turned to watch the rest of his riders close in.  “Where is your friend?”

“He is at the old temple, alongside the oasis,” Peregrine told him.  “He was checking out another matter, one I feel is linked to the slaying of the beast.  We should see what he has discovered.”  She gave him an intent, questioning stare.  “What brings you out here at this time of night?”

“Just out for a ride,” Halakir replied innocently, though his broad smile spoke otherwise.

Peregrine laughed as she started out for the temple.

*****

Blade watched as the hermit made his way closer, unable to transfer his gaze even if he wished to.  A nameless dread filled him at the sight of the knife the hermit held.  It promised more than mere death in its wicked edge.  The hermit raised it and tested the edge with his thumb.  A malevolent smile played across his face as he did so.

“Your death will provide the focus needed to rebuild our undertakings here,” he promised, “Your blood the fuel for our magic.  It will not be an easy death,” he added, “For the rituals are long.”

With his free hand he took a hold of Blade and effortlessly lifted him from his feet, as if he was little more than a bundle of rags.  Carrying him across to where the rune had once hung, he laid the paralysed Blade out upon the ground, eyes staring at the ceiling above.  The hermit took up dust from the ground and around Blade began to trace complex patterns with it, letting it flow out from his hand.  Blade could not see what it was that the Hermit was forming, but he could feel it, an oppressive building up of energies that set his skin to crawling, the feeling akin to a mass of ants swarming over every inch of him, even his eyeballs.  His chest felt constricted by a heavy weight, causing breathing to come hard.  His mind fought against the constant overbearing will of the hermit’s, seeking to find a way through it, to break free.  Each attempt was contemptuously crushed.

It took some time for the hermit to complete his preparations but finally he stood above Blade, raising the knife on high.

“And now you die,” he announced, his eyes flashing with evil intent.

“That isn’t going to happen,” a grim voice retorted.  Though he could not yet see her, he knew that Peregrine had arrived, and while a part of him was relieved at it, another feared for her safety against the monster in human form who stood above him.

The hermit’s face was suffused with a moment of shock at her words, followed by white-hot incandescent rage.  Then the rage was gone, replaced by his normal, malevolent expression.

Blade watched as the knife began to descend towards him, a downward plunge towards his chest.  A heavy broadsword swept up in response, taking the hermit at the wrist, sending the hand gripping the knife flying.  Despite the severity of the wound, no blood flowed from it.

A curse so virulent snarled from the hermit that the chamber rocked at the force of it.  He clutched at his handless arm, his eyes narrowing in hate.  Peregrine stepped across Blade to interpose herself between him and the hermit, crouched in a fighting stance, her sword held steady before her.

Blade felt the mind grip upon him lessen as the hermit’s attention turned elsewhere, to Peregrine and the wound he had taken.  Bringing all of his focus to the fore, he sent it lancing through the enshrouding fog.  For a time the grip resisted his efforts, but the hermit’s effort lessened as another came towards him, Halakir with his whispering scimitar.  The paralysis that lay upon him shattered under the pressure of Blade’s efforts and the encroachment of Peregrine and Halakir, requiring the hermit to split his attention.

The hermit stepped back and snarled out a harsh tune, the sound scourging across them like the crack of a whip.  In response, the dust that lay scattered across the ground erupted and began swirling around, driving at their faces and blinding their vision.  

Blade scrambled back up to his feet, holding a hand before his face to shield him from the driven dust.  He tried to whistle up a tune with which to contest the winds called by the hermit but the will behind it was too strong to overcome.  All that could be done was to await until the spell had ended and in the meantime to survive the assault.

Out in the dust he heard Peregrine growl, as well as the sweep of her sword as she lashed out blindly to her fore, seeking to bring down the hermit, to no avail.

Then the winds dropped away and the dust settled back to the ground.  Of the hermit there was no sign bar an opening at the rear of the chamber that had previously been concealed into the stonework.

Peregrine took off at a run, plunging into the opening.  Blade snatched up his rapier as Halakir quickly ordered his men to head back out and seek out the hermit should he have emerged out in the oasis.  Only then did the two men follow after Peregrine into the dark.

Peregrine pounded on down the tunnel, intent only on reaching the fleeing hermit ahead.  She could make out a baleful red light bobbling along and the shadowy outline of the hermit as he fled.  The darkened tunnels were cramped, forcing her to run in part at a crouch.  Whether they were naturally formed or man made she could not tell.

The dark and the confines did not trouble her overly, though the manner of the one she chased did give her moments of pause.  He did not bleed as a mortal man should, which begged as to how he could be killed.  Peregrine knew of only one way to deal with the matter though, to attack him until he was done and could fight no more.

Slowly at first, but then more rapidly as the hermit tired, she gained ground, coming close enough to hear his laboured breathing.  Then the light disappeared up as the hermit clambered some rough cut stairs.  Peregrine surged up them and into a small cave set at the base of the broken hills.  A narrow entrance shrouded in coarse bushes led out.  The bushes were still shaking from the passage of the hermit out through them.  Peregrine pushed on through, ignoring the minor scratches they left upon her limbs, to emerge out beneath the moon, the deserts spread before her.

The hermit still ran, making his way further up the slope of the hill.  Small rocks and dust were dislodged by his scrambling feet, sliding back down towards Peregrine.

“Turn and face me, cur,” Peregrine snarled, her voice cutting through the still air of the night.

The hermit stopped and turned, looking down towards Peregrine, holding his handless arm close to his chest.  His eyes gleamed in the moonlight, reflecting hate and rage.  He took a few steps towards Peregrine and his will bore down on hers.  Whereas Blade had been a product of the cities, and had dabbled in the mysteries of magic, all of which had left him vulnerable to such attacks, she was of the wild Aedring, who above all valued their freedom.  A thousand generations of fierce Aedring independence rose up in her to meet the assault, coupled with her own indomitable stubbornness.  Her jaw clenched hard as she battled against the effort to cloud her mind and will.  The two stood still, locked in a struggle for dominance of Peregrine’s mind, unmoving beneath the silvery sheen of the moon.

The whistle of an arrow in flight broke the silence.  The hermit staggered back as a shaft appeared in his chest, followed moments later by a second.  A shout sounded from nearby as a pair of Hashalite bowmen notched fresh arrows to their bows.  The hermit’s assault broke and he turned to flee once more.  He staggered as two more arrows lanced through the night to strike him in the back.  He continued his climb as other arrows were sent his direction with the unerring accuracy that the Hashalites were renowned for.

Then the hermit pitched forward onto the slope, his back feathered with shafts.  Peregrine approached cautiously, ready for any ruse that the hermit may have been playing.  As she neared, she saw a pool of blood forming around the fallen body, streaming from the arrow wounds and the stump of his arm.  She prodded at the body with her sword.  There was no reaction to it.

Blade and Halakir emerged from out of the cave, joined by the two Hashalite archers.  They made their way up to where Peregrine stood over the body of the slain hermit.

“He is dead,” Peregrine told them, “Though he did not die easily.”

“His type never do,” Halakir replied.  “At least now the oasis is free from his grasp.”

“Aye, that it is,” Peregrine said, sheathing her sword.  “What will you do now?” she asked of Halakir.

Halakir smiled, a dark smile.  “Now we return to the caravanserai to take what is rightfully ours, and whatever those vultures have left behind.  There are no guards left to defend it.”

“And after that?”

Halakir waved a hand out towards the oasis.  “We shall bring the tribe here and settle.  With the compound in the hills and the oasis below, we shall grow rich and strong.”

“And be a target for it,” Blade pointed out.

“It is ever so,” Halakir replied with the fatalism typical of the Hashala.  “It may be that a stronger tribe shall come one day and drive us out, but until then we shall fight to hold what we have taken.  The strong take what they want and the weak must bow to that.  It is the way of the deserts and always will be.”

The End