B5 – Prologue

Wind and sand blasted across the eternal dunes. A robed figure walked alone, one hand holding their hood low over their face, blocking the wind. Clearly this one was not of the dust. It was obvious from the way they walked, but to shield themselves against the sand?

Al’hakash. Forbidden.

Hunkered down in the dunes, invisible and unmoving, Hon’kaal watched and waited for the creature of flesh to draw closer. His grip tightened around the hilt of his shell-blades. Soon, they would be close enough. Soon, they would learn the price of treading on sacred ground.

“Hold, Warrior of Dust. Do not attack.”

Hon’kaal remained hidden, hands gripping tighter. What trickery was this? The intruder called out once more.

“I have permission from the Graal to be here. I seek to barter with Dust Folk of the plains. I have trade.”

Why was he even talking? There was no way he could know that Hon’kaal was here. This outsider was just another thief of the empire, here to take what they had not earned to honour their false gods.

The figure was no longer walking, instead, they stood still, shielding themselves from the cutting sands.

“Come out, or I will make you come out.”

Perhaps they did know something? Impossible; it had to be a bluff. Hon’kaal did not move. They would wait for the moment to strike.

Words of power slammed into the air, and the Dust Warrior moved on instinct, springing out of the sand and spinning through the air, blades drawing a deadly arc. Before they could draw close, the weapons slammed into a wall, and suddenly Hon’kaal was surrounded, boxed in on all sides by ethereal slabs of bone.

He spun again, blending his form with the sand and letting the wind take him, but it wasn’t quick enough. Reality warped under the force of the intruder’s will, and the Dust Warrior found themselves snatched out of the air, gripped tight in a hand of shadow and death.

No matter how he struggled, with his arms pinned to his sides, Hon’kaal was unable to free himself. After exhausting his strength, he ceased to struggle. He slumped in the grip of the spell and gave himself over to final death.

The intruder did not move to land the finishing blow.

“I have permission from the Graal,” he repeated. “I have come to trade.”

Reaching into his robes, the intruder pulled out a scroll case, and from inside they drew a piece of parchment, shielding it against the fierce winds. It was difficult for Hon’kaal to read, but he was able to see the sign of the Graal stamped on it.

“How does an outsider like you have something like that?” Hon’kaal rasped.

“Because your leader is wiser than you, and knows how to get that which is most valuable to the Dust Folk.”

“You have Crystal Magick? Or water?”

“I have knowledge.”

Once the Dust Warrior was convinced not to try and kill the outsider, it was another four hour journey over the sands before they arrived at the camp.

It was a disorienting experience for Tyron. Walking through the sandstorm, it was impossible to know left from right, and at times, one couldn’t see their own hand in front of their face, the air was so thick with sand. If he hadn’t run into the guide, Tyron may never have found the camp at all and been forced to seek shelter. As it was, he could thank his superhuman endurance that allowed him to push through conditions all but the Dust Folk considered deadly.

Sheltered by a rock spire that pierced the dunes like a spear, the camp was formed of many-layered tents, each protected by wind shields that sought to protect them from the worst of the sand. At these speeds, weak cloth would be torn to shreds by the desert. If Tyron’s cloak hadn’t been enchanted against it, his bare flesh would have been exposed and his blood would have dyed the sands for kilometres back.

When an outsider came close to the camp, the response was immediate, figures rising out of the sands to stare from behind their darkened hoods, never revealing their faces. Within the tents, people huddled down, sensing danger, or perhaps responding to some unseen signal.

“Now we will see if you live or die, kash’lani,” Hon’kaal rasped. “The Graal will determine your fate.”

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“What kind of madman would come into the lands of the Dust Folk without permission? I have no wish to die,” Tyron stated.

“A thief, or a fool.”

“It’s a poor thief who announces himself before walking into your camp.”

“A fool, then.”

“Speak with your Graal. I have no desire to aggravate your people any more than necessary.”

With a low hiss, the Dust Warrior turned away, while several others stepped up to watch over the outsider. Hon’kaal disappeared into the largest tent, only to emerge a few minutes later, anger radiating from his every step.

“You speak truly, it seems, kash’lani.”

Tyron raised a hand.

“I am not an outsider any longer. I am a guest of the Graal. Chan’lani.”

The Dust Warrior hissed once more, and Tyron shrugged. Manners were hard to come across these days. At least they didn’t impede him as he made his way toward the large tent and slipped inside.

As soon as the heavy layers fell shut behind him, the overwhelming sound of the wind quieted to almost nothing. It was dark inside, but even so, Tyron could easily make out the various human figures spread around the space, along with the leader of this camp, sat in the centre of the tent, seated on an elaborate rug, formed of concentric circles that placed the figure at the nexus.

Tyron bowed his head respectfully, approached and sat, folding his legs and placing his hands on his knees, keeping them in open view.