(55) Titan

A wind swept over the dunes, sending sand rippling, the dune crests flowing like waves. The dunes gradually receded as the sand blew past a stretch of low hills of parched, cracked soil. Small shrubs of browns and grays dotted the hillsides, the only evidence of life in the inhospitable, which boiled under even the setting sun.

Suddenly, a burst of sand shot from amidst the dunes, shooting up into the sky like a geyser. The sound of screams carried on the wind, muffled by the shifting of sand in the shockwave.

“Take out his legs!”

“He’s not even bleeding!”

“My arrows are just bouncing off!”

“Don’t let him get close!”

A small camp sat in a valley between dunes, completely obscured from sight. The valley was cast in heavy shadows as the sun neared the horizon, but dust swirled amid a chaotic melee.

Tents of animal hides were sent flying as shockwaves disturbed the sand below. Men and women with weapons ran toward the dust cloud, while others with children and supplies ran the other direction. They mounted strange sailing boats that seemed to glide atop the sand, a bone fin spearing the desert floor to steer like a rudder.

“The civilians are away! Pull back—” a man shouted, but suddenly his head was gone, the broken haft of an ax burying itself into the sand behind him. Others nearby turned and fled, as if afraid the haft would dislodge itself and pursue them.

A woman stood on a raised platform of bone, her feet planted firmly, her stance confident. Her brown eyes seemed to glow red in the fading sunlight, and her flowing white clothing drew the eye. Her alabaster platform caught the light from the setting sun as the greatsword resting on her shoulder reflected it downward.

“Chief! We gotta go, while we have the chance!” a man shouted, running out of the dust cloud, blood dripping from his head, trailing down past his eye.

The woman shrugged her enormous black braid over her shoulder, motioning for the man to leave.

“You gotta come, Chief! I’m not leaving you—” the man started, but a pointed glare from the woman shut him down. With a gulp and a, “Good luck, Chief,” the man scaled the dune, heading after the sand sailors.

The sounds of combat eventually died down, and a silence descended on the valley. Men in shining metal armor, though marred by the conflict, emerged from the dust as it settled, staring at the woman as they approached. They formed a circle around her dais, yet she did not move.

When the dust finally settled fully, there stood a man at least seven feet tall. He wore no armor, merely a loose-fitting white tunic, belted into sturdy leather pants. He was covered in blood, yet he bore no wounds. He turned and matched the woman’s stare, his fierce green eyes burrowing into hers.

He approached with measured steps, never doubting his footing for an instant, despite the blood-soaked sand he trod.

The woman stepped down from her plinth, leveling her greatsword at the man, her intention clear.

The man stopped feet from her, just outside the reach of her blade, and nodded at the armored men. They, one and all, stepped back, clearing an arena for the two, who continued to stare at each other.

“Leita Blackfoot, Chief of the Fleetfoot clan,” the woman suddenly bellowed, her basso seeming to shake the sand.

“Lyron, Captain of Prykos Squad,” the giant responded.

The two continued to stare before, as if some unseen signal had gone off, they nodded to each other.

A puff of sand was all that remained where Leita had just stood. She appeared before Lyron with the opposite of a flash: a darkness that seemed to draw what little light remained in. She hefted her greatsword and swung at his middle, her blade striking with a mighty thud!

In an instant, she vanished again, seeming to slip into the shadows, as if they obeyed her command. She reappeared behind the man, this time leaping and smashing his head with the flat of her blade on her descent.

Frump! Wham! Frump! Wham!

Leita vanished and appeared on all sides of the man, smashing and slashing and stabbing, yet Lyron never moved. He did not so much as look at his opponent. Even the sand below him contained only two footprints: those he was currently standing in.

After a mere four seconds, Leita had scored her seventh successful strike, yet the man was unmarked, and her hands throbbed and shook, as if she were striking steel.

On her eighth strike, she appeared directly before Lyron, intending to stab at his core.

Lyron finally moved.

Faster than she could perceive, he gripped the tip of her blade and, with a single hand, broke the point off. She recoiled back, but before she could even finish her stumble, before her eyes could finish widening, he pressed the point into her chest with two fingers, driving it straight into her heart.

Just two fingers.

Leita collapsed to her knees, her broken sword hitting the sand with a dull thud. She fell forward, but before her face could hit the ground, two thick hands grabbed her shoulders and gently laid her on her back.

Leita stared up at the stars glowing overhead, the view marred only by the square jaw of her opponent, who stared down at her.

“Let the gods witness Leita Blackfoot’s final moments, and let them see that she died well,” Leita declared, her shaking fist raised to the sky, her chuckle deteriorating into a strangled gurgle as the life fled her eyes.

Lyron covered her face with a hand nearly as large as her head and closed her eyes, laying her carefully onto the ground. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, allowing a silence to fall for several long seconds.

Finally standing, he surveyed the valley before bellowing a command.

“We are finished. Leave the dead where they lie. Their desert will bury them better than we. Come.”

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The soldiers sheathed their weapons and ascended the steep dunes carefully, none desiring a slide down into the pit of bloody sand below.

“Uh, Captain?” one of the soldiers called, motioning to the east.

In the desolate hills, thin trails of smoke, undoubtedly from several campfires, climbed into the sky. The faint sounds of howls drifted toward them on the wind. The soldiers all looked at each other, each understanding what the scavengers would want with a weakened tribe absent its warriors.

Lyron stared for a few seconds before he began his march back home, calling over his shoulder.

“They refused our rule. Our protection. What is more, they have attacked our merchant caravans, who only desire peaceful passage through these lands. That we spared their civilians is mercy enough. What happens after is not our concern.

“We march home.”

————————————————

Lyron opened the door carefully, making sure to push with only the exact force required, lest he push it off its hinges—again. Inside, the living room was exactly as he left it, no foul smell or concerned neighbors.

He sighed in relief, though he always told himself his concern was foolish. As long as the healers were around, it would not happen while he was away on a mission.