Their pursuer, a man named Rak, sailed along the sand dunes, his small sled gliding in the undisturbed sand just beside the tracks left by his quarry. They’d passed over the crest of a dune and out of sight. He was not worried, however. Their tailwind was already sweeping him along, pulling him closer to them. If they managed to out run him, where would they go? There was nothing but sand and rock this far out. Their tracks would make them easy to follow and they’d have to stop for rest eventually.
As the man grew closer, his prey would be able to see him better. His skin was a deep red, common among followers of Ruma, god of earth. Not that Rak held allegiance to any god. People often assumed so based on a person’s physical features but he was one of the many exceptions. While his skin did not accurately portray his affiliations it did match the color of the sands and allow him to hide easily amongst the mesas and dunes. The right side of his body was decorated in dark green tattoos and whitescars. The tattoos included the symbol of a storm spiraling out from his shoulder. These lines wrapped to his forearm where runes of the wind goddess were crudely written. One might incorrectly assume that he held some allegiance to this goddess. The scars were cut into his arm, chest, and face. One particularly nasty one went from his cheek all the way up through his eyebrow, crossing an empty eye socket. He was plainly clothed in black sackcloth pants that had somehow resisted the bleaching effects of the sun. A golden hoop hung from his left ear as if adorning the unmarked side of his face. His hair had been shaved recently, his head gleaming in the low sun's light.
The scarred man reached the crest of the dune, another throwing knife at the ready. However, the wagon was nowhere to be found. This surprising turn of events displeased himbut he continued to sail beside the twin wheel tracks while he analyzed the situation. The tracks ended inexplicably down below in the small valley between dunes.
As he sailed to the unusual end of the tracks he smirked. Once the initial surprise began to dissipate he realized he was moving into a poorly crafted trap. At the last moment he turned and moved away from the end of the tracks. The pallet sail came to a skidding halt and the sail was dropped. It kicked up a cloud of sand that drifted with the remainder of the wind.
The sun worshiper was to be commended. The invisibility spell was nearly perfect. Normally the young ones were still learning to bend light and craft illusions. They could hide things well enough, but a keen eye could find wavering at the edges of the prayer that gave it away. As the scarred man squatted down, he leaned to the left and right in an attempt to see through it. There was almost none of the distinct shimmering in the air that he often associated with mirages. Just a little around the tracks where the wheels were sure to be digging into the sand.
"I thought that boy with the big book was a sun worshiper,” the scarred man said with a knowing smirk. “He’s smart enough to hide himself and his wagon.”
The lazy breeze that continued to blow through the desert shifted and began to swirl around the scarred man. His tattoos glowed, giving off a faint green luminescence that was visible in the dim light of the setting sun. This low green light seemed to seep into his veins, making them visible underneath the skin. The air began to coalesce in his palm, compacting so much that it became visible. It looked as if he was holding a mirage himself though this one was spherical in shape. He lifted his hand and looked at the miniature storm held within it with admiration.
“Too bad he’s too stupid to hide the wheel ruts,” he said and his grin turned into a devious smile. His legs spread in the sand, widening his stance and bracing himself as he lifted the hand. The wind in his grasp was picking up sand now, becoming a visible vortex.
“Now die!” he screamed. The orb in his hand exploded forward, picking up sand and becoming a raging beam of destructive wind like a horizontal tornado but much more cylindrical in shape. The rampant destruction that followed was always his favorite part. He listened intently while his single eye looked intently . There were always such lovely sounds when he got to release a storm: breaking wood, twisting bodies, and frightened screams. A shiver of anticipation ran through him.
But the sounds never came. In their place was the unsatisfying whisper of sand being blown away. The wind carved a long ditch of displaced sand in front of him. As the energy dissipated there was the soft sound of sand settling from the air. The delighted look melted from his face and was replaced with anger. There was nothing there. Had he missed? The end of the tracks had been erased by the trench he had carved into the desert. No, his attack had been accurate. That meant…
“It’s a trap!” he spat angrily. His green eye darted to each side, looking for the coming attack. His ears strained, listening for some sound that might give away their position. The thudding of his heart in his ears was all he heard at first. Then he was able to pick out the soft, rapid shifts of sand to his left, many yards in front of where he thought the wagon had been. He turned to face them and saw footprints appearing in the sand. By their size and spread he thought perhaps they belonged to the younger man from the wagon.
His racing mind knew this could be a second part of the trap set for him. The steps might be a second distraction or even an attempt to drive him into moving. Regardless, he could only react to what he knew. Someone was approaching him quickly. He stepped back carefully, trying to once again gather a new storm into his palm. The air whipped around him as he prepared. His eye focused down as each new step appeared closer to him. His attacker was moving quickly, but not quite running. Then they stopped, two parallel footprints appearing in the sand far beyond his reach. New prints appeared but not from feet. Two circular marks and then two shaped like hands. Had his attacker fallen?
Rak brought his hand up, struggling against the pull of the storm that was forming in his palm. He would attack them while they were down. Then he would just have to worry about the other one. Before he could release the gathered air, however, the space between the handprints began to glow as if aflame. For a split second the invisibility illusion faltered and he saw a sheet of paper with a circular set of runes. The paper flickered and then exploded with a flash. There was no sound to accompany such an explosion, just light. It filled his vision with hot, white pain. It seared his skin as if he was standing directly beneath the sun itself. Crying out with pain, he lost his focus and the compressed air in his hand exploded, carving a few new cuts into his palm and forearm as the wind was not properly directed away. He fell onto his back and clutched at his one remaining eye with his left hand. His other hand cradled itself to his chest, slowly smearing his red skin with blood as he squirmed in the sand and spat curses into the sky.
The illusion around Desh began to flake away like burning paper. Patches of the light gods concealing cloak peeled away from him, slowly revealing his kneeling form and smirking face. The pieces of the cloak were invisible but the edges burned with a golden fire as they floated upward and burnt up. The prayer likewise began to shed from the wagon and its captain, both of which were many paces ahead of where they had appeared to have stopped.
The plan had worked. Desh had hidden them all from view with a prayer, and purposefully crafted the illusion so that the wagon’s heavy wheel prints appeared behind them. Once their attacker had expended his energy attacking the illusion, Desh had used a second prayer to blind and incapacitate him. He was proud of the flawless execution and it showed in his beaming smile. As he stood up he dusted his hands off. The flash had no impact on his dark skin or golden eyes. Deep in his mind, he felt a warm stir of approval well up from a part of him that he was actively trying to locked away. That quiet voice was congratulatory but also cautious. It warned him that the danger was not over yet.
The captain had hidden behind the wagon to protect himself from the flash. Now he came out with a crossbow to his shoulder and aimed it at their attacker while he walked towards Desh. His body was finishing its own return to visibility.
"Don't worry," Desh said confidently to the man writhing in the sand before him. "Your vision will return, for your good eye at least." He tried in vain to hold back a smirk. The words hadn't been intended as a joke or an insult. It was hard to remain composed, however. The thrill of surviving mixed with the pride of being able to deceive the potential predator. The feelings filled him with unexpected glee.
Rak looked at him with murder in his one good eye. The pupil was a small but widening pin prick of darkness in the green of the eye. His gaze fell directly on Desh as if he knew the boy was responsible for his shameful defeat. "I wonder if you'll still be smiling after I kill you." The tone of his voice portrayed his own opinion: That he was still going to win and this trap was nothing more than a temporary set back to him.
In response, the captain raised his crossbow and leveled it at Rak's face. "A man's last words should be asking for forgiveness."
Rak and the captain stared at each other for a moment. There was a tension between them, and if it broke it was likely to end with one of them dead. The sound of the captain's leather gloves tightening around the smooth wooden handle of the crossbow was audible in the quiet. Rak's scowl faded and was replaced with a smile full of sharp teeth. Desh thought it looked like the smile of a predatory animal.
"Fine. How about these last words?" Rak said as he slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position facing Desh. Both hands were held up in a sign of subservience, wrists up and palms open. "I admit my guilt and surrender."
The captain scoffed and kept his weapon pointed at Rak's face. A short bark of laughter fluffed his mustache. "Ha! As if somebody would be stupid enough to believe that." He took another step forward, prepared to end this stand off with blood.
"Wait!" Desh shouted and grabbed the crossbow, moving it so that it no longer pointed at Rak.
Incredulous, the captain looked up at Desh and scowled. Was the boy insane? Everyone knew you didn’t just grab a loaded crossbow and pull it. “What are you-” he started.
“You can’t harm him!” Desh spoke over the captain, his golden eyes were wide with concern.
“Are you daft?! This is obviously a trick!” The captains was filled with outrage. How could his passenger be so obtuse? This man was obviously trying to kill them or do something far worse.
“Attacking a man who has surrendered is immoral!” Desh protested. It was known that all Arkatuan’s were called upon by their god to show mercy to those who asked for it. It was said that lightbringers were sworn to never kill a person when they could take them as a prisoner instead. Killing was seen as a sign of weakness.
Rak knew this and had purposefully taken advantage of the younger Arkatuan’s naivete. He expected the old Auraen captain to be aware of this obvious ploy. It wasn’t mercy he was seeking but time. All he needed was a few moments to refocus his energy. Unlike the other two he didn’t need prayers or signs of faith to evoke his power. He was not a worshiper of the gods. Their strength was borrowed from deities, but his was taken by force. As the two bickered, he hid his right hand behind him and made sure to gather air slowly. The wind energy cast the faintest light, but they didn’t seem to notice.
The captain and Desh were struggling, tugging the cocked crossbow back and forth in a dangerous tug of war. “You idiot! He’s just using this as a stalling tactic!” The captain growled.
Before Desh could respond, Rak sprung into action. He twisted and pushed himself up with his left hand while his right hand came out from behind his back. In his palm was a wavering pocket of compressed air. It was smaller than before but he wasn’t trying to destroy an entire wind wagon this time. All he needed to do was take care of them.
It was too late by the time Desh noticed they were once again on the receiving end of the man’s fury. He let go of the crossbow and the captain tried to raise it. Before he could pull the trigger, the storm was unleashed on them.
There was an explosion of air. It was louder than anything Desh had ever heard before and he felt like his ear drums were going to burst. It sent him and the captain flying backwards. Their bodies tumbled in the sand like desert weeds. The captain’s head cracked against the side of the wagon and he fell to the ground lifelessly. Desh crashed into one of the wheels hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs and daze him. He knew he needed to move if he wanted to stay alive. The world was spinning and his ears were ringing. He opened his eyes and saw Rak standing triumphantly over him, now holding the captain’s crossbow. The man’s teeth were bared in something like a grotesque smile.
“Should’ve listened to the captain and killed me,” he said with a laugh. Then he brought the butt of the crossbow down across the side of Desh’s head and the world went dark.
