~ ~ ~
Cirellio pressed toward the horizon against steady blasts of heat. A bone-dryness pervaded his mouth and throat, a misery unlike any he had ever experienced. He’d read that the land beyond the rainshadows held many secrets, but as far he could see, there was only desolation: Jagged rocks, stretches of claypan, and, beyond that, an endless sea of sand.

~ THE SARCONA SANDSEA ~

Aside from his horse, Twice, he had no travelling companions. A Brennan merchant warned him of the dangers of crossing the Sarcona alone. But his fate, like all others, was tied to Grianai. The God of Fate. The Pensman.

It was said Grianai lived just above the stars, spinning the tales of mortal man. Cirellio had long accepted his inferiority to such a god. He embraced it. The sun was high and merciless, and he had just run out of water. If being alive meant his life still had a purpose, then reaching Shiira would justify his reasons for being there.

In the early evening, a dark shape emerged from the skyline, floating on waves of heat. It was mirage-like, but glints caught his eye to the southeast which could only be reflections off the surface of the Tessil River. And signs of life were springing up everywhere, from mouse-owls to sponge toads to flowering cacti.

Soon, the winds died down and the form of a massive wall revealed itself; a wall that could only belong to one of the great cities. After patting Twice on the head, he kissed the star-shaped talisman dangling around his neck and whispered a prayer of thanks. For direction. For shade. For another day of life.

The west gate was surrounded by a grand, tunnel-like archway he estimated at 100 paces high and at least as thick as it was tall. Murals of gods he’d never seen before were painted across the vaulted ceilings, supported by a bevy of wide, towering columns. Banners flew at even intervals, displaying starbursts in eight directions, and a cool, moist breeze rushed by; one he was sure Twice appreciated as well.

There were five guards stationed at the gate, all outfitted in boiled leather armor with starbursts emblazoned across their brigandines. The edges of their pikes winked in the sunlight as Cirellio approached.

And to the right, seamless with the tunnel walls, was a sandstone booth. The gatekeeper seated inside was a slender old man in shuttle-woven robes. At his back was a trough-like reservoir, built right into the wall, where clear water rushed by. He scrutinized Cirellio’s horse and saddlebags and asked him something in another language. It had to be Shiirati, one of the three languages of the Storm.

After a long silence, one of the guards said something that sounded of frustration and kicked a nearby lever.

Twice reared the instant the chase gate crashed down behind them, blocking off the exit. Cirellio gripped the hilt of his dagger, wondering if he had the strength to kill even one pikeman.

“Forgive us,” said one of the guards, “but we are suspicious of all Northlanders, you understand?” Read the rest of this entry »