Fires Upon The Sand

Author's Note: This is a sequel to my 'Drowning at Dusk' series, but features a new POV character and begins a completely new story in another part of the setting. The main characters from that series do make a return, but from a completely new perspective. So this should appeal to fans of that original series, while also being friendly to newcomers.

**

As the sun raged overhead, I followed my fellow warriors up the dune of red sand. I paused near the summit and brushed my fingers over the tracks we'd been following.

Whoever the intruders were, they'd been wearing heavy boots unsuited to the harsh environment of the Tasrayth Desert. Yet their cumbersome gear had not burdened them at all. Judging by the spacing of the footsteps, they'd been maintaining a slow and steady pace for days.

The prints were damned big, too; no elf had left such tracks. I guessed they had been left by orcs or humans. But no orcish warrior had dared violate our sacred desert since the days of their ancient empire, and the human soldiers of the nearby Commonwealth had learned the folly of trespassing during the last war. Merchants were always careful to obtain permission from our Sun-Speakers before attempting a crossing; we'd received no news of any approved caravan.

"Kiraska," growled Tavertan, the leader of our hunting party. "Keep up."

Tavertan crouched at the summit of the dune, his spear grasped tightly in his gloved hands. Our commander was dressed in our traditional garb: flowing red robes reinforced with drake-scale and rings of iron. Alongside him stood a dozen other dawn-elves, all dressed in the same red robes, which kept us safe from the oppressive heat and let us blend in with the crimson sands.

Rising, I trotted up the dune to join the others, earning glares for my brief delay.

In silence we marched down the slope. Two-headed snakes slithered along the sands. Color-shifting scorpions burst from the ground, skittering in pursuit of desert mice and wriggling centipedes. Above us circled swarms of bone-wasps: vile, milky-pale insects with razor-sharp wings that could sever a finger or rupture an eye.

The cruelty of nature was the true master of the desert, not our feuding chieftains or the wise Sun-Speakers. Whatever we were hunting was likely less dangerous than the wildlife around us.

The tracks led up another dune. A herd of red-furred goats scattered at our approach. Doubtless many would fall to scorpions or serpents by the time the day was through, and their corpses would feed the hungry scarabs that lurked beneath the sands.

In the distance, sunlight gleamed against a murky pond of water. Around it sprawled an oasis: a splash of emerald against the crimson harshness of the desert.

"They will be there," Tavertan said. "Weak outlanders will need the water of the oasis if they are to last."

"Let us pray to the Dead Sun that the water-scorpions do not claim their lives first," said a one-eared, heavily scarred warrior named Arandith. "It has been too long since we have claimed outlander blood."

Frowning, I ignored the chatter and focused my keen eyes on the distant oasis. Aside from the swaying of the trees in the desert breeze and the flitting of birds between the branches, I saw no movement. There were no pack animals or tents about, either. If the outlanders had stopped at the oasis, they'd almost certainly moved on already.

Spears and bows in hand, our little hunting party swept down the dune and approached the oasis. The tracks veered near the greenery but did not divert towards it.

"Madmen," Arandith said, nudging one of the tracks with his boot. "They marched right on past the water."

"If they were smart, perhaps they brought potions with them to fight off thirst," I said. "Or runestones to conjure their own water."

"If any outlanders had the money to afford such powerful magic, they'd have no need for anything within our desert," Tavertan said with a snort. "Let's move on."

Our silent pursuit continued. We passed by a few goats that had been felled by scorpions; blood-red scarabs feasted upon the remains. The tracks continued right past the dead animals. The fact that the outlanders had not dallied to harvest meat from the fallen beasts was also curious. Whoever they were, they had no need for local water or food.

Our hunt took us past yet another oasis, which the tracks had avoided entirely. While those mysterious outlanders had not needed to resupply there, we were parched enough from our journey that Tavertan called for us to halt.

We fanned out through the oasis, spears at the ready to ensure no dangers lurked within the shade. Scorpions skittered back underground and serpents writhed out of our path. Cursory pokes with our spears at the murky water confirmed the lack of beasts lying in wait, so we quickly refilled our water-skins.

As I waited for the others to resupply, I wandered around the edges of the oasis. A gleam caught my eye. Frowning, I knelt down and plucked a small, barbed piece of metal from the ground. Turning it over in my hands, I recognized it as an arrowhead. Rather than the magic-enhanced bone we used for our arrows, this one was made of dark metal.

And yet it could not have belonged to the outlanders we were tracking, for their footprints had not strayed near the oasis.

My brow furrowed as I searched the oasis once again. I found a strand of rope, a few discarded leather cords, and a broken piece of glass. Ignoring the confused stares of my comrades, I continued my search.

Faint tracks led from the northern edge of the oasis. They were smaller and shallower than the heavier footprints we'd been tracking. There were thus two groups of trespassers within our sacred desert.

Only two individuals, both lighter and more agile than our quarry. The tracks faded after a few dozen feet from the oasis; the sandstorm from a few nights ago had covered up any remaining trace.

"What is it, Kiraska?" asked Tavertan.

"Two more outlanders. They are ahead of the group we're tracking...perhaps the larger group was following them."

I handed him the arrowhead.

"Commonwealth military issue," Tavertan murmured, scowling down at the piece of metal. "Your father and I pulled a few of these out of our skin during the last war."

Alarm blossomed within my heart.

"Sun's wrath," I cursed. "Could they be returning for another invasion?"

"I don't see the point. They didn't leave last time just because we killed so many of them. They left because they finally realized there was nothing here worth dying for. I see no reason for them to return."

He tossed the arrowhead into the pond, then whistled for the others to resume the march.

The sands gave way to patches of dry scrub-grass and rocky hills, which made our journey easier but the tracking much more difficult. On several occasions we lost the trail, earning a flurry of foul curses from Tavertan. Each time my keen eyes managed to spot a patch of trampled grass that put us right back on the hunt.

While my eyes had been the key to keeping us on the trail, it was Arandith's nose that first caught the stench of death. He raised his hand to signal a warning and we dove to the ground, seeking cover behind jagged boulders and within patches of grass.

I hissed in alarm with the realization that I'd taken cover right next to a scorpion's den. A dark red scorpion skittered from its home, its pincers jabbing at the air, its stinger ready to deliver a swift death. Remaining perfectly still, I kept a hand on my dagger and stared at the little creature until it scurried back underground.

"No sounds, no movement," Arandith whispered. "And yet death is thick on the wind. They are close."

We crawled forward; I took greater care to avoid the snakes and scorpions. At the edge of a field of golden grass, the stench of death intensified.

The remains of our quarry were sprawled out upon the golden grass. A dozen corpses roasted in their breastplates beneath the glare of the oppressive sun. The bloat and rot made it hard to tell who exactly they had been, but judging by their tusks and muscular builds, the dead were all orcs. Whoever had killed them had not bothered to loot them, for they still clutched axes and blades in their thick, rotting hands.

Spears at the ready, we stalked through the carnage. Several of the orcs had been burned, their armor half-melted to their bodies. Oddly, the smell of burned skin was relatively fresh. Two of the corpses had fallen to crossbow bolts to their throats or eyes. I tore one free; it was a match to the arrowhead we'd found back at the oasis.

The dead also bore older wounds as well. One had a deep, bloodless gash in its neck that would have been fatal, though it had clearly been delivered well before the horrific burns covering the rest of its body.

A chill gripped my bones.

"Undead," I rasped.

Curses and prayers rippled through our hunting party. Some dawn-elves knelt, drawing sacred runes in the sand, calling upon the spirits of our ancestors and the power of the Dead Sun to protect us against such foul creatures.

The warm wind danced over me, causing my red robes to flutter. As the tattered cloaks of the corpses danced about, I noticed unusual shapes carved into the fabric. I grabbed the cloak and held it still, realizing that someone had slashed elven runes into the fabric.

The handwriting was quite atrocious and the spirals at the bottom of each glyph were not quite right for the dawn-elf language, but the meaning was clear enough.

"'Turn back,'" I read aloud.

A quick check of the other corpses confirmed that a half dozen cloaks also bore the same message.

"Fools," Arandith hissed. "These are our lands, and they see fit to tell

us

to turn back? I should carve matching runes into their accursed throats."

"You just might get the chance," I murmured, still staring down at that warning. "The burns are fresh. This battle must have happened recently."

Though the signs of a fight were obvious, we could find no tracks to lead us to the culprits. Assuming they had continued to head north, we resumed our march. As the sun neared its zenith, we sought shelter to avoid the worst of its wrath.

Our journey brought us to a massive, jagged rock jutting from the sand, which provided more than enough shade to shield us from the heat. While the others withdrew rations of bread and dried meat, I kept my eyes on the horizon. When my eyes swept back towards the rock that served as our shelter, my eyes widened at the sight of more glyphs. Another warning had been carved into the sun-ravaged stone.

"'Turn back,'" I murmured.

Who had defeated those undead and left those cryptic warnings? Why had they not simply shown themselves to offer their aid or to ask for ours?

And how many more undead creatures stalked our sacred desert?

Knowing that my own dread would prevent me from getting much rest, I volunteered to keep the first watch. Though the sun blazed out beyond the shelter offered by the shade, my comrades were soon fast asleep within their tents and cots.

Hours passed. The angry sun drifted towards the horizon. Before long, it would be cool enough to resume our trek across the open desert. Nothing moved upon the sands except the occasional serpent or scorpion. Even the fiercest beasts of that land feared the hunger of the sun.

A hissing wind kicked up gusts of red sand to the north. Shadowy shapes loped amidst the wind-tossed clouds of sand. Eyes narrowing, I reached for my bow and nocked an arrow.

I gave a low whistle to alert the others. They burst from their slumber, reaching for their weapons.

Two dozen shapes in all moved through the churning sand. Even dawn-elves like us would have had trouble staying upright within such plumes, but the outlanders continued their slow, plodding trot towards us.

Through occasional gaps in the churning sands, I caught glimpses of rotting flesh, sun-battered armor, and savage weapons. Tusks and sharp teeth jutted out from withered, dead lips.

Undead orcs, akin to the ones we'd spotted a few hours ago.

"What do we do?" Arandith hissed.

"We shall honor the Dead Sun with our spears and our wrath," Taventar hissed. With another whistle, he commanded us to raise our bows.

My arm tensed. My sweaty fingers coiled around the bowstring.

While I had fought beasts, desert raiders, and warriors from rival clans, I had never once faced down a walking corpse. All of the lessons I'd learned from years of desert warfare flitted away, replaced by a cold, raging desire to flee. To survive.

Gritting my teeth, I set my gaze upon the largest of the undead: a lumbering brute wielding a rusted greatsword. One of its eyes had rotted away and it bore two crossbow bolts in its chest, just like the ones we'd found earlier.

A sharp whistle from Taventar gave us the command to unleash our volley. Arrows hissed through the air, punching into rotting flesh and gaps in the armor. Nearly every undead orc staggered or stumbled, but only one slumped motionless to the sand.

The creatures broke into a shambling sprint, heedless of the arrows that had punched into their rotting bodies. When I pulled back on the string once more, I caught sight of another figure towards the rear of the formation: short, slender, clad in tattered red robes not unlike our own.

Assuming the figure to be the death-mage in command of those abominations, I adjusted my aim and loosed my arrow.

I couldn't help but grin with pride at the clean elegance of my shot, certain that it would punch right into the mysterious figure's throat. My grin vanished as the figure raised a hand, revealing a little black stone covered in red runes. The glyphs pulsed and the wind shifted, creating a fist of sand that batted the arrow aside.

My comrades' arrows took down a few more of the incoming creatures. The orcs loosed low, gurgling roars and sped up, their heavy boots thudding into the sand.

Over the din of those hellish sounds, my keen ears detected the scraping of something upon the rock behind me. Notching an arrow, I whirled.

Emerging over the edge of the rock was a rotted, half-skeletal tiger. Glowing white eyes glared down at me. Its mouth split into a horrific snarl, exposing dagger-like teeth. I loosed an arrow but it went wide.

The undead tiger leapt down, landing atop one of the other warriors, who had time for one quick scream before the foul beast's fangs closed around his neck. I sent an arrow into the dead tiger's flank, dropped my bow, then went for my spear.

"For the Dead Sun!" I howled, charging in just as the beast lifted its dripping fangs from its victim.

I sent my spear right into the beast's neck, punching deep. That would have killed even the fiercest sand-tiger, but that accursed beast had the strength of undeath. It lurched its head to the side, snapping my spear in half. A wild swipe of its claws would have torn through my arm had I not stepped back just in time.

My desperate hand fell to my waist; I drew a curved dagger of black steel. A few of my comrades rushed in to join me. Together we pounced like a pack of hungry jackals. Spears thrust and daggers slashed.

In moments we'd sliced through the undead beast's neck and limbs, reducing it to a twitching, rotting husk atop the corpse of our comrade. My arm ached with the effort, though I knew our fight was far from over.

Other warriors had continued to pepper the incoming orcs with arrows, but the survivors were closing in fast.

"Tavertan!" I barked, pointing up at the massive rock with my dagger. "High ground!"

Our leader jabbed a finger at me and three others, bidding us to rise with another frenzied whistle. After snatching up my bow, I broke from the formation and clambered up the rocks alongside a few others. As we ascended, the sounds of battle roared from behind us: howling war-cries, the gurgles of undead, the thud of bodies against the sand.

As my hand reached the top of the rock, a rusted boot slammed down onto my fingers. Screaming, I glanced up to see an undead orc, its body eclipsing the fiery sun. The bones of my hand crunched beneath the impact, but the horrific weight of the stomp kept me pinned and stopped me from falling. Snarling, I used my unwounded hand to tighten my grasp upon the rock's edge.

Gleaming light flashed as a blade sliced into the creature's neck from behind. Its rotting head flopped to the ground and its armored form crumpled, freeing my broken fingers. Hissing through the pain, I vaulted up to the top.

Four more undead orcs had been torn to pieces atop the rock formation. Standing in the midst of them was a tall woman in leather armor that clung to her lithe form. Wrapped around her neck and face was a veil to shield her from the sun's rage. Bright blue eyes gleamed with wrath and adrenaline. In her hands was a long, curved blade that looked similar to those in the etchings within the temples back at the village.

Slung over her back was a crossbow and upon her hip was a quiver filled with bolts just like the one we'd discovered at the oasis.

It seemed we'd found our other mysterious quarry.

One of the other dawn-elves let out a growl and lunged with his spear. The blue-eyed woman let out something akin to a laugh; pivoting, she sidestepped the thrust and used her foot to sweep his legs out from beneath him, sending him thudding onto his back.

"Focus your wrath on the dead, friend," she said, speaking the trade tongue of the Commonwealth, which I was only barely able to comprehend on account of my fear.

Stowing her blade, she readied her crossbow.

I used my uninjured hand to help my bewildered comrade to his feet. Even though a storm of confusion gripped my senses, I chose to heed the woman's words. Despite the horrific pain in my hand, I managed to raise my bow and nock an arrow.

The undead orcs had reached Tavertan and the others, but the long spears were keeping the brutes at bay for the time being. The robed mage lingered at the edge of the undead swarm, pacing back and forth as her minions clashed with the dawn-elves. Trembling, I took aim at the mage once more. Hoping the necromancer was too distracted by the fight to use that rune once again, I let loose.

The shaking of my broken fingers, however, had thrown off my aim. The arrow sank into the sand a few inches from the mage's boot. The mage glanced up; the wind rustled against the cloak, revealing a slender orcish woman, with dark red eyes and gold-painted tusks. Intricate runic tattoos covered nearly every inch of her face.

She raised her right hand, displaying a pyramidal rune-stone covered in glowing blue runes.

"Shit," the mysterious woman beside me hissed.

Her crossbow clicked, sending a bolt into the necromancer's chest. The orcish woman grunted and staggered, but the runestone went off nonetheless, sending a bolt of lightning straight into the rocks. The ground rumbled and cracked. The edge of the massive rock gave way. Two of the other dawn-elves cried out and tumbled down to the ground below.

The cracks spread; I lost my footing. The mysterious woman dropped her crossbow and grabbed my wrist, yanking me back from the rapidly-increasing fissures in the rock.

"Come on, Xelari," she hissed, eyes scanning the horizon. "Now would be a damned good time."

To the north, a great plume of fire ignited. The ground trembled as a shockwave sliced through the air, scattering sand and dust across the desert. The necromancer's head whirled to glare at the rising plume of smoke.

Despite my pain, I managed to steady my bow for another shot. A deep breath dispelled the agony in my bloody fingers. Another deep breath brought to mind the war-prayers to the Dead Sun. I emptied my mind of all thoughts save the rays of sunlight guiding my eyes towards the target.