Dragon Heart: Sea of Sand. LitRPG Wuxia Series: Book 4

by Kirill Klevanski

  Hadjar held his sword, trying to cope with the pressure of his enemy’s power. He snarled through tightly clenched teeth, but saw nothing in front of him, except sand. Maybe Coyote had already deflected the dragons and was about to counterattack, Hadjar couldn’t know for sure. He just held on. With all his might, he pushed back and refused to yield.

  Suddenly, he heard a scream. For a moment, he saw through a gap in the dense wall of sand. Coyote was fighting one of the dragons, holding the rest back using his clones. In the heat of battle, he didn’t hear one of the rocks burst. Apparently, one of Hadjar’s attacks had accidentally taken it along for the ride.

  At first, Hadjar smiled broadly at this turn of events. He was close to victory. All that remained was to wait for the rock to strike Coyote’s head. A second later, Hadjar saw a fragment of the rock come rocketing out like a shell from a cannon, launched by the pressure it had been subjected to.

  Mesmerized by the battle and trying to defend themselves from its echo, the spectators didn’t pay any attention to it. A boy was screaming, looking at the face of death rushing toward him.

  He was only five...

  “Damn it!” Hadjar growled.

  He tensed all the muscles in his body, and, ignoring the incredible pain, he summoned all of his remaining energy, but that wasn’t enough to repel the Bedouin’s attack fully. Hadjar definitely couldn’t deflect the attack and also save the boy.

  The child, eyes shut, awaited his fate. His father had told him not to get too close to the arena, but he hadn’t obeyed! He cringed, curling up into a ball and waited for the pain. Time passed. However, the pain never came. Instead, something hot dripped down onto his face.

  When the boy opened his eyes, he saw a giant in front of him, so big that it covered the sun and sky. His inhuman, blue eyes shone brightly. His mouth seemed to smile, even as trickles of blood flowed down his face.

  The giant, arms outstretched, stood over the boy. A white rock fragment protruded from his chest, and a hole made by the stinger gaped in his left side.

  “It’s okay,” the giant said in the odd Bedouin dialect. His eyes closed, but he didn’t fall. He continued to stand there, covering the frightened boy with his body.

  Chapter 287

  Hadjar had woken up in many different situations and conditions: with a hangover, by his brother’s side; with an arrow in his back, in the hospital tent of the Bear Squad; with unknown women who had been happy to sleep with the famous General; even in a pool once, surrounded by pigs. And yet, he’d never woken up like this before.

  Even before he opened his eyes, Hadjar felt pain spreading through his body. He immediately realized that if he moved even slightly, his nerves would ache as if they’d been placed in boiling water. This usually happened after severe injuries. However, this time, he wasn’t lying on the hard wooden cots of the infirmary, but drowning in something soft.

  His body was resting on something so thin and cozy that it seemed as if the gods had taken him to the Heavens and wrapped him up in clouds. He heard heartbeats and quiet sighs. The delicate aroma of perfume and incense struck his nostrils. He felt a fever somewhere below his belly. His instincts realized that Hadjar was in female company before his mind did. The soft, female bodies warmed him from all sides.

  Opening his eyes, Hadjar stared at the lilac silk hanging from the ceiling. Covered in ointments and bandages, he was lying on pillows under the blanket. The bed was large enough to accommodate nine people at once.

  One Hadjar and eight young girls. He couldn’t make out their faces as his wounds prevented him from moving. However, the shapes of their bodies, their naked, alluring breasts, thick, long hair, and complete nakedness woke him up completely.

  By the gods, Hadjar was just a young man. What he’d mistaken for pillows were actually Bedouin girls and his desire threatened to overwhelm him.

  The curtain serving as the entrance to the tent moved away and Ilmena stepped inside. Their eyes met, and then the girl’s gaze slipped down Hadjar’s torso. He wasn’t very shy, but still regretted the fact that he couldn’t move his hands to cover himself.

  “I see you feel better, Northerner,” the warrior smiled, putting a tray with different flasks on the table.

  “Cover me,” Hadjar demanded hoarsely. It was hard for him to speak.

  Ilmena picked up the blanket, went over to the bed, and... Hesitated.

  “Are all barbarians as shy as you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I feel awkward. Stop mocking me.”

  “A man who admits to feeling awkward,” Ilmena said, putting the blanket over him. “You are strange, Hadjar. Both as a man and as a warrior.”

  Without listening to Hadjar’s objections, the warrior began to wake the Bedouin girls and say something to them. The girls stretched and kneaded their bodies, which had numbed overnight. Hadjar closed his eyes. However, his imagination refused to settle down. He felt like the desert had somehow gotten much hotter.

  He waited for all of the maidens to leave the tent. He and Ilmena were now alone.

  “You can open your eyes, Northerner. They’re gone. ”

  Hadjar opened only one eye and looked around as far as his aching body would let him. This made Ilmena smile.

  “Was that a kind of local torture?” Hadjar tried to adjust the blanket but ended up just grimacing in pain. “Putting so many beautiful women in a wounded man’s bed?”

  “Beautiful women?” Ilmena glanced at him and adjusted the silk blanket with a smirk. “I was under the impression you prefer young men.”

  “In Lidus, that isn’t tolerated,” Hadjar said. “I’m a progressive person and don’t mind it. Personally, however, I prefer women.”

  “I noticed,” Ilmena nodded toward the tented part of the blanket. “As for those maidens, that wasn’t a form of torture, but a way to honor you. The Bedouins believe that a man can be cured completely from any ailment by a single medicine — female warmth.”

  “Not a bad treatment,” Hadjar admitted amusedly. “As far as I can tell, alchemists and healers aren’t popular around here.”

  “On the contrary,” Ilmena shook her head. “In Bedouin culture, there is no sin worse than offending a healer. They live like kings in the desert. It’s just that they always… add the warmth to their medicines.”

  Hadjar looked at his bandages and the flasks around him. Well, his carelessness could be explained by his recent adventures. Speaking of...

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Three days, Northerner. We thought you wouldn’t recover at first. Coyote’s stinger passed almost a hair’s breadth away from your heart. The rock fragment miraculously didn’t harm your spine. The local shaman said that the gods must have saved you because you were-”

  “Considering where I am right now,” Hadjar interrupted. “Did I save the son of the leader or that very shaman?”

  Ilmena was about to answer when the cover at the entrance was pulled aside once again. Several people entered the tent at once. Hadjar recognized only three of them: the leader of the tribe, who was still handsome, arrogant, and well-dressed, the grinning Kharad walking beside him, and the bandaged Coyote, who was leaning heavily on a crutch and dragging his right leg behind him.

  “No, Northerner,” he said, sitting down on a stool and putting his crutch on the table. “He’s the son of a simple shepherd.”

  “Who is going to marry the shaman’s or leader’s daughter soon?”

  Kharad, Coyote, and Ilmena exchanged glances and rolled their eyes.

  “The people who live in the north are strange indeed if they differentiate children based on who their parents are,” the leader suddenly said in the clear desert language. Hadjar almost choked in shock. “Don’t be surprised, warrior. I’ve lived long enough to learn the languages of the peoples who pass through my territory.”

  “But...”

  “Any ruler who speaks a foreign language during negotiations doesn’t respect their people or even themsel
ves,” the leader said sharply. “But now I’m no longer negotiating. I’ve come to visit a warrior of my tribe.”

  His tribe... Hadjar couldn’t move his body, but he was sure that he could feel a slave collar on his neck. No good deed goes unpunished…

  “Yeah,” Hadjar closed his eyes. “I lost...”

  “You northerners are truly strange,” the leader sighed. “Maybe you would have lost if you’d continued to fight, but you instead chose to sacrifice your life in order to save a child from my tribe. You voluntarily gave your life to my tribe. What kind of ruler would I be if I put a slave collar on the person who did such a thing?”

  Hadjar opened his eyes and looked at the leader. In his eyes, he saw respect. Not deep, he was still a foreigner. It was almost akin to interest, in fact, but still respect nonetheless. Something you reserved for someone you respect as a man more than a warrior.

  “You brought us a sacrifice, Northerner, and I accept it.”

  The leader went over to the bed and took a dagger out from his turban. He cut his palm and carefully put it on Hadjar’s chest.

  “From this day onward, you are of our blood, and we are of yours.”

  Chapter 288

  The leader’s gesture contained no magic. Their blood didn’t literally become one. It was simply a way to show respect and recognition. As far as the word ‘simple’ could be applied to a situation where a white strangerforeigner had been accepted into a Bedouin tribe.

  For the next three days, only Azrea stayed with Hadjar. No one else visited the tent except a silent healer who changed his bandages. He was an old man, dressed as expensively as the leader. Gradually, Hadjar got better. He even started regretting that those young women weren’t coming to warm him up anymore.

  The following day, Coyote brought him some crutches and shook his hand. He helped Hadjar get out of bed, put on a light caftan, and stand on the crutches, which were more akin to two wooden sticks wrapped in rags.

  Using them, Hadjar left the tent. His long hair, falling across his shoulders, was caressed by a cheerful, cool wind. Night descended on the Dead Mountains. The stars lit up the sky, and a full moon shone. In the desert, it looked unusually large and almost frighteningly close to them.

  Coyote walked at Hadjar’s side. He’d recovered much faster — the difference between a practitioner and a true cultivator at work. The latter’s ability to regenerate was clearly beyond Hadjar’s current capabilities.

  The Bedouins were clearly preparing for a celebration. Everywhere he looked, there were clay pots with candles inside them. Hadjar didn’t know why, but their lights were multicolored. The smell of fried meat and seasoning drove him crazy. The people danced and laughed. Half-naked girls spun to rhythmic music and young men played the drums.

  As Hadjar walked to the center of the settlement, where the leader was waiting for him, he saw friendly smiles everywhere. People emerged from the darkness, whispering something to him or giving him gifts. The young girls kissed him on the cheek or lips. Coyote smiled at this, greeting some people, hugging others, and even kissing some of them. This current behavior sharply contrasted with how the tribe had welcomed the ‘strangers’ recently.

  There was a huge fire in the center of the settlement. Its heat was so strong that it was impossible to get any closer than thirty feet from it. People were sitting around it or basking in the orange glow.

  The leader was on a kind of elevated spot, surrounded by his closest people. Kharad and the other scouts sat next to him. Judging by their drunken expressions, they’d been celebrating for a while now. Hadjar had no doubt that the caravan would definitely be allowed to pass.

  Noticing Hadjar and Coyote, the leader rose slightly and beckoned them over. When Hadjar walked past the tribesmen, many of them saluted him in the local manner or just smiled at him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Hadjar saw the boy frantically waving at him. Hadjar didn’t regret what he’d done. He would have done the same even if it had meant his certain death. He nodded to the child and moved on.

  “Sit down, Hadjar,” the leader moved aside slightly on the pillows.

  He didn’t try to help Hadjar sit down, although the northerner was clearly struggling to do so. The leader would’ve damaged the warrior’s honor and dignity had he offered him aid, exposing him as weak and helpless. Neither weakness nor helplessness were welcome among the cruel but free Bedouins.

  “Drink our wine,” the leader waved his hand and a slave offered up a tray with a jug. “Then taste our women later in the evening.”

  Immediately, a dozen beautiful slave girls appeared. He saw the girls who’d kept him warm among them.

  “Thank you, honorable leader,” Hadjar nodded, sipping his wine slowly. “Please forgive my ignorance, but what are we celebrating?”

  The leader smiled. For the first time, his expression was truly sincere.

  “The birth of a new son of the tribe,” he said in a tone that made it impossible to miss whom he was referring to.

  The leader nodded and the music soon fell silent. When the last echoes of the drums subsided and the dancers froze, the leader rose from his seat. He looked around at the people and, spreading his arms, began to speak something in his native language.

  “The leader is talking about your deed,” Coyote translated. “He’s saying that the Evening Stars sometimes get confused during their heavenly run and the spirit of a free traveler of the Sea of Sand is locked up in a body born in a foreign land. But even then, that spirit misses its home so much that it hurries to see the sun and the desert once again.”

  The leader gave his speech with flair, often gesturing to Hadjar.

  “He says that he’s grateful to the Stars for bringing a lost son back home. That they made him strong and worthy along the way, and that they gave him a chance to demonstrate the strength of his spirit.”

  The leader waved his hand in the direction of the boy sitting on his father’s shoulders.

  “Now he’s asking the shaman to give you a name and mark you as the son of the tribe.”

  Suddenly, another boy stood up. He was no more than fifteen years old. Thin, awkward, with red spots on his face and slightly crooked fingers. Nevertheless, looking into his black eyes, Hadjar flinched. Those eyes weren’t human or animal. He couldn’t find the right words to describe what he saw in them. Gods and demons. Did people feel the same way when they saw Traves’ shadow in Hadjar’s eyes?

  The boy approached Hadjar. Up close, he looked even smaller. The drums started beating and the people began dancing around the fire with a frenzied intensity. The shaman’s cold fingers touched Hadjar’s forehead.

  At that instant, the universe froze for a moment, and then an almost forgotten feeling rose up in Hadjar’s chest, from somewhere deep in his soul. The feeling that he could not only listen to the wind’s stories, but also whisper something back to it.

  “Darkhan,” the boy said.

  Then he picked up a handful of sand and threw it at Hadjar’s left arm. The northerner howled in pain and then, accompanied by approving laughter, brushed the sand away from his skin. At first, it seemed to stick there, but it was in fact a red mark that had been left behind on his skin. He saw a pattern that stretched from his shoulder to his elbow, something that looked like hieroglyphs and a tattoo at the same time.

  “Desert Wind,” the leader nodded. “It’s a good name. Happy birthday to you, our brother, Hadjar Darkhan, Desert Wind Blowing from the North.”

  Hadjar’s hair was ruffled by a gust of wind. The shaman hadn’t restored Hadjar’s ability to communicate with the wind, but he had slightly eased the pressure of the other tattoo, the one left on his back by the Sword Spirit.

  That evening, Hadjar drank, ate, and had fun as if he were really living his first day in this world. Or even his last...

  Chapter 289

  Hadjar stood on the crest of a dune and watched the other scouts gather. To thank him for returning their ‘prodigal son’ to their tribe
and the fact that the youngest son of the tribe had been saved from certain death, the leader had sent some gifts to Rahaim, the owner of the caravan. The gifts, of course, were symbolic, but the gesture was very meaningful. The Bedouins rarely gave away their belongings. They were conquerors and used to taking rather than giving. However, they still presented Hadjar with a gift of seven rolls of silk and a pearl necklace.

  “The shaman wanted me to tell you something…” The leader, who was standing next to Hadjar, handed him three hair ornaments. They were multicolored and covered in various hieroglyphs. “Okay, so, he said that these would protect you from evil spirits along the way… Right, yes! He also wished you a safe journey, but be warned that what you want can be very different from what you actually need.”

  Hadjar nodded gratefully and put the shaman’s gift in his pocket. He would have to unravel his turban to weave them into his hair, but he didn’t have the energy to do that right now. Two days had passed since the celebration and Hadjar could move without the aid of crutches. However, he only seemed to have gotten better.

  He’d been able to replenish his internal energy reserves by only a quarter. Most of his muscles hadn’t recovered yet, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword with great difficulty. He wouldn’t be able to defeat a practitioner at the Bodily Rivers level in his current condition.

  However, these heavy thoughts quickly faded thanks to the sweet memories of the night after the celebration. Although he’d been wounded, and almost without an ounce of strength left, Hadjar had been able to satisfy his animal urges with the help of one of the single Bedouin girls who’d been dancing around the fire. They’d shared a hot but brief night together.

  Then the slave girls had come to Hadjar, but he’d rejected all of them. He couldn’t breathe while looking at their collars, as if his own throat was being constricted by a similar ‘decoration’.