Rise and Fall (Book 1)

by Joshua P. Simon

  “We journeyed to the capital city of every major clan’s territory. Southeast to Erundis of the White Tundra Clan. Northwest to Feruse of the Dark Forest Clan. East to Cypronya of the Gray Marsh Clan. Then north to Actur of the Yellow Plain Clan. And finally as far north as one could go on this side of the Great Divide. To Nubinya of the Orange Desert Clan. None would take us,” said Nachun. A light chuckle touched his voice but Tobin heard little humor. “We were actually on our way west again, to your home of Juanoq. Our last hope was that the Blue Island Clan would have us. Funny, how you came here instead.”

  “And the rest of your tribe and family?” asked Tobin, though he had already guessed the answer.

  “Dead,” said Nachun in an icy tone that cut through the bitter heat of the afternoon. “On the run, we were harassed continually by those seeking to gain Charu’s favor. Some were of the Red Mountain Clan but many were smaller nomadic tribes. We lost many traveling across Hesh…” Nachun’s voice trailed off, face filling with despair. “And then, word of Charu’s vendetta must have finally overtaken us for we were denied entrance into Nubinya upon our arrival. But a day later, our clan was approached by a group of riders under a sign of peace. We were led to believe that their Warchiefs had a sudden change of mind, though it was all an act of deception. They brought half a dozen shamans with them, recognizing me for what I am. I was taken off guard and thrown from my horse. Knocked unconscious, they assumed I was dead. Regardless, I could not help as they slaughtered my entire tribe. That was two weeks ago.”

  “The shaman you killed here was one of those who attacked your clan, wasn’t he?” asked Tobin.

  “Yes. I must admit that my reason for helping the other night was not entirely selfless. I was hesitant about interfering, being so weary from my time alone in this cursed land and with very little sustenance of late. But when I saw the shaman, my decision was made. I wanted him dead. As I said that night to you, your enemy is mine.” He met Tobin’s eye for the first time since beginning his tale. “And that is my story.”

  There was a long pause as Tobin contemplated what he had heard. “What will you do now?”

  “Your brother has granted me the opportunity to fight with your warriors here, and afterward will allow me to travel with you to Nubinya. From there, he said I must speak with your father who’ll have the final say on the matter.”

  “On what matter?”

  “To join your clan. I know I am only one man, but I can prove myself very useful. Besides, I am the last survivor of my tribe and my family. My father would have wanted me to continue on, and here is where I have the best chance to do so.”

  “So is this something you want only out of memory of your father?”

  Nachun shook his head. “No. That is only a small part of why I want to speak with Bazraki.” His jaw clenched. “There is a larger part, one my father would disapprove of. I want to seek retribution for those wrongs done against us.”

  “And how do you plan on accomplishing that as a member of our clan?”

  Nachun chuckled. “Ha. Don’t think me as naïve. I’ve seen enough here to know that this attack against the Orange Desert Clan is not the result of some small conflict. No, this is a group of warriors bent on conquest and that means Nubinya is only the beginning. I’d be surprised if your father has not thought about conquering all of Hesh.” He paused looking to gauge Tobin’s reaction, but the Kifzo did his best to reveal nothing. “It’s an ambitious goal but one that, in time, will match my own. So, I seek to help him now, knowing that eventually he must face Charu. And then I shall be ready.”

  The two men sat there in silence for several minutes as they finished their meal. Tobin was thinking in particular about who this man next to him really was.

  A complicated one for sure. In only a few moments, Nachun had revealed himself in many ways to the Kifzo. Powerful to survive an attack from six shamans. Caring and loyal to follow his father’s wishes. Hateful against those who wronged him. Observant to pick up on Father’s goals. Intelligent to manipulate Kaz at some level. A complicated man indeed. And dangerous.

  “Does my story trouble you? Your reaction is much different than your brother’s.”

  Tobin shrugged his shoulders and grunted. “You’ll find that Kaz and I have little in common outside of appearances.”

  “I apologize for the comment,” said Nachun bowing his head.

  Tobin waved him off. “Keep your apologies; you’re not the first to make such an assumption.” He paused. “Your story isn’t what I’ve been thinking on. It’s your reason for wanting to join our clan. You said your goals and my father’s are similar, and I wonder where that similarity ends,” said Tobin cocking his head.

  “Ah. I think I understand. You are wondering what my stance is on raping and killing women and children. What would I do if I found myself facing that massive man as you had the other night? Durahn was it? Don’t look surprised. I’m sure you realize most of the others talk about you behind your back,” said Nachun. “Well, I can only say that I am not one to participate in such things. But I also understand that I have to choose my battles as you did then.”

  Tobin felt his anger rising as he remembered the look on Durahn’s face and recalled his solution. “Some battle. Killing a defenseless child.”

  “Call it what you will but you gave her mercy where she would have not found any. There is something that can be said for that. I guess what I am saying is that if choosing sides on such an issue; I would sooner take yours than theirs.”

  “Thanks,” said Tobin, extending his hand to the shaman.

  “For what,” said Nachun reaching out, confused.

  “For your honesty. That is something I have seen very little of.”

  Nachun smiled. “Think nothing of it.” Nachun released his grip and rose to his feet. “I won’t keep you any longer from your post, and I promised your brother to help where I could. I’ll speak to you later, my friend.” Nachun headed down the hill, stepping carefully as he traversed the uneven terrain. At the bottom, he turned back and raised a hand in parting before making his way back to Munai.

  Tobin sat and watched the shaman for several minutes, finishing the remaining fish and dates. He returned to his spot, hidden away from prying eyes in a jagged crevasse of rock. He repositioned the camel skin overhead to extend the shade underneath. He scanned the landscape, once again checking for any changes. Only after satisfying himself that all was well did he give his conversation with Nachun any more thought. He mulled over the last words the shaman had uttered.

  Hmm…my friend?

  * * *

  An hour past dawn, the sun leaked across the horizon, illuminating a scorched landscape where thick cacti protruded from the ground as fingers would from a hand. There Tobin spotted movement. He was not surprised. The natural makeup of the terrain made it an ideal place for scouting. Rock and bones provided further protection from watchful eyes as they enveloped the cacti. In the dead air, the slightest bit of kicked up dust grabbed his attention. Then all became still. But it was too late, for the scouts’ carelessness allowed a brief flash of orange and black, revealing the colors of the Desert Clan warriors in hiding.

  Like all major clans, armor and even weapons were dyed to match the colors of their homeland. The Burnt Sands Desert had gotten its name long ago from the black rock, dark as charcoal, scattered across its surface. In combination with the clay and sand, colored with various hues of orange, mixed with hints of yellow and red, the desert itself looked as if engulfed in flames. Such visuals only reminded Tobin of the blistering heat. Despite the early hour, sweat rolled from his brow.

  Tobin slithered out of position, hugging the ground like a rattlesnake. He worked his way across the twisting, serrated terrain where he situated himself behind the cacti on the opposite side of a small mound. He removed a dagger from his belt and placed the blue blade between his teeth. With calculated movements, he removed an arrow from his quiver and notched it across his bow, mindful to a
void the scraping of wood.

  He peered around a small rock formation. Two lithe scouts lay face down, peering at the hillcrest Tobin watched from earlier. Their armor, mostly boiled leather, was dyed dark orange and beset with elaborate black patterns, signifying things like rank and family. Thin black cloth wrapped their heads. Each carried a scimitar across their back, the preferred weapon of the desert tribes, while short bows lay on the ground next to them. The two men communicated with hand signals.

  Arguing? They recognize the rock formation as a likely vantage point, but see and hear nothing so are unsure how to proceed.

  With the scouts’ attention directed elsewhere Tobin rose to his feet, drew his bow in one fluid motion, and fired a quick shot on the run. Tobin covered half the distance to the two scouts as the arrow pierced the back of his target’s neck. The other man turned toward Tobin at the sound of arrow hitting flesh, his hand moving for the sword at his back. He reacted too slowly. Tobin snatched the dagger from his mouth, and hurled the blade toward the second scout. The knife caught the scout in his shoulder, causing the arm he reached with to go limp. The man’s eyes widened as his free hand frantically reached for the dagger jutting from his shoulder. Tobin’s knee pinned the scout’s arm across the man’s chest. To his credit, the man continued to struggle. A second dagger flashed into Tobin’s hand. The touch of its edge against the scout’s throat caused the man to release a small gasp.

  The scout opened his mouth to speak when Tobin cut him off. “You will say nothing unless you are answering my questions. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Tobin growled in a low voice. “Are you the only two scouts?”

  “Yes.” The man stuttered, “Please don’t kill me, I’ll…”

  Tobin used his free hand to twist the blade in the man’s shoulder, stopping just before the man let out a cry. “Silence. What I do with you will depend on your cooperation. You do anything other than answer my questions and I promise, you’ll suffer. How far away are the others?”

  “Over an hour, maybe two,” said the man with a slight whimper.

  “How many?”

  “Three thousand riders.”

  “None on foot?”

  “No.”

  The news came at a surprise, but Tobin did not let it show as he continued. “Shamans?”

  “Uh…”

  Tobin pressed the blade harder into the warrior’s throat, slicing through the thin black cloth and exposing the scout’s dark skin. “How many shamans?”

  “Ten.”

  Tobin’s gut wrenched. “Ten? Why so many?”

  “The Warchiefs wanted to ensure a swift victory.”

  “What direction are the riders coming from?”

  “North.”

  “Why not use the trail along the coast?”

  “The north is a harder journey but shorter.”

  “You said that all were riders, where is your horse and his?” said Tobin gesturing toward the dead warrior.

  “About one hundred yards east of here, behind a group of boulders at the bottom of two small hills.”

  Tobin paused. This seems too easy. Can he be that scared or is he trying to deceive me? “What are you not telling me?” he asked.

  The scout’s eyes flickered down to the blade at his throat and managed a swallow between gasping breaths. “That’s it. I promise. I’ve answered all your questions truthfully.”

  Tobin nodded. “I believe you,” he said with a comforting calmness to his voice.

  The scout relaxed. “Thank…” Words of gratitude turned into a gag as Tobin’s blade slid across the man’s throat, soaking the black cloth around it.

  Tobin wiped his knives clean and sheathed them. Gathering his bow, he edged to the east. He had no way of knowing whether another scout would be waiting at the next turn.

  A hundred yards later, he found two lean horses tied to a cactus, their heads down, nipping on the sparse vegetation. He shook his head in disbelief.

  He actually told me the truth…so far anyway. The muscular animals were hard and beautiful. Their black coats reflected the glare of the sun above. A far cry from the workhorses in Munai. These are specifically bred for battle.

  He moved to take the two animals when a disturbance coming from the other side of a large hill, some fifty yards away, pricked his ears. The thunderous beating of hooves faded as he listened, replaced by shouting voices. He sat crouched behind a boulder for several minutes waiting for something to come into his line of sight, but nothing happened.

  He muttered a curse. He would have to work his way over to that hill and see what was on the other side. The barren land between the two points lacked cover. He’d have to chance a sprint—something he dreaded with his ankle.

  No use in thinking about it.

  He leaped to his feet and raced across the clearing, hasty in ascending the next hill. He stumbled but once, a third of the way up as his ankle buckled. Recovering quickly, he paid little attention to the noise he created while cresting the hill, confident the commotion near him would drown out any extra sound he made.

  He inched along on his stomach, working toward the ridge above, arm over arm, dagger in hand. Stealing a look over the rise’s peak, a set of dark eyes encircled in black cloth met his at the same moment, widening, as a howl started from the man’s mouth. Tobin’s hand snapped forward like a viper. His dagger stabbed into one of the desert warrior’s eyes. Pushing hard, until the blade struck bone and jarred his hand to a stop.

  The cry, although brief, alerted three others nearby. Each pulled a large scimitar from leather scabbards, dyed orange and striped black. They took up the howl started by the other man as they closed in on Tobin.

  They swung their swords down in unison. Tobin half-rolled, half-stumbled to his feet, narrowly avoiding their reach as he unsheathed his short sword. They gave him little time to slide the blade free and he narrowly avoided the flashes of whirling steel around him.

  Tobin kicked sand into the face of the man to his right. He continued to move that way and dodged dual strokes attacking from the other two. Loose gravel fell away beneath him. He gasped and tumbled down the hill.

  He stood just as the first warrior reached him and Tobin’s sword swept out to deflect a slash meant to disembowel him. Tobin stepped back as the other warriors joined the first in forming a circle around him. Their eyes glinted with violence.

  In the space between the warriors’ attacks, Tobin noticed the furious clamor rising in volume behind the hill.

  I need to get to the horses. Tobin sheathed his sword and in its place withdrew his throwing axes, weapons he felt more comfortable with. He rushed the nearest clansmen.

  The man let out a yell and raised his scimitar overhead, gripped in both hands. Tobin deflected the man’s swing with one axe, stepping into his opponent’s exposed side and drove his second weapon into the warrior’s skull.

  Without pause, Tobin spun and let fly his second axe as the other two warriors charged him. The man deflected the throw with a flick of his sword but unknowingly diverted its path into the trailing warrior’s. Embedding itself in the trailing warrior’s leg, he crashed face first into the ground. The warrior’s scimitar came loose and tangled itself in the feet of the warrior in front. I couldn’t have planned that better if I tried.

  After two quick stabs Tobin hurried away in the direction of the two horses. He ran no more than twenty yards before a wall of orange and black cut off his path. With weapons drawn, several dozen riders approached. Tobin spun around and saw another group coming in from the rear. He instead ran to a small opposing hill where the riders had yet to form. He drew his short sword. He eyed the riders’ short bows nervously, eyes darting. Gaining higher ground remained his only option.

  One rider separated himself from the others and advanced. The man’s dress stood out from the others. More ornate, pieces of fire opal, orange coral, onyx, and obsidian decorated into his armor and scabbard. A Warchief. “You are alone and far
enough away from Munai that no one will come to your aid, warrior.”

  Tobin said nothing, standing ready in a crouched position. If I die, I’m taking this one with me.

  Frustrated by the Kifzo’s silence, the Warchief continued with an edge to his voice. “You must be aware your situation is hopeless.” He paused, removing the covering from his face and revealing a beard, formed into a thin line against a hard face. The man removed a water skin from his side and took a drink. He held the skin out to Tobin. “You must be thirsty after such tiring work,” he said, trying a different approach as he gestured toward the dead bodies. “You are a talented man. With such skill, you could rise high in Nubinya if you are willing to help us.”

  Tobin spat, tightening his grip on his sword, turning the blade over in his hand so it caught the sun’s rays. “You would kill me the second you got what you wanted from me.” He chuckled. “Many in my clan would take a blade to my heart if they could, but at least they would do so while looking me in the eye. You would wait until my back was turned.”

  The war chief sighed, and moved the water skin back to the place on his saddle. He covered his face again and shook his head. “The choice was yours.” He gestured two men forward, one without any visible weapons, bones rattling with each step. A shaman. “Make him talk.”

  The shaman extended a hand and Tobin felt just as he did at the oasis in Munai, body weak and limbs heavy as if the weight of a mountain rested on his shoulders. He struggled to stay upright, but his efforts were in vain. The other man held a rope tight in his hands. Tobin’s heart raced. A quick death in battle was one thing but if captured, there would be torture first.