Lost in the Dawn (Erythleh Chronicles Book 1)

by Catherine Johnson

  The desert was as deadly as any foe - man or beast - that Jorrell had ever encountered. The sun could kill a man in an hour or less, cooking him in his own skin. During the most intense heat of the day, the only sensible thing to do was to pitch camp and to hide in the pitiful shade of their canvas tents.

  For the most part, the great undulating sand dunes were an empty and silent landscape, but on occasion, great sandstorms would descend, much as the torrential rains had descended on Naidac. Instead of drenching water from the heavens, these storms whipped the sand up into clouds of coarse grit that could abrade exposed and unprotected skin until it was open, raw and bleeding. Such tempests often appeared over the horizon with little warning. The billowing clouds moved faster than a man could run. The best course of action, when caught without the protection of any structure, was to lie flat in the sand and to tuck head and limbs under the cloak until the storm had passed.

  Jorrell and Cael had survived the mission in Naidac that they had thought would surely end in their deaths. They had successfully persuaded many of the indigenous people to give the peace talks a chance to resolve the problems that had led to the war. Following their mutiny, they had become something of folk heroes among the native people. If it hadn’t been for a deep-seated hope that he would one day be free to return to Felthiss, Jorrell would have been sorely tempted to exploit the fame and goodwill into building a profitable life for himself in Naidac.

  He and Cael had then further ensured their survival within the ranks of the army itself when they had chanced upon Lord Wertun, the Lord Protector of Naidac. His caravan had been travelling along a remote country road on a bleak, foggy day. Encouraged by the small successes of the ongoing peace talks and full of his own self-importance and invincibility, the Lord had been travelling only with servants and no guards. Jorrell and Cael had taken the opportunity to assassinate him. As far as anyone was concerned, the massacre of that little group of travellers had been perpetrated by Naidacan rebels. The army made cursory mutterings about finding the Lord’s murderers, but in reality made no effort whatsoever. The Lord’s death had speeded up the pace of the peace talks, and an amicable resolution, profitable to both sides, had been reached.

  Once it was no longer needed in Naidac, the army was dispersed. Some of the troops were shipped back to Felthiss to the barracks and a life of lazy drills and practice. Jorrell and Cael had not been chosen for those lucky battalions.

  Instead, they had been sent to the sweltering Southern Wastelands below Veltharesh, and for the past two years, had been escorting trade caravans from Velth, the great city and port on the edge of the sea of Thleen, across the unforgiving wilderness, to Nari on the tip of the continent, and back again.

  The trade caravans were no small affair, since it was foolhardy to attempt to cross the barren lands in undersized groups. Great lizards, madavaths, were used to carry the goods that were destined to be bought and sold. The reptiles were longer, from the tip of their snout to the end of their whip-like tail, than four men laid head to foot. Their wide, flat bodies lay close to the sand. Their legs protruded at odd angles, with the joints being higher than their spines, but that resulted in a slithering, sinuous gait which, combined with the shape of their trunks, was perfect for keeping the loads they carried stable. Madavaths could be domesticated with reasonable ease. Although grumpy most of the time, they only required sporadic meals, could go for days without drinking water and, being a native to the region, they coped well with the extreme changes in temperature. Still, Jorrell preferred to keep away from the long flat heads with flicking pink forked tongues, black beady eyes and mouths full of razor sharp teeth.

  Although the wastelands appeared uninhabitable, there were two main threats to the long procession of men and beasts. One was the sand dragons. These lizards were similar in size and shape to the madavaths, but their snouts were much shorter, and their tails, rather than following the horizontal line of their bodies, curved up and over their backs. Instead of smooth scales, sand dragons were covered in spiny horn-like protuberances, the tips of which were needle-sharp. They were extremely territorial and aggressive, and if a caravan chanced to pass too close to a roaming sand dragon, it was sure to be attacked.

  The other threat came from the rebels. The region of Sannarrell, of which Nari was the capital, was populated by remote tribes. This was where the slave traders of Veltharesh hunted for their stock. The peaceful communities, peopled mostly by farmers who cultivated only as much as they required to survive, were poached and captured and sold to Vuthron as blood slaves. Years of enduring such exploitation had eventually resulted in the tribes banding together, finding a strength and resilience in greater numbers than they had enjoyed in their provincial villages.

  The rebels attacked and killed slaver raiding parties, and ambushed trade caravans for supplies. There were rumours that a great city had been formed, but no trace of such a place could be found. Certainly Jorrell had never seen any evidence of it, but he had not been privileged to explore the great expanse of the desolate country, having been confined to his assignment, which adhered to the well navigated trade routes.

  Thanks to his successes in Naidac and his escapades thus far, Jorrell had found himself promoted to lieutenant and given the charge of a small unit of men. Cael was still his right hand in all matters.

  Jorrell scratched at his beard through the cotton of his cloak. There was no water to be spared in the desert for such frivolous activities as shaving. Besides, Jorrell had found that facial hair, although sometimes uncomfortably hot, offered protection from sunburn and dust. He had also found, very quickly after his arrival in Veltharesh, that the inevitable and inescapable dust of such a dry country was tremendously irritating to newly shaved skin. He had always had a degree of stubble, since grooming was not an important concern of an active soldier, but the bushy hair on his jaw was now long enough to brush his chest.

  “You feel it, too, don’t you?” Cael commented in an undertone.

  Jorrell nodded. Yes, he felt it, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up, the tingle that ran down his spine. Imminent danger. “Yes. Keep your eyes and ears sharp.” He whistled, one long, shrill note, which was the sign for his men to be on their guard.

  The chatter of the traders ceased almost immediately, leaving only the grunts of the madavaths and the clanking and creaking of the loads that they carried. The air was too still, almost artificially so, when the oppressive stillness was not being obscured by jovial banter.

  The desert itself was not flat. The constant wind had shifted the sand into great drifting dunes. They were at once more solid, and more treacherous, than they appeared to the uninitiated. From the top of a dune, It was possible to see a great distance, and yet the deep shadows between the swells gave shady protection to enemies and other dangers.

  The caravan was still moving, but had not quite reached the pinnacle of the dune that they were climbing. The sand muffled all footsteps, reducing all movement to a vague swishing sound. It was that, coupled with the grunting, that alerted Jorrell and the other soldiers to the direction of the attack. A sand dragon topped the dune and began to run and slide towards the group that had been stunned into stillness.

  Jorrell whistled again. The traders gave the commands to the madavaths to instruct the lizards to hunker down into the sand. They obeyed with hisses and grunts. As the sand dragon stampeded past, changing its direction at the last minute to avoid the obstacle that hadn’t scattered from its path, Jorrell and the other soldiers remained on alert.

  Jorrell had sensed the panic in the sand dragon. It was not out to hunt or kill. It had been spooked. It was a distraction.

  Sure enough, as he had known that they would, the rebels appeared over the flanks of the dune, shouting and hollering. The madavaths were spooked, but prepared by the rush of the sand dragon, the traders were able to steady their animals and prevent them from panicking and running away. That was what the rebels wanted. If they could get the madavaths
to run and separate from the caravan, they could corral them into a certain direction, then kill them and relieve them of their burdens. They usually took the madavath carcasses as well for the meat.

  The Felthissian soldiers were ready for their attackers. The traders, having been guarded by Jorrell and his men many times, were used to their formations, and were desperate to protect their own livelihoods. The traders divided their effort between fighting themselves, keeping the madavaths in place, and not getting in the way of the soldiers.

  The fight was short, but intense. Jorrell and the other soldiers had had to learn an entirely new style of fighting when they had arrived in the desert. There was no purchase on the sand to be able to stand firm behind a shield wall. The climate was entirely too hot to allow a man to carry a shield at all. Such a weighty burden caused a man to sweat precious fluids, and for no good reason. Instead, the soldiers carried two short swords at their hips. Both weapons were used as both offensive and defensive tools.

  The fight was over quickly. Most of the rebel raiders fled, having recognised that their chances of escaping with any meaningful bounty were slim to nonexistent. Several of them were leaking their life fluids into the sand. Jorrell wasn’t worried about them making a second attempt. They had lost their opportunity, along with the element of surprise. The caravan was close enough now to Velth that it was unlikely to be attacked before it ambled through the city gates.

  After the last attacker had melted into the dunes, and Jorrell was content that the caravan was safe to break its formation, he gave the signal to do so. The traders led the madavaths over to the bodies and allowed their pets to feed on the unfortunate meat. It would be wasteful to leave such a food source to be buried by the unforgiving sands.

  “Sir, you are bleeding.” Jorrell turned stiffly to the trader, a desiccated old man with burnished skin and a starkly white beard, both of which gleamed against the contrast of his indigo robes. The old man was leading a madavath back down the dune. The reptile’s lipless mouth was rimmed with gore.

  When Jorrell glanced down, he saw that the arm of his cloak and tunic was soaked in blood. The nutty brown of the un-dyed cotton, that usually blended so well with the landscape, was dominated by a spreading blotch of deep red.

  “Shit.” he muttered.

  “That’ll be another scar to add to your impressive collection,” Cael remarked as he walked over, sheathing his swords as he did so. “How about we get in a fight where you try not to get cut.”

  “You make it sound like I’m a rookie. I don’t hold my limbs out and shout ‘slice here please’.” Jorrell was irritated, partly at the truth behind Cael’s teasing, and partly because the adrenaline was ebbing away, revealing the pain behind the wound.

  “You might as well do. Your skin is fucking magnetic to other people’s blades.”

  “Gentlemen, please.” They both turned at the soft, yet emphatic, voice. Jorrell moreso because it was accompanied by an equally soft, yet emphatic, hand on his uninjured arm.

  He recognised the woman by his side as a daughter of one of the traders. It had been hard, initially, to figure out which forms were male and female beneath the billowing dark blue robes, and most often he couldn’t see more of a face than a pair of eyes. He’d become adept at assessing the amount of sway in a walk to be able to tell if they were guarding women as well as men. The women were as well-trained and steady in a fight as their male counterparts. In some cases, more vicious, but Jorrell often refrained from making the obvious jokes about trying to part a woman from her baubles.

  All he knew of this woman was that she had a pair of eyes so deeply brown that they were all but black. But she had unwound her turban now and he could see that the black pearls of her eyes were matched by the ebony silk of her hair, which was caught in a long, thick plait.

  “The others are pitching camp at the bottom of the dune. It is late. We cannot finish the distance to Velth before nightfall. Instead, we will rest after our exertions.” Jorrell wasn’t imagining the half step that the woman took to move a little closer to his side, or the beckoning smile that accompanied her words. “Come with me, I will tend to your wound.”

  He shot a look to Cael, with an implied message about accident-prone skin having its advantages, which Cael received and understood immediately. Jorrell followed the woman to her tent. The trader’s daughter was old for an unmarried daughter. They picked their way down the slope of the dune and between the resting madavaths and skilfully erected tents which were forming a temporary village. Cael would be left to pitch the tent that they shared by himself, but Jorrell didn’t doubt that Cael would be able to manage.

  The woman took him to her flimsy resting place, where guy lines and poles were arranged artfully in the unstable sand to hold the sheeting steady. She was old enough to have her own space, away from her mother and father. Jorrell wondered if she was a widow already, not unheard of in these travelling tribes, or if she was simply of an age to be able to assert some independence from her patriarch.

  By the time she’d finished stitching the gash across his upper arm, Jorrell had found out that she was older than she appeared, and that she had lost her husband in one of the rebel raids. The passing of several seasons since the event had dulled her grief. She fed him the spicy dried meat that was a staple in the provisions of anyone attempting to cross the desert. The chunks of flesh, usually goat or sheep in origin, were marinated in a variety of spices before they were cooked and cured. The spiciness of the food had taken some adjustment, but Jorrell enjoyed the light sting on his tongue now.

  After they had eaten, and drunk the sweet tea that was brewed from dried mint leaves in a copper pot over glowing coals, the woman welcomed Jorrell into her body as felicitously as she had welcomed him into her tent. It was a hollow experience for Jorrell, as each experience over the last four years had been, but it was a distracting diversion. As always he made enough of an effort that the woman he was with in body did not realise that his spirit was elsewhere, that he was imagining a different face, different eyes, feeling different flesh.

  Afterwards he made his thanks and excuses and went in search of his own tent. He had no intention of being drawn into staying the night. He didn’t want to wake up to the gossip of a betrothal.

  Night had fallen. The sky was not black, not out in the desert where the lights of villages and cities were a distant memory beyond the horizon. The heavens were the deep blue of sapphires, lit by the uninhibited masses of stars that seemed more like wisps of silver smoke across the sky than pinpricks of light. The half moon provided more than enough light to walk by.

  Jorrell paused by the tent that Cael had skilfully set up. There was a rustling noise from within, the sound of more than one body moving around. The flap lifted to reveal one of the other women who travelled with the caravan. There were a number of prostitutes that tagged along for the arduous journey, who endured the heat and the endless walking to make money from the traders and soldiers who were a captive market. The woman tried to make some comment, something to the effect that she was happy to stay the night and service them both, but Jorrell waved her away. Her mouth twisted into a disappointed pout, but she didn’t argue. Jorrell didn’t wait to watch her sashay off in search of a another customer; he simply wanted to lie down.

  “You scratch your itch?” Cael asked as Jorrell dipped down under the flap of the opening.

  “Yes. I see you managed to find yourself a reward for getting us set up?”

  “A better one than you, I think. The whores know their game. That honey-skinned beauty you’ve been pleasuring will think you’ll be marrying her by the time we get to Velth.”

  “Unlikely, considering that I’m here with you and not still in her tent,” Jorrell responded as he began to strip away his weapons and cloak. He removed his tunic, but left his trews. It was not uncommon for him to be woken in the night to assist with some random emergency. Sometimes the rebels staged raids in the dead of night, but there were also innocuo
us happening such as a madavath slipping its leash and wandering off.

  “I wonder,” mused Cael. “If it would be so very bad if one of them did try to trap you into matrimony.”

  Jorrell gave his friend the look his comment deserved. Cael grinned, his teeth showing bright white against his sun-darkened skin and the darker, jetty pelt of his beard. “Ah, of course. Your heart is already spoken for,” he teased, dramatically slapping the middle of his chest with his palm.

  Jorrell grunted. He’d gotten used to Cael’s bleak sense of humour, which sometimes slid along the razor edge of cruel.

  “Did you ever hear from her, after you sent that letter?”

  Jorrell remembered well the letter he’d written years before, his heartfelt apology. He remembered every word. Every sentiment that had gone unreturned.

  “No.”

  Cael was all serious concern now. “Perhaps then, it’s time to let her go.”