Sandstorm

Prologue

"Saa, what a disappointment. I thought you said you needed my help, Ikram. These men were not much of a challenge at all." Sahayl idly calmed his restless horse, and grimaced at the men in question, a group of roughly fifty soldiers in the red and gold uniform of one of the western countries, he did not bother to recall which one. Sometimes it seemed they took turns making war on the east—ostensibly for trade, but Sahayl half-wondered if they were merely bored. Why could they not simply fight each other as the tribes did?

Ikram, a man of nearly fifty years who did not look anywhere close to that even with the gray in his beard and hair, chuckled softly. "I think it more likely they are not used to Ghosts. Certainly they have given us plenty of trouble before. Their commander is no fool; he knows how to fight us." His eyes flicked to a man who had been separated from the rest, bound and secured to a dark gray horse.

"He was a challenge, I will give you that." Sahayl eyed the man in question, reluctantly fascinated by the sheer whiteness of his skin. Even compared to pale-skinned westerners, who always looked either like old cream or red meat, this one was remarkable. Like bleached bone. He might have been handsome, but for that skin. His eyes were the color of the sky; they had briefly distracted him, which had nearly cost him his arm. Sahayl grunted at the memory. "You shall have to tell me what your king does with that one."

"I do not share the king's business with savages," Ikram replied with a taunting smirk.

Sahayl let out a sharp bark of laughter. "But you will beg us for favors when your problems grow too big for you to manage?" He grinned at the man beside him. "It is fortunate for you and your king that our tribe is willing to indulge him and lend our assistance."

"It is fortunate for your purse that our king is more than willing to pay for your assistance," Ikram responded dryly, "and that he indulges you in your desire for independence."

"Tavamara has tried before to take the sands into its fold. Never has it succeeded. Your current king is the wiser for never trying, and that is why Ghost is willing to help." Sahayl laughed again, a soft, rolling sound like that of distant thunder.

Ikram rolled his eyes. "As you like it, son of Hashim. You have changed little from the boy who went around causing chaos."

"You are still the stuffy know-it-all who tried to make me hold still. I do not pity the king who has taken you for an advisor. Does he send you out here that he might get some peace and quiet?"

"I am not the one he complains about." Ikram chortled at some private amusement. He gathered his horse's reins. "On that note, have you taken up all these duties so that your father might find peace in camp?"

Sahayl shrugged. "My father hunts for more blood, not for peace."

Ikram quirked a brow. "How do the winds blow these days? Once out of the Lady's sight, it is hard to keep track of who is killing whom for what."

"Not that you ever kept track anyway."

"Do you want me to demonstrate just how much I used to know?"

Sahayl rolled his eyes. "No, thank you. You are no longer my tutor. I don't have to listen to you."

"Not that you ever did."

Laughing, Sahayl motioned to himself. His dark robes looked no different than those of the men behind him, but the glinting red jewel in his sword matched the one on his ring, and he had a bearing about him the others lacked, marking him as a leader. "Do I look as though I suffered for it?"

"A question I should put to those who live with you," Ikram murmured. "Do they still call you Sandstorm?"

"Perhaps," Sahayl said, still grinning. "But I warn you to watch your tongue, for it was the Sandstorm who captured your prisoners."

Ikram rolled his eyes. "A job for which you were amply paid. As you clearly have nothing of interest left to say, I believe we will be on our way. Prisoners—even exhausted ones—will only be quiet for so long. His Majesty thanks you, Sahayl, son of Hashim, son of Ghost, son of the Lady of the Sands." He pressed the fingers of his right hand to his left shoulder and bowed from the waist.

Sahayl threw his head back and laughed. "His Majesty is most welcome, Ikram, son of Sabbar, former son of Cobra, former son of the Lady of the Sands." Smiling, Sahayl touched two fingers of his right hand to his forehead, then to his lips, then to the space over his heart. "Mind, body, soul."

"In all find strength," Ikram said, miming the gesture.

Holding his right hand to his left shoulder, Sahayl bowed. "To the Lady and your king. Safe travel and peaceful night. Farewell."

"Until next time," Ikram said, urging his horse forward to rejoin his own men.

Tugging up the covering for his mouth and nose, Sahayl turned his horse around and immediately sped off, his men falling in easily around and behind him. Across the sand they moved, chased by the setting sun. Twenty-five men dressed all in black, riding horses that barely seemed to touch the sands they raced across.

In seconds, both groups had vanished—one further into the desert, the other away from it. In the lengthening shadows of evening, it almost looked as though no one had been there.

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