Book of The Dead

Wind and sand blasted across the eternal dunes. A robed figure walked alone, one hand holding their hood low over their face, blocking the wind. Clearly this one was not of the dust. It was obvious from the way they walked, but to shield themselves against the sand?

Al’hakash. Forbidden.

Hunkered down in the dunes, invisible and unmoving, Hon’kaal watched and waited for the creature of flesh to draw closer. His grip tightened around the hilt of his shell-blades. Soon, they would be close enough. Soon, they would learn the price of treading on sacred ground.

“Hold, Warrior of Dust. Do not attack.”

Hon’kaal remained hidden, hands gripping tighter. What trickery was this? The intruder called out once more.

“I have permission from the Graal to be here. I seek to barter with Dust Folk of the plains. I have trade.”

Why was he even talking? There was no way he could know that Hon’kaal was here. This outsider was just another thief of the empire, here to take what they had not earned to honour their false gods.

The figure was no longer walking, instead, they stood still, shielding themselves from the cutting sands.

“Come out, or I will make you come out.”

Perhaps they did know something? Impossible; it had to be a bluff. Hon’kaal did not move. They would wait for the moment to strike. Words of power slammed into the air, and the Dust Warrior moved on instinct, springing out of the sand and spinning through the air, blades drawing a deadly arc. Before they could draw close, the weapons slammed into a wall, and suddenly Hon’kaal was surrounded, boxed in on all sides by ethereal slabs of bone.

He spun again, blending his form with the sand and letting the wind take him, but it wasn’t quick enough. Reality warped under the force of the intruder’s will, and the Dust Warrior found themselves snatched out of the air, gripped tight in a hand of shadow and death.

No matter how he struggled, with his arms pinned to his sides, Hon’kaal was unable to free himself. After exhausting his strength, he ceased to struggle. He slumped in the grip of the spell and gave himself over to final death.

The intruder did not move to land the finishing blow.

“I have permission from the Graal,” he repeated. “I have come to trade.”

Reaching into his robes, the intruder pulled out a scroll case, and from inside they drew a piece of parchment, shielding it against the fierce winds. It was difficult for Hon’kaal to read, but he was able to see the sign of the Graal stamped on it.

“How does an outsider like you have something like that?” Hon’kaal rasped.

“Because your leader is wiser than you, and knows how to get that which is most valuable to the Dust Folk.”

“You have Crystal Magick? Or water?”

“I have knowledge.”

Once the Dust Warrior was convinced not to try and kill the outsider, it was another four hour journey over the sands before they arrived at the camp. ℝАΝŐꞖÈＳ

It was a disorienting experience for Tyron. Walking through the sandstorm, it was impossible to know left from right, and at times, one couldn’t see their own hand in front of their face, the air was so thick with sand. If he hadn’t run into the guide, Tyron may never have found the camp at all and been forced to seek shelter. As it was, he could thank his superhuman endurance that allowed him to push through conditions all but the Dust Folk considered deadly.

Sheltered by a rock spire that pierced the dunes like a spear, the camp was formed of many-layered tents, each protected by wind shields that sought to protect them from the worst of the sand. At these speeds, weak cloth would be torn to shreds by the desert. If Tyron’s cloak hadn’t been enchanted against it, his bare flesh would have been exposed and his blood would have dyed the sands for kilometres back.

When an outsider came close to the camp, the response was immediate, figures rising out of the sands to stare from behind their darkened hoods, never revealing their faces. Within the tents, people huddled down, sensing danger, or perhaps responding to some unseen signal.

“Now we will see if you live or die, kash’lani,” Hon’kaal rasped. “The Graal will determine your fate.”

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“What kind of madman would come into the lands of the Dust Folk without permission? I have no wish to die,” Tyron stated.

“A thief, or a fool.”

“It’s a poor thief who announces himself before walking into your camp.”

“A fool, then.”

“Speak with your Graal. I have no desire to aggravate your people any more than necessary.”

With a low hiss, the Dust Warrior turned away, while several others stepped up to watch over the outsider. Hon’kaal disappeared into the largest tent, only to emerge a few minutes later, anger radiating from his every step.

“You speak truly, it seems, kash’lani.”

Tyron raised a hand.

“I am not an outsider any longer. I am a guest of the Graal. Chan’lani.”

The Dust Warrior hissed once more, and Tyron shrugged. Manners were hard to come across these days. At least they didn’t impede him as he made his way toward the large tent and slipped inside.

As soon as the heavy layers fell shut behind him, the overwhelming sound of the wind quieted to almost nothing. It was dark inside, but even so, Tyron could easily make out the various human figures spread around the space, along with the leader of this camp, sat in the centre of the tent, seated on an elaborate rug, formed of concentric circles that placed the figure at the nexus.

Tyron bowed his head respectfully, approached and sat, folding his legs and placing his hands on his knees, keeping them in open view.

“It’s not easy to find your people,” he said.

The Graal gave a low, wheezing laugh. They sounded like a breeze rustling the dunes, something about them radiating great age.

“We do not want to be found,” came the reply. “The people of your empire have always hunted us. Chased us. Tried to drive us from our lands. It never works, only the people of Dust can live in the blessed sands, but we have learned to be cautious. It is chan’rela, good that we do this.”

“Your own people nearly stabbed me,” Tyron stated calmly.

“That is what they are trained to do. For outsiders to come here is Al’hakash.”

“But I’m an exception?”

“You are if you can deliver what you promised.”

The figure leaned forward, and even in the dim light, Tyron could finally make out their face.

The Graal was old, but more than old. The flesh and skin were shrivelled and tight, making the features impossibly emaciated. Hollow sockets stared at Tyron, while he saw nothing but darkness and shadows reflected back.

This was not a living person, and hadn’t been for some time.

“You don’t seem surprised, to see what I am.”

Tyron nodded.

“I already know what you are. We can discuss these matters face to face, if that is your preference.”

The skeletal figure raised a brow, then, slowly, opened their mouth wide. There was movement within, until finally a brightly coloured beetle emerged, its shell shimmering in the low light.

Moving carefully, the insect crept up the face of the figure until it sat in the centre of its forehead, still and watching.

“It has been some time since I sat before an outsider like this,” the voice still emanated from within the body, but Tyron knew who was really speaking.

“The honour is mine,” Tyron said, offering a slight bow. “Now, should we proceed with our exchange of information?”

“We shall. Honour would dictate I provide you with refreshment, but our stores are light, and I feel you would refuse them anyway.”

“Knowledge is the sustenance I crave,” Tyron replied.

He pulled around the leather satchel that rested on his back, reaching inside and removing three scroll cases from within.

“I’ve written here everything we know about what has occurred in the Western Province of the Empire.”

He placed the scrolls in front of the Graal and then sat back while a thin hand emerged to pull them closer.

“Can you summarise them now?”

Tyron nodded.

“The destruction of the Western Province is complete. The Emperor’s Golden Legion has burned everything all the way to the Barrier Mountains. We suspect there isn’t anyone left alive. The rifts are being tamed once again, but there are still thousands of kin who have been left to wander across the land. It will likely take months, perhaps even a year, before they are hunted down and the land made habitable again. The south is particularly bad.”

“Yes,” the Graal said, “we have noticed the monsters coming into the desert in greater numbers. What of your people? Have you managed to find safety beyond the mountains?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Tyron replied, his tone flat. “If you want to know more about us, or the land over the mountains, then you would need to offer up more to trade.”

“We are offering you the secrets of our people already. What more could you possibly ask of us?”

Tyron snorted.

“We both know you have parted with a bare sliver of what you have to share. I am no friend of the Empire, this you know. Your knowledge will be put to good use against your enemies if you share it with me.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. The friend of today is the enemy of tomorrow. We are cautious, here on the sands. After all, have you not surrounded this camp? It seems you do not trust us much either.”

At these words, the humans within the tent gasped, some pulled blades, but the Graal raised a hand to stall them, the beetle resting on the forehead remaining unmoving.

The Necromancer stared back.

“I will not allow myself to die, not until my work is done.”

Silence hung heavy in the tent, until the Graal began to laugh, a low wheeze, filled with dust and dead air.

“Very well. Let us discuss further what we might offer in trade. You have secrets, and so do the Dust Folk. We can come to an arrangement.”