- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XIII
Paedrin refused to ride one of the camels. The thought of perching atop a swaying saddle, strapped to a cud-chewing beast, filled him with deep disgust. He had no trouble keeping pace with the others—the fact was that he was faster afoot and with the Sword of Winds than any ride. He was grateful for the food and water skins, and he made himself useful by scouting the land ahead of the four Boeotian drovers who led them away from the maze-like canyons and toward the dark, haunted woods of the Scourgelands. It was from his lofty position, gliding through the sky, that he saw the danger coming behind them.
“What is that?” he muttered to himself.
It was the third day since leaving the Empress, and the drovers had led them in a northeast direction through the hills and scrub of their forsaken lands. The drovers were all suffering from the early stages of the disease and rarely spoke to them, for they spoke little Aeduan themselves, and were good as the Empress had promised, caring for the beasts and setting up the spacious tent each night for them to sleep in.
From his position above the others, Paedrin saw a wall of dark clouds and swirling dust approaching from the southwest. It was enormous, like a storm cloud that scudded across the desert, too swollen to rise into the sky. He swooped down immediately, using the blade to bring him straight to Tyrus.
“There is something a league or so off,” he warned worriedly. “Some fog bank or storm. It will overtake us within the hour.”
Tyrus chirped a command to the beast he rode and twisted in the saddle. Already the edges of the storm could be seen. Tyrus motioned for the drover near him and gesticulated toward the approaching front.
The drover stood tall, shielding his eyes, and then began barking orders to his fellows. “Make camp,” he said urgently. “Make camp. Ata! Ata vancou! Haboub!”
The group quickly dismounted the camels and the drovers began to scramble to pitch the tent. Paedrin joined them and Baylen followed suit, for they had both watched the drovers before and knew the order for assembling the tent.
“What is coming?” Prince Aransetis asked.
“They call it a haboub,” Tyrus said. “Paedrin saw it first. Some sort of dust storm.”
The wind began to whip and ruffle their clothes. The camels were made to kneel and the supplies stripped from their backs and brought inside the tent. Everyone lent a hand, hurrying to bring the gear inside. The wind began to blast, and soon they could all see the dust cloud advancing. It was eerie and brown, longer than a forest wall and taller as well. Paedrin used the blade to shoot into the sky one last time, trying to get a sense of its vastness. The wind shrieked and pulled at him, buffeting him roughly as the monstrous storm advanced. He could not see the end of it as it bore down on them.
The tent pavilion was lashed to extra stakes, the drovers chirping and calling to each other to hurry. Paedrin nearly went end over end with the sudden gust of wind and quickly returned to the desert floor and joined the others as they entered the tent. They staked the camels to prevent them from escaping, but they were not allowed inside the tent.
As Paedrin entered, he saw that the gear took up a good portion of the space and that everyone was huddled close together, including the agitated drovers, who tightened the straps on the door ropes.
Paedrin did not like being in confined spaces and he glanced around nervously at the others. The haboub struck their camp like a blacksmith’s hammer. Everyone instinctively drew closer together as the winds began thrashing the hide walls of the tent. Fine grains of dust began to seep in through the open spaces, swirling like smoke. The storm blotted out the sun, dimming their vision like an early twilight.
“The storm will rage a while,” Tyrus said. “Rest if you can.”
Most leaned against stacks of provisions, trying to find comfort in an uncomfortable setting. The wind shrieked and howled, rattling the posts that held up the tent. Everyone was subdued, the darkness deepening with each passing moment.
The tent filled with the smell of the dust, and some started coughing. Paedrin sat in a calm stance, trying not to let it impact his heart. The light grew dimmer and dimmer, reminding him of that horrid dungeon beneath the Arch-Rike’s palace. He felt the prickle of sweat down his back and did all he could do to remain composed. That dungeon was his worst nightmare. He dreaded even the memory of it.
“Reminds me of the squall we faced by the cliffs of Shatalin,” Baylen said. Paedrin realized the Cruithne had settled near him. “The fog was so thick.”
Paedrin turned and looked at him, seeing the intelligent look in his eyes. He observed people. He had noticed Paedrin’s disquiet.
XIII
Paedrin refused to ride one of the camels. The thought of perching atop a swaying saddle, strapped to a cud-chewing beast, filled him with deep disgust. He had no trouble keeping pace with the others—the fact was that he was faster afoot and with the Sword of Winds than any ride. He was grateful for the food and water skins, and he made himself useful by scouting the land ahead of the four Boeotian drovers who led them away from the maze-like canyons and toward the dark, haunted woods of the Scourgelands. It was from his lofty position, gliding through the sky, that he saw the danger coming behind them.
“What is that?” he muttered to himself.
It was the third day since leaving the Empress, and the drovers had led them in a northeast direction through the hills and scrub of their forsaken lands. The drovers were all suffering from the early stages of the disease and rarely spoke to them, for they spoke little Aeduan themselves, and were good as the Empress had promised, caring for the beasts and setting up the spacious tent each night for them to sleep in.
From his position above the others, Paedrin saw a wall of dark clouds and swirling dust approaching from the southwest. It was enormous, like a storm cloud that scudded across the desert, too swollen to rise into the sky. He swooped down immediately, using the blade to bring him straight to Tyrus.
“There is something a league or so off,” he warned worriedly. “Some fog bank or storm. It will overtake us within the hour.”
Tyrus chirped a command to the beast he rode and twisted in the saddle. Already the edges of the storm could be seen. Tyrus motioned for the drover near him and gesticulated toward the approaching front.
The drover stood tall, shielding his eyes, and then began barking orders to his fellows. “Make camp,” he said urgently. “Make camp. Ata! Ata vancou! Haboub!”
The group quickly dismounted the camels and the drovers began to scramble to pitch the tent. Paedrin joined them and Baylen followed suit, for they had both watched the drovers before and knew the order for assembling the tent.
“What is coming?” Prince Aransetis asked.
“They call it a haboub,” Tyrus said. “Paedrin saw it first. Some sort of dust storm.”
The wind began to whip and ruffle their clothes. The camels were made to kneel and the supplies stripped from their backs and brought inside the tent. Everyone lent a hand, hurrying to bring the gear inside. The wind began to blast, and soon they could all see the dust cloud advancing. It was eerie and brown, longer than a forest wall and taller as well. Paedrin used the blade to shoot into the sky one last time, trying to get a sense of its vastness. The wind shrieked and pulled at him, buffeting him roughly as the monstrous storm advanced. He could not see the end of it as it bore down on them.
The tent pavilion was lashed to extra stakes, the drovers chirping and calling to each other to hurry. Paedrin nearly went end over end with the sudden gust of wind and quickly returned to the desert floor and joined the others as they entered the tent. They staked the camels to prevent them from escaping, but they were not allowed inside the tent.
As Paedrin entered, he saw that the gear took up a good portion of the space and that everyone was huddled close together, including the agitated drovers, who tightened the straps on the door ropes.
Paedrin did not like being in confined spaces and he glanced around nervously at the others. The haboub struck their camp like a blacksmith’s hammer. Everyone instinctively drew closer together as the winds began thrashing the hide walls of the tent. Fine grains of dust began to seep in through the open spaces, swirling like smoke. The storm blotted out the sun, dimming their vision like an early twilight.
“The storm will rage a while,” Tyrus said. “Rest if you can.”
Most leaned against stacks of provisions, trying to find comfort in an uncomfortable setting. The wind shrieked and howled, rattling the posts that held up the tent. Everyone was subdued, the darkness deepening with each passing moment.
The tent filled with the smell of the dust, and some started coughing. Paedrin sat in a calm stance, trying not to let it impact his heart. The light grew dimmer and dimmer, reminding him of that horrid dungeon beneath the Arch-Rike’s palace. He felt the prickle of sweat down his back and did all he could do to remain composed. That dungeon was his worst nightmare. He dreaded even the memory of it.
“Reminds me of the squall we faced by the cliffs of Shatalin,” Baylen said. Paedrin realized the Cruithne had settled near him. “The fog was so thick.”
Paedrin turned and looked at him, seeing the intelligent look in his eyes. He observed people. He had noticed Paedrin’s disquiet.
