Amashanae - Book 1 Page 3

CHAPTER 1

  A caravan of a few dozen wagons was encamped near a large dune of sand to their north, giving them some well-needed protection from the chilly night wind of the Kamatayan desert. Despite the fact that the Great Sea bordered the desert in the south, it was one of the deadest and most desolate corners of Brodérunn. At nightfall the cold northern wind always began humming its ceaseless melodies after what had almost certainly been a scorching day. Dunes of sand rested calmly as if they had rested there since the Time of Oblivion. Yet it was folly to think that they had – the winds of the desert constantly pushed, and inch by every inch they changed form and shape, forever travelling across the wasteland from the north, making maps and descriptions of routes obsolete overnight. Once in a long while a real sandstorm would also attack the dry soil with a might so strong it toyed with the grains as if a child building sandcastles, able to cover entire cities or reveal things hidden from the eyes of the living for a thousand years. But now the wind was gentle, was the pale moon cast down its weak beacon over the caravaners who accepted the light with gratitude. Moonless nights provided too good opportunities for prowling predators, so any light was most welcome. Because, although few and far between, in such a desolate country, the predators of the wasteland certainly were something to be afraid of. They also provided an endless source of horrors for old wife’s tales. Certainly it was not just tales – there were plenty of beasts of various sizes roaming the desert. Yet, for the moment being - apart from the sound of the cold breeze - the desert beyond the caravaner camp seemed quite silent. Only rarely might the silence become disturbed when some small mammal or a scale-clad reptilian let out its final breath and became sustenance for a predator. And even then the wind suffocated the sounds of death immediately. Desert gives no mercy, and nobody dared the dangers of the desert alone. However, there were thing that all predators and beasts of the night were afraid of – such as fire. There was no person who would face the desert night without at least a torch. A torch would serve as a weapon against trolls as well as provide warmth and light in the chilling desert night. Only the craziest bandits who considered the desert as their home were insane enough to travel there without any kind of flame. This particular southwest corner of the desert was frequented by caravans making a shortcut between Kamatayaport and Salvatágg to peddle their wares all around the southern Brodérunn, but few ventured to the eastern parts of the desert, which still remained uncharted territory - at least for human species. Although too far to see, to the east great mountains rose abruptly from the desert floor as if truly created there by the dwarf god Groma, marking the borders of their realm.

  There was always traffic across this part of the desert between north and south, and people to challenge its dangers, risking their lives just because their living depended on trading in the towns and cities surrounding the desert. According to the usual custom, the caravan had arranged their wagons haphazardly in a form of a semi-circle against the dune, as if to seek cover from whatever there was lurking in the shadows of the desert. There were several campfires here and there where small groups of people gathered around; elders telling stories, some of the travel-weary men getting drunk and women giggling or cursing at their intoxicated husbands. Those more experienced with the hardship of crossing the desert kept their bottles closed and rather gathered around a group of entertainers also making their way to Kamatayaport, happy to show off their talents to the fellow travelers and their children. One of the other campfires, however, had also attracted around it an especially large group of curious caravaners. It was not because of especially tender heat at this campfire, but most likely due to a mystic female figure apparently telling a story. This mystic female had nothing to do with the usual band of the caravaners, but she had joined their assembly as they had departed Salvatágg. It was not uncommon for travelers to join the caravans crossing the desert, for trying to cross the desert alone was certainly a task only a fool would undertake, however, caravans were eager to take onboard anyone who could share a piece of copper to pay for protection.

  Campfires usually kept predators at bay during the night, but when hunger was at its most extreme, even large caravans could become too enticing targets. Extra travellers were usually welcome, becouse they provided the people of the caravan with much appreciated news of the world and sometimes even entertainment. This was probably why everyone at the fire listened to the tale she was telling with eager ears, albeit many of them were also leery of any strangers travelling amongst them. This one definitely seemed an interesting one.

  “I just…woke up…grew back… to this world… I mean that in single moment I just realized I existed, in a way”, the woman was telling the people. She paused for awhile. Her voice was smooth and soft and drifted off her lips effortlessly yet languidly; it would have required a skilled listener to detect any uncertainty.

  ”And I did not remember anything…” she continued, “…nothing but three names. One is my own, one I think belonges to my sister, and one…” she fell mute and appeared to be immersed in thought, confused. All the onlookers watched and waited for her next words.

  “…and one whose owner I can not summon up”, she completed. “I can not remember much of my past, save for only a few memories…” Even as she admitted the fact aloud, she felt revolting shivers running along her spine. Still she ventured on in an eloquent, storytelling fashion:

  “However, I know that somewhere out there, there is someone whose veins enclose the same kind of blood I carry, whose blood is from the same fountain as mine. She is the one I am trying to find” She paused for a time and looked away from the campfire that was crackling and hissing in front of her, fighting a slow battle against the biting evening wind of the wastelands, and to any observer it would have seemed as if she had suddenly become unaware of the people hunched around the fire. Her eyes happened on a dark, cloaked figure of a man who vanished onto the background of people around the fires before she could recognize. She felt a twinge of uneasy fear. Maybe it had been a mistake to start telling stories here. But it was the way of the caravaners; every traveler was expected to provide some entertainment in the form of telling stories of faraway lands they had come from. It was almost like a rule that if one wished to enjoy the safety of a caravan company, they would have to share not only their copper, but also what they knew of the world around them, as many caravaners never really traveled elsewhere than the same routes back and forth all their lives. Stories of distant lands and cities were hard currency in their minds, and they listened to her every word with keen ears.

  There were thirty or forty men in all, not including their wives and children, in this makeshift caravan camp. Now that the evening was drawing in, they had all gathered around fires made of twigs and dried animal excrement, some nursing bottles of beer or palm-tree liqueur in their hands, while some others were still readying their caravans and feeding the beasts of burden before the nightfall. The caravan seemed like a happy bunch; there were smiling faces everywhere, mischievous kids sneaking out into the desert in search on tiny adventures, and wives yelling at them to keep close to the caravan. It had appeared to be a safe choice to be travelling with, but having seen such a sinister figure watching her intently by the fire she now thought it might have been more than just sensible to keep much of her situation to herself after all. She suddenly understood how it would be all too easy to get killed, or at least clubbed, in these parts, for any given reason. She knew she could stand her ground against most enemies, but she certainly did not desire to come round somewhere in the wilderness, mugged and violated. But there was nothing to do about it now. Rubbish! A Voice whispered in her head. It was weak, barely audible – but it was there. Whenever she hesitated, which was rarely, the same voice appeared from out of nowhere, telling her things. Even though the appearances were rare, she had noticed that she could even talk to it, and it would respond. I know the voice agreed to confirm. It seemed to her that whatever the voice told her was the truth; she had learned
to trust it. She might not know who she was, or who the voice was, but she knew she had done bad things, perhaps downright evil things, and she dared not question the voice. It was best just to take it for what it was. Guidance. She flinched when she realized the crowd was staring at her, waiting for her to continue the tale. She had uttered her words and she would soon see where that would lead her.

  “As you know, I left along with this caravan of merchants two days ago from Salvatágg.” The fact that before meeting the caravaners she had escaped from Taràyam, where some the citizens had suddenly become hostile towards her even though she did not really know why, she decided to keep to herself. Because before Taràyam there was little she remembered, and she did not want to end up chased away for saying the wrong thing.

  “I had only realized I existed – as I know myself now – about three lunar circles ago. Ever since that I have just been wandering around, trying to find the sister I believe I have. And perhaps even a meaning for my travels on this earth.” Although she was, in a way, like an innocent child in this realm, she had already met many dangers and encountered more wrath than she had expected. Nevertheless, she somehow, almost instinctively, knew many things about this realm. One was that she was not like others. Her skin was of different color, her features, eyes…everything. She had tried to seek the company of her own kin, but for some reason she could not understand why she had found none. That might be the reason for her being ignored and repelled, but she could not stop thinking of why she had woken in this strange part of Brodérunn where she apparently had no place – or reason – to be. But could she reveal her true appeareance here?

  Lacking information of her past was not all that bothered her. There was also the fact that she actually still intermittently had completely blank periods, and the notion of deeds she might or might not have done under these times of darkness gnaved at her. Thus she had little knowledge of the reason people had rejected her. One’s journey can be difficult indeed when the both the past and present is constantly more or less clothed in a shadowy cloak, she had bitterly pondered. She had a nagging suspicion that her race was a hated one, and because she had the ability to hurt, even kill, under the effect of something one cannot explain, she might indeed be a threat to others.

  Under these circumstances she would have preferred travelling alone. Yet it was not wise to tempt the biting winds or the merciless bandits of the Kamatayan Desert. She did not wish to face the desert night alone. Even though she had an inkling that she perhaps was strong enough to fight even quite a large number of enemies, it seemed definitely wiser to keep up with a group. The merchants had been there as if by invitation, because things in Salvatágg seemed to be getting difficult once again, or at least she had begun to worry about things too much. There was too much unrest around. Although she had tried her best to steer clear of problems, it started to seem impossible to achieve this side of Brodérunn. Thus, she had joined their party as they were heading out to the wasteland. While they were travelling she wanted to keep them at a distance, but the cold climate had forced her, like the rest of the group, to congregate near the fire. Not very surprisingly, they had then induced her into telling them something about herself, as their habits mandated. And she had complied without thinking much, lulled into the relaxing sounds of the caravan settling for the night. Everything seemed so peaceful. But then she again awoke from her distraught thoughts when someone asked,

  “So what is it?” and she felt utterly lost for words for a second.

  “What?”, she replied, looking stunned.

  ”Your name?” the man inquired again, humored by her plight and apparent confusion. “You see, we never see any of your kin in these parts.” She gathered her thoughts, felt a pinch of anger in her heart because of their taking her plight so lightly, stared at the inquirer, gnashing her teeth together and striking in to interrupt the amused whispering of the men.

  ”Amashanae!”

  And then she allowed her hood to slide away from her face and down to the half of her back and let the red flames of the campfire have a change to shed enough light to her features to reveal her beautiful appearance.

  Dead silence fell over the men. What a stunning vision she was. There was some unexplainably divine quality of beauty about her. The lineaments of her face, attractive yet coarse, made her look very exotic and her perfect milk-like skin, color of amber, blazed in competition with that of the campfire. Her long hair, black as the darkest night of Brodérunn and yet smooth as silk landed in thick streams by her neck, settling seductively on her shoulders and from there, over the mystical blade tied on her back, somewhere inside her robe. Her shoulders and her robust yet well-formed arms were ornamented with mysterious tattoos that seemed to flare as if they were magical. A necklace, presenting an irregular, unique-looking symbol, dangled from her neck and landed on a pair of firm, buxom breasts covered by a perfectly fitted garment. Even if she only remembered three months of life she clearly knew how to exploit the power of her beauty to the fullest. But what mostly intrigued the admiring men were her eyes. They were the purest tone of glod and green darkness, looking like a pair of two perfect, almond-shaped diamonds, casting silent shimmer everywhere around. They were the kind of eyes impossible to gaze at without falling in, at least a little, and the men around her found themselves virtually drawn to them.

  ”Oh, how beautiful!”, one exclaimed in almost rapturous voice.

  “Divine!” Even the women present seemed awestruck by her appearance, but soon turned to scold their men to stop their leering, jealous of their open lust and admiration for this woman.

  “An elf?” Someone shouted from behind the lines of men.

  A quiet fell over the campfire and people around stopped on their tracks. Amashanae was on the alert because these things had happened before. Now it was obvious that her race stirred up responses in people. She was not afraid of the merchants. No, she could manage them easily. Rather than that, she was afraid simply because she did not know why people always seemed to react to her race. Whispers started to fly again, more people crowded in nearer their fire and finally someone built up the courage to ask, very carefully, but very intently:

  “Would you happen to be the elf they say stirred up trouble in Taràyam a while back? Not many elves around here?”

  There was a wave of confusion as the revelation of her race and name caused among the people. An elf? A fugitive maybe? What had she done in Taràyam? The intensity and the level of the sound emanating from the crowd started to build and disordered murmur started to straggle among the merchants and other travelers. They began discussing the turn of the events, whispering to each other and casting looks at the elf still watching them intently. The desert was not a place to be trifled with; there was hardly room in the caravan for anyone with too many mysteries. And an elf in these parts alone would indeed be considered a mystery.

  ”What shall we do with her?” and such questions were thrown about. It was an unwritten rule of the caravan – never risk the safety of a larger group in favor of that of a solitary traveler. But soon Amashanae cut it short with a simple question.

  ”Why would you do anything?” she asked hoping to obtain even a little hint why she suddenly felt assailed, and feeling absolutely alerted by all the commotion. The crowd fell silent, unsure of what would be the right course of action to take, and felt perhaps a twinge of fear towards the woman, still as motionless as a statue. Then someone shouted out:

  ”She must be up to something – an elf conjurer! In the name of Arnonos, it’s best to kill her before she bewitches all of us!” and she knew things could not go on well after that. Even if they were all regular travelling folk, they feared the unknown as much as any other less civilized people. And on the desert any fear would be that much greater and quickly turn into rage against the unknown.

  A second passed, then another, the men stepped a few paces back and checked their weapons. Amashanae stared at the crowd. Some of the men took a
few tentative steps forward, with frantic expressions on their faces, as the crowd kept whispering. She gave a chilling stare to the nearest man, who reeled a bit in hesitation, but still eyed Amashanae with eyes full of sudden fear and hate mixed with a generous amount of lust. The man was big indeed and a big man possessed by rage is always dangerous. How she wished why they hated her kin so much. Amashanae nerved herself but did not budge at all. Stationary she examined the man who suddenly spat on the ground and drew his sabre. Before anyone had had time to comprehend what was happening the man was already making towards Amashanae, screaming a curse and with his blade aimed at her chest. But still she did not move. Still she did not try to reach for her sword. Because she knew – she knew what would happen soon. She knew how the attacker would soon lie low. Dead. That is something she did not want to happen but had learned would happen, no matter how she tried to stop it. She closed her eyes, bit her teeth together and concentrated to not reacting against her own free will. She failed. The man with the sabre managed another few feet until Amashanae suddenly pounced. Like a panther protecting its litter and only blood-lusting revenge on its mind she bore down upon the attacker who hardly had time to realize what was going on. Whether he understood or not, he soon lay on the ground and a patch of dark blood under his corpse was spreading fast, his sabre thrown on the sandy soil. Amashanae’s whole body was trembling but she looked calm and serene as ever.

  A hysterical flutter of noises overcame the party, and all of them retreated further from the beauty – or the beast – watching their every move intently. Somebody sobbed, but not one said a thing. Even though she wished with every fiber of her being that they would let it be, let her be, she sensed that behind her a pack of fighters started to rally up. Like any cornered warrior her senses prepared her to fight, and she felt her wrists itching as adrenaline raged through her veins. Still she managed to stay still for now. This might turn into one of those blank periods of hers. But looking at the corpse lying before her, she suddenly feared this could lead to annihilation of the whole caravan. But at least for the time being she felt somewhat in control again. She felt almost giddy with the feeling of power, and her mind seemed on the verge of realization of something very important. But she did not want to kill anyone. If killing were to take place, it would definitely happen against her free will. So she stayed put, with a fever of battle rising in her eyes. Try to think clearly. If she adjudicated doom to a pack of innocent people, her reputation certainly would not improve. She cursed in her mind.

  “You needn’t have killed him”, a man hissed behind her to the right, creeping a little closer. Amashanae did not turn her head. She heard a rustle of metal on her left as another man drew out his blade and hissed between his teeth:

  ”For this, you will die …”, but his words were masked by another voice cutting in casually:

  “But why, ahem, He was the one who…hmm, shall we say, insulted this fine lady here”.

  Amashanae opened her eyes and quickly tilted around. There was a dagger pressing on the throat of one of the men who had circled her. It was held by the dark, cloaked figure she had seen earlier, and he was stopping the advance of the others towards Amashanae and drawing attention towards him. Amashanae quickly assessed her situation. There were seven men behind her, six of them in awkward postures, blades drawn, halted on their tracks while they eyed the new threat, unsure of how to proceed. The cloaked, sinister figure holding the dagger also puzzled Amashanae. Is he a member of this party? Turning against his kind? Yet his dark cloak bore little reminiscence to the coarse white-brown and black robes of the others.

  ”Having a little trouble here, are we?” the man continued jocundly, now looking at Amashanae but not for a second relaxing his grip on the dagger that looked dangerously sharp while resting on the other man’s throat. The caravaner kept still like a statue in fear for his life, sweat quickly beginning to trickle down his brow, and only his eyes moved around frantically. Then there was a sudden thud as the hostage suddenly realized he still held his blade and let it drop as if it was a red-hot poker. The cloaked figure chuckled at this belated response, stared down the rest of the bunch with a vicious glance and grin, and turned back to Amashanae, smiling. There was mockery in his smile, and he was obviously having fun on behalf of Amashanae and the caravan men. Amashanae made a long stare back, not knowing what to make of this quite yet, and uttered slowly,

  “The only one who needs help is you.”

  The cloaked man’s leer slackened a bit as he glanced around him at the caravan’s quite large population now gathering around them. Amashanae just grinned. Suddenly, before anyone could react, sand flew around her in a circle as she made a sweeping evasive movement, kicking up dirt, and made away from the crowd in a flash, leaving the man holding a dagger surrounded by enemies from all sides.

  The dry, sandy and hard soil of the desert drummed under Amashanae’s feet as soon as she had slipped past the edges of the trodden, broken campsite soil and it made for a formidable surface to run on. She ran like the wind, at first giving little thought to anything but escape. But she could not ignore the sound of combat heighten behind her as she slipped between the outer barrier of canvas tents and ran clear of the camp. She ran effortlessly, relieved to be out of the situation. Nevertheless she could not help but ponder whether her mysterious helper would after all be worthy of helping. Would he survive such a trick? Also, the man seemed to be somewhat familiar, but there were no recollections of him in her conscious mind.

  “No…no one is important…no-one but…my own kin”, she said aloud between breaths and her eyes turned into determined slits, and as she ran the fire died in her chest and the whole situation began to seem like an unpleasant dream to her, a nightmare she did not quite understand. She did not stop until she came to be sure that no one followed her. Gradually she slowed her pace, listening for the sounds of a possible pursuit, until she stopped still, panting from the physical effort. She looked around in all directions. The land around her certainly earned the name wasteland. The camp was still within sight but there was no indication of anyone following her. For the time being, at least, but this was exactly the kind of situation she had wanted to avoid; no shelter or people to travel with. A lone figure without a horse would not only attract all kinds of unwanted attention, but also be in serious problems in this barren country.

  “Wasteland… she said aloud while gazing at the vast, dead expanse around her. The voice tried to add something, but she ignored it, pressing it in the back of her mind before she even knew what it was saying. This was not as bad as it looked, she made herself think. Typical to elves, she had no problems seeing even in almost pitch black darkness that had already fallen over the dismal landscape. The moon had just begun its overnight journey over the land, but after the dawn would start to displace the chillness of the night with the scorching rays of the sun, there would be problems. She would desiccate.

  Amashanae felt a sudden pang of terror, for she had no water with her whatsoever. She gave herself a short moment for intense consideration and decided she had better to start looking for something – anything – to keep her alive under the desert sun. Yet there seemed to be no shelter to be found, and Amashanae already felt her energy draining as she begun to doubt her chances of survival. This brought back all kinds of disturbing thoughts, and finally she let herself drop down on the desert floor, giving in to the desperation. Crouching on the sand she rubbed her arms and looked around in the darkness but saw nothing at all.

  What to do?

  Again she had gotten into trouble, and again she had not been able to stop it from happening. It was almost too hard to remember what it was that had actually happened, but at least this time she had not blacked out. Something happened with her hands again. It was as if she had had no hands anymore but rather claws or talons. She did not know what actually happened in these cases, but what she had learned was that when danger loomed over her they would provide protection, even though s
he could not consciously control them. Even though she tried her best to stop it, they seemed to do what they willed. All this confused her even further. She stared at her hand, perfectly normal in the pale moonlight.

  Who am I and what am I looking for? Amashanae thought, desperately trying to make sense of the whirlpool of emotions raging in her head, her elven eyes still trying to find any guiding features of land in the surrounding expanse of the desert. There was the steady wind of Kamatáyan showing her the direction south, so she did not feel utterly lost and misplaced in this empty darkness. Still, albeit she knew her name and approximate location, it was pretty much the size of her knowledge.

  Why am I known in so many places and why am I hated to such an extent? Where is my sister, Hashalia? Where is my family, my father, my mother?

  Streams of images crossed her mind while she begun to tread from dune to dune, trying to find at least some kind of sign of shelter, or perhaps an oasis, before the dawn would break.

  To whom belongs the name Tahlthar?

  She knew she was a highly trained fighter. That much was evident. Yes, and then there were the hands. But little did this understanding help her now.

  “Who am I”, she whispered, almost desperately, into the darkness that surrounded her like a silvery cloak over her elven eyes.