...When Snow Fell In the Desert...

Chapter 22
Jaren started awake, iron-gray eyes casting around. She tried to pull a piece of hair from her mouth, but couldn't get her fingers to cooperate. She remembered why just before the familiar pain lanced through her hand. She felt tears rise in her eyes again, but fought them back. They were not from the pain, but from the reminder of her bitter, ultimate defeat. She cradled her hand against her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. Without her hand, she was nothing. She could only hold one knife, and wouldn't be able to hold a sword, unless the sword was more like the sabers of the Danumoars. Not only that, but it would leave her crippled side completely unprotected. She had once been a mighty asset; now, she was a dangerous disadvantage.

She sat up and climbed slowly to her feet, ignoring the pinch in her side from where the Messenger had stitched her up. She picked her way around the other inhabitants of the tent and stepped outside. It was still cold out from the night, though the air was warming quickly beneath the desert sun. There was an urgent buzz in the air, a tautness like a sitar string. She made her way over to where a large group of Riders were huddled, all murmuring to each other in that odd language. She found herself wishing for Draven.

She pushed her way through to the center of the crowd. There, on the sandy ground, lay the band's leader, his throat slit open. She shivered. Death-of course-didn't bother her, but the event did. Fingers would immediately point in the foreigners' direction, and probably directly at her. They would suggest neither the girl nor the old man, and that left a renowned assassin and a gypsy. It was a tough decision, but not too tough.

She slipped out of the crowd and was almost back to the tent before a rough hand grabbed her arm and hauled her back into the center of the mob. She kicked and struggled, but it was little use against the giant Rider.

He yelled something to the mob, and tossed her onto the ground. She spat the sand out of her mouth and glared around at them. The mob cried out in reply. He repeated whatever it was he had first said, and they cheered again.

"Shit."

Two Riders picked her up and carried her out of camp, in the same direction they had taken Draven. Was she really to be executed like this?

"Thank the Mother that the Races have advanced into more civilized beings," she muttered sarcastically to herself.

They stopped and dropped her at the mouth of a cave, and one of them drew his sword while the other positioned her on her knees and bound her wrists together. She tensed up, ready to leap out from beneath the sword stroke. However, she realized that it would be completely unnecessary after a large, white and gold form bowled both of the Riders to the ground. A pale, red-haired boy-vaguely, she recognized him as Rumen, but with cave dirt all over him. He flashed her a grin, cut her loose with a small knife, and then helped her to her feet. She snarled at him. "I don't need your help!" He shrugged, still smiling, and turned to watch Draven. The half-breed had pretty much wrapped up the job, and then turned to smile at Jaren.

"I missed you," he said, baring his fangs in a grin. She, however, doubted that he meant that, so she glared at him for good measure and then turned to Rumen. "What are we going to do about the others? We can't very well just leave them there. They'll be killed, and I doubt it will be a formal execution such as mine."

"Don't worry; I have an idea."

~*~

The Riders had picked up camp and begun to move. They had turned loose the two horses and the Il'numaar belonging to Draven, although those three were easily retrieved. The trio mounted their beasts of burden and began the weary trek behind the Rider camp, waiting for the chance to steal back their friends. The journey lasted three days and two nights. On the evening of the third night, they arrived at a vast though crudely built city. At first, Jaren couldn't see it, for its color was almost the same as the desert sands. After a moment, though, she began to recognize what was casting the square shadows, and almost smiled at herself and her ignorance. Of course the Riders would have a base city, she told herself. Even nomads needed somewhere to regroup.

Draven positioned them behind a hill just near the city, and they huddled next to each other, hugging themselves tightly-at least, Rumen and Jaren hugged themselves. The chill of the desert was unbearable to them. Draven, however, with his bare bronze chest, didn't seem to have even a single goose bump on him.

"In the morning, we'll sneak in and get them. It will take a lot of being careful, because they'll have them guarded, but I'm pretty sure we can get in and out without much trouble." Rumen nodded at Draven, acknowledging his agreement to the plan. Jaren just pretended like she hadn't heard.

They eventually fell asleep, Jaren huddled between the two men. When they awoke, Rumen was gone, and she was tucked tightly against Draven, his arms around her, and her legs thrust between his. She was shivering, despite herself. At first, her instinct was to cuddle down closer against him, but she thought better and slipped away from him. Rumen came back, looking grim. "They have the Merchild tied to a post, and they are gathering straw and long-dead limbs around her. Apparently, there is to be some sort of sacrifice?"

Draven sat up and brushed the sand from his skin. He shook his mane of hair, sand spraying out from it. "It is a sign-they plan to fight, with another tribe. The blood is to appease the gods and win them victory."

Rumen frowned. "What an odd practice."

"Why is that?" Draven asked, though his voice revealed to he who listened carefully that he really could have cared less for the Sayer's opinion on things.

Rumen, obviously, did not listen carefully. "Well, will the other clan not do the same?"

Draven nodded a little, not seeing where this was going. Jaren sighed and broke in. "Draven, what he's getting at is, why would they think it would make them win if the other tribe is going to do it too?"

"Ah." Draven thought a moment, and then smiled one of those vicious, frightening smiles. "Because, my dear ones, this tribe's sacrifice is the greatest of all: A prophetess, which is deemed evil; also, a Mer-the reason the deserts are dry."

Jaren crouched there in the shadows of one of the stone buildings, gray eyes peering through the constant dust at the Merchild. She was taking things bravely, her expression somber, her eyes set straight forward as if determined not to look down at what would be her destruction. Pain lanced up Jaren's side; she ignored it. There was Draven, screaming out one of those horrid battle cries at the end of one of the alleys. Everyone turned.

This was her cue.

She dashed forward, silent and practically invisible. To the sacrifice-to-be she flew, her good hand pulling out one of her knives and quickly sawing through the ropes that bound the Merchild. The little blue child almost fell, and then quickly retreated into Jaren's arms. She felt eyes on her, and quickly ran back into hiding... but too slowly, apparently, for there was a cry, followed by footsteps coming quickly behind her.

Luckily, Rumen had fulfilled his part of the bargain. The rest of their companions went racing out of the crude city and into the desert on steeds helped along by magic, supplied by Draven and herself. Carrying the Merchild was difficult, especially in the heat. She stumbled, and dropped the child. She almost continued on, but doubled back and grabbed the child again. What was wrong with her? Was she becoming... selfless? The horror!

A firm hand grabbed her arm and swung her into the air. She landed roughly behind a slender figure with fiery hair. Why was she so high up? There was motion beneath her; she looked down. A blood-red sheet covered powerful muscles that coiled and then released, and they shot forward. One arm flew around the slender waist; the other held tight to the Merchild. Understanding dawned. Samara and her Messenger stallion raced across the desert, chasing the rest of the group, with Jaren and the Merchild clinging to Samara precariously. The horse's step never faltered, his gait as smooth as cream. Quickly they caught the rest of the group, and his speed slowed. Jaren made the Merchild to cling to Samara, and made the dangerous leap to her own steed alone. She risked a glance over her shoulder, and saw Draven quickly catching up on the frightening beast. Even though she knew it for an ally, it was a frightening thing to see barreling up behind you.

She turned to face forward, and thus began their flight. They ran, the horses dashing over endless sand and scrub. For hours they ran, the sun passing from behind them to over them to in front of them before their steeds stumbled to a halt. Jaren and Draven both felt faint from channeling so much energy into the equines, and they both fell from their mounts. Luckily, the desert sand cushions well, and neither were hurt. Very, painfully slowly, they withdrew the magic from the equines. Pain lanced through Jaren's skull, slowly spreading down her neck and to the rest of her body until every membrane ached. Was she hallucinating, or was there a tree there? Her gray eyes struggled to find the shadow of the plant she was so certain she saw... and then, darkness fell. She wasn't sure whether it was night, or her own consciousness fading, but either way, she slept.

When she woke, figures stood all around her. She leapt up, fearing they'd been caught. A familiar pain greeted her far-too-rapid rise, and she felt almost as if she would faint again. Still, it was avoided, and she looked around. The others seemed comfortable, so she relaxed a little. Draven nodded to her softly. "It is alright," he murmured. "They are my tribe." There was an odd joy on his face that she had not seen for quite some time. "Their overlord is dying... and... I am the desired replacement."