chapter 1

~~

Tumbleweed. A vulture’s scattered skeleton. Blistering feet. All enveloped by a blanket of hot sand that stretched out in every direction. The afternoon sun beat down on the two weary travellers. One, a young boy in his early adolescence. The other, an old man with an everlasting twinkle in his eye. They each carried a jackal on their backs with the arrows still lodged in the carcasses.

Suddenly, the old man halted.

He cheerily asked, “Charles, my boy. Do you see what I see up ahead?” Each of his words were spellbindingly raspy. The boy craved to be in his presence, for the old man exuded unconditional love.

“Yes uncle, it’s a Raider. They’ve recently set up a post at the far end of the village.” Charlie wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his sleeve. “What do you suppose we do? There are Raiders at every possible entrance.”

The old man dropped his jackal. He turned around and lifted his hat off his gray mane, perfectly eclipsing the sun. Now, his near-toothless smile was the brightest light source. With the other hand on his hip, he closed his eyes and began a merry jig. The pots and pans within his rucksack clapped along as he shook. Despite being ancient, he had a child’s heart. “La da dee, la da DUM!” he laughed.

It heartened Charlie to be in Uncle’s presence, but the truth was that he was afraid. Terrified almost. The Raiders took his parents. Not only that, practically the entire village’s adult population were either slaughtered or converted to Raiders by force. For the past few months, the settlement consisted mostly of children and the elderly. The only surviving adults capable of protection resided in the saloon, in which Charlie lived and worked. With no towns nearby, and with trading routes seized by the raiders, the nameless village was in a state of emergency. This was something that nobody talked about, let alone acted on.

“He’s going to take our jackals, Uncle. Can’t we turn around, please?”

The old man looked up at Charlie and concluded his dance with a lopsided twirl. He recovered on one knee, yet never lost that magic smile. “Turn around? But he might have something to say, Charles! We must give people a chance to speak, mustn’t we?”

"Yes Uncle,” Charlie muttered. There was no use in arguing. He lowered his head and began walking in the direction of the Raider. Maybe if he stayed small and unassuming, he could enter the village with his head intact.

“Very good!” the old man tightened the straps of his rucksack and stood up, watching as Charlie begrudgingly walked towards him. Just as their paths crossed such that the boy would take the lead, the old man offered the boy his hand. Charlie looked up at the very eyes of age. His dry lips couldn’t help it, they just had to smile back. He took Uncle’s calloused hand. With jackals on their backs, they approached the dark figure looming ahead.

~

As the two companions approached the Raider, Charlie managed to distract himself with a seagull flying overhead.

Now if I could train myself to aim at that bird, he thought, we’d have a few nights’ dinner!

Although entertaining, his daydreams were short-lived. The Raider’s daunting features were slowly emerging.

Like all Raiders, his entire outfit was black. Boots, pants and linen tunic. His head was wrapped in a massive black scarf of which the excess fluttered loosely in the wind. How these men didn’t suffer heat stroke was truly a mystery. To Charlie, however, their scimitar was the worst part. The curved blade was studded with black diamonds and slept unsheathed in the fabric tied around each Raider’s waist. Their stature was always monstrous, each standing at least a full head taller than what is normally considered a tall person. This Raider had his arms crossed in front of him, and he had probably been tracking their every move from behind his eye slits. The last unnervingly unifying feature between all Raiders was their silence.

Complete and total silence.

When they rode.

When they communicated.

When they attacked.

Meanwhile, Uncle was walking tall, picking (and eating) termites out of his curly white beard. Whistling a jolly tune and going on about the importance of morning stretches.

Of course, Charlie thought.

“Don’t you agree, Charles my boy?” he asked inquisitively.

“Sure, uncle,” Charlie muttered.

Uncle grinned. “I thought you would. Nothing like a good morning stretch to keep those muscles in tune. How else do you think I can perform my world-famous stunts? Watch out!”

“Uncle, please! I – “

It was too late. The old man dropped his jackal and rucksack and began sprinting in the direction of the Raider.

Oh no, thought Charlie.

“Hup!” cried Uncle and up he sprung, into the air and down for a perfect cartwheel. The sand rose and fell around him, dancing about his twirling body like golden glitter. ‘Round and ’round the old man spun until he once again propelled himself airborne. He’s going for his signature, Charlie thought - a swan dive into a summersault, finished like a real toy soldier standing stiff at attention. Uncle had always worn a serious face during his acrobatics, but he invariably cracked a smile at the sight of his audience’s laughter. The trouble was that this time, his audience was a cold-blooded murderer. Also, he had never stuck a landing before. He usually flip-flopped about until he found his balance. Incidentally, Raiders have this funny quirk about them where even the slightest misstep is seen as a lethal threat requiring annihilation. Charlie, knowing this, buried his face in his hands and awaited the worst.

“Oh, I can’t look,” the scared boy whimpered to himself.

Sure enough, as time has proven it to be true, Uncle absolutely biffed the landing. He came down on both ankles with his arms swinging wildly about him. To break his fall, he broke into another summersault.

Then another.

And another.

Feeling certain that the end had come, Charlie finally peeked through his fingers. Although what he saw was certainly not the end…it was worse.

Uncle was sitting criss-cross not two inches from the feet of the Raider, who towered over him completely unmoved.

“Uncle!” yelled Charlie. He dropped his jackal and rucksack and ran up to the two men. He was now close enough to yell at the Raider, but not much else. He loved Uncle, but he had also seen what a Raider was capable of. He had seen what they did to his parents.

“Excuse me, my good man,” Uncle placed his hands on his thighs and stood himself up.

Oh dear, this is it! thought Charlie.

“I believe that you require our valuables prior to our entering the city. Our bags are well behind us, but I assure you, their contents are of no use to you. In fact, I happen to have what you want right here. Right in my pockets.”

A humid desert breeze weaved between the company. Charlie’s hand quivered on the hilt of his undrawn dagger, his eyes locked onto Uncle. As for the Raider’s eyes, they were set ahead as if he were still surveying the land. Uncle stood smiling, possibly waiting for a response. A few moments passed like eternity to Charlie, when finally, the Raider extended his black palms in a gesture of acceptance. A Raider’s patience, however, was infamously thin.

Uncle had to act fast.

He reached into his jacket pockets and pulled out two tied pouches.

“This pouch here contains untold riches of the Far East,” and he dropped it into the Raider’s outstretched palm.

“This second one, well…I’m not too sure what it contains. You wouldn’t mind helping me open it, now, would you? These old hands of mine are terrible with untying small thread”

Please Uncle, stop it. Charlie could barely take anymore, but he knew he was helpless just standing there.

Uncle now dangled the small pouch well over his head, approximately eye level with the Raider. He imparted slight momentum as if he were taunting a housecat. His smile grew even wider, and his eyes sparkled brighter than ever.

Come on big guy, thought Uncle. Come on.

This was it; time had come to a standstill. More than anything, Charlie wanted to fall unconscious. Or even better, yell out. Something along the lines of, STOP! Please, that old man was the last flicker of love that his little village had, and love must survive. For hope’s sake.

But of course, nothing of the sort happened. Charlie was well off to the side and helpless. Uncle continued living on the verge of extinction and the Raider remained motionless. His hand was still outstretched. Waiting.

Just when Charlie really was beginning to lose his balance, the Raider reached for the hilt of his evil scimitar. Suddenly, Charlie turned automated. He unsheathed his dagger and began charging the Raider and screaming a primal scream.

The Raider drew his blade and in one fell swoop, tore the floating pouch clean in half. In that very instant, a puff of twinkling purple dust consumed the Raider’s head. Charlie stopped in his tracks. Uncle managed to mostly evade the mysterious powder, obviously knowing its effects, but it seemed to follow him like a swarm of bees. He began coughing manically while the Raider, who was absolutely engulfed by the stuff, dropped his scimitar and fell to his knees.

Finally, Uncle’s frantic eyes located Charlie. Between the coughs, he flashed him a confident smile. “Charles, my boy! Fetch the men, they’ll return our bodies to the saloon. The sleeping elixir will lose effect by nightfall!”

Charlie stood stunned. “Y…yes, Uncle.”

“Go, boy!” coughed the old man, “go!” Uncle dropped to his stomach. His eyes began to close. He felt spellbound by a cool hush of sleep. Within seconds, he slumbered. So too was the state of the Raider, who, like a true warrior, slipped unconscious on his knees.

Charlie ran. At first, he kept his eyes locked on the paralyzed Raider. He couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that the mercenary might suddenly start after him. If that did happen, Charlie would be caught in a matter of seconds. Raiders were remarkably agile on sand. He took a deep breath and focused on the short distance ahead. Think positive, he reminded himself. Without turning back, Charlie felt that the old man was safe and that his smile was the last part of him to fade, if it faded at all.

The seagull, Charlie’s fantasy dinner, was circling him as he ran among the tents and clay huts.

It watched as the child’s sweat soaked the sand beneath his feet.

Watched as the strap of his sandal tore open, leaving him to run the rest of the way half-barefooted.

Watched as he knocked frantically on the saloon doors, summoning a small gang of burly men.

Watched as they surrounded him, listening to his words intently.

Watched as their countenance grew increasingly alarmed, and their legs grew quickly restless.

Watched as he was swept up mid-sentence and thrown onto the shoulders of one of the men.

Watched as they all ran towards the outskirts of the village.

Watched as the kettle of peace sang with the steam of war.