Sandstorm (2 page)

Dismounting, Sahayl handed his horse off to waiting hands, and headed for the tent at the back of the camp, followed quickly by Wafai. The only indications that tent was important was its larger size and the guards stationed on either side of the entrance.

"Do not even enter," a voice like shattered glass barked from the depths of the tent. "You have thirty minutes, my son, to get ready, or I will carry your head to the meeting and offer it as a gift of peace. I think it would go over well."

Sahayl hid a wince and swooped into a low bow. "As you command, honored father." Turning sharply around, he shared a look with Wafai before they went their separate ways to prepare for the pending meeting.

In his own tent, Sahayl quickly stripped down and climbed into a tub of water which had probably been hot at some point - but the cooled water felt good after an afternoon of riding beneath the hot son, and the unexpected fight at the end. He scrubbed quickly, washing away sweat and sand, smiling faintly at the faint scent of cloves in the soap. Climbing out of the tub, he combed fingers through his hair, working out the worst of the tangles in the thick, short curls. "Saa, what an evening this will be."

Moving to the bed, Sahayl looked over the clothes set out and then began to dress, slipping first into thin, lightweight pants went on first, followed by a much sturdier pair dyed black.

Next was a lightweight, sleeveless white shirt over which went a thick, black vest. The front and back were stitched heavily with white and silver thread, forming a pattern that gave the impression of whirling sands. Next he shrugged into a black robe, and the servant pulled it loosely shut, leaving it gaping just enough to show the white and silver stitching of the vest beneath, tying it with a sash with markings to match the vest.

On his right hand was a large silver ring set with a fat, red gem. It matched the stone gleaming in the pommel of his large, curving sword, which Sahayl belted on once the servant was finished dressing him.

He combed fingers through his hair once more, managing to bring some order to the thick tangle, but after a moment gave up with a sigh. There was no time to fix his hair, and it would be covered anyway. Grabbing his head and face coverings, Sahayl left his tent and strode back toward his father's.

Wafai appeared at his side halfway there. His skin was the same dark, dusky gold as Sahayl's, but slightly more weathered. Where Sahayl had dark gold eyes, Wafai's were like wet sand. His hair was long and straight, still damp from a bath and neatly braided, falling just past his neck. He was dressed exactly as Sahayl, the only differences the patterning on his vest and the ring on his finger - a thick silver band set with a large amber. "Lady spare us the wrath of your father."

"She never has before," Sahayl muttered. "Why should today be special? Saa, I will be content if the night goes well."

"May the Lady will it so," Wafai said, then both fell silent as they were admitted to the tent of the Ghost Sheik.

Sheik Hashim glared at them. "Sahayl, just once could you be bothered to do exactly as you're told? We have enough problems without the Ghost being unable to rely upon their Amir."

Sahayl bowed low. "I beg forgiveness of the Lady and my honored father. Events unexpected slowed our return. I offer my most humble apologies."

Hashim grunted. "Your mother taught you pretty words, my son, but that is about all she taught you. What delayed you?"

Quickly Sahayl related all that had occurred, presenting the feathers and medallions that Wafai handed to him.

"Heathens playing desert savage," Hashim said with a grunt. "Hardly worth my time."

"But how-"

Hashim cut him off with a short motion of his hand. "People travel to and from the Desert more than any of us like. If a man leaves the Sands, he will speak more of them than he should to the first pretty face that asks. I do not care. They are dead; that is what matters. No doubt they wish they had stayed safely curled against their mothers' breasts. Heathens and shadows are not our concern; our concern should be for real Falcons and you have very nearly succeeded in making us late! I do not have time to punish either of you now," he looked briefly at Wafai, the only acknowledgement he had noticed the man at all, "but you can be sure you will be dealt with later. Tetcha." He stormed from the tent, barking orders once he was outside.

"Saa…" Sahayl said, making a face at his father's back.

"All will be well eventually, Sandstorm Amir." Wafai gripped his shoulder briefly, then began to pull his head wrap into place, hiding all but his light brown eyes.

Sahayl sighed. "Eventually, I sense, will not come soon enough. Lady prove me wrong." With another sigh he led the way from the tent, accepting the reigns of his horse and swinging smoothly up into the saddle.

They were riding out to meet with enemies. Lady willing, they would return with news of new allies. Sahayl watched his father as Hashim barked orders to his men. Seven other men would accompany them to the appointed meeting place, a small Oasis two hours ride from their camp, making for ten in their group altogether. Absently Sahayl pulled up and arranged his headdress, hiding his thick curls from sight, tugging up the fabric that would protect his face. Only his gold eyes were visible when he finished, still locked on his father, dark with worries so familiar he could not remember not having them.

Gold eyes and a height of just over six feet were the only obvious features he and his father had in common. His father tended toward large and wide; Sahayl had just enough bulk that he was not sneered at for being skinny. His curly hair had come from his mother, as had his long, slender hands and less severe, handsome features. There was nothing of the intimidating Crusher in him - but plenty of the Sandstorm.

With that his father had always been content, even pleased. Though lately nothing pleased, and more frequently, everything displeased. Sliding his eyes away from his father, Sahayl shared a look with Wafai, who gave a minute shrug.

Saa, it would have to be dealt with later. First they must attempt to avoid more fighting.

Lady keep his father from ruining everything.

Ten men, dressed in varying combinations of brown and black, waited for them at the small oasis, their horses drinking from the small pool. As they approached, the few who had been sitting stood, hands moving automatically to swords before relaxing.

At the head of a group was a man who looked nearly the size of the horse he rode, swathed in a pattern of light and dark browns that no doubt meant a great deal to his tribe. More distinctive than the patterned robe was the array of feathers and silver medallions. Feathers of gold, brown, white and black were bundled together in seeming haphazard fashion, secured with string and silver medallions with strange patterns. To most, the feathers and medallions only meant the wearer was of the Falcon Tribe. Their true meanings were known only to Falcon. This man, Sheik Jabbar, wore finer feathers and medallions than the rest.

Some things were obvious even to outsiders.

But the feathers and robes paled in comparison to the creatures that gave the Falcon their name. This group had brought five, all with the familiar brown, gold and black patterning of Desert Falcons. No other tribe in the Desert was able to train the birds as this Tribe could.

This talent had made the Falcon tribe one of the most powerful in the desert, at least among those tribes with whom they dealt.

Sahayl dismounted smoothly and moved to stand alongside his father. Where the Falcon had their feathers and medallions, Cobra their scales tattoos, Horse their carefully carved charms, and all the other Tribes each their precious signatures….Ghost wore only the rings on their hands. To outsiders they would be a dizzying array of metals and jewels. If they ever saw them. But Ghosts wore gloves at all times when outside of camp. The utter lack of distinction was what made them distinct.

"Talasa," Hashim said, nodding his head in a slight bow.

Jabbar returned the gesture. "Salata. Sheik Hashim, it is good to greet you on clean sands."

"It gladdens me to greet you beneath clear skies," Hashim returned. "May the Lady keep it so and lead us to peace and harmony."

"Mind, body, soul," Jabbar responded, completing the formal greetings. "Why have you suddenly decided to shift toward peace?" His eyes were the color of the rich brown feathers decorating his robes, and as sharp as the bird on his shoulder. Sheik Jabbar was no small part of the reason Falcon was Ghost's greatest rival.

Should the reconciliation begun here tonight hold, the power of both Tribes would be enough no other Tribe could even begin to compete. Over time, Sahayl knew, his father would want to use that power to gain control over as many Tribes as could be located and made to obey.

Sahayl was still hoping to prevent that, somehow, but for now he would focus only on obtaining peace with Falcon.

Sheik Hashim gave another small bow. "We go in circles with our fighting, Sheik Jabbar. I see no point in continuing the struggle. An alliance would be more beneficial than hostilities."

"Hostility is the way of the Sands," Jabbar said, unmoved. "It is also the way of the Crusher."

He slid his eyes to Sahayl. "Nor do I trust that the Sandstorm seeks peace."

It was only the thought of what would happen to him if he did that kept Sahayl from rolling his eyes. His nickname had spread out across the Sands, but the reason for it had been lost to them. Only those who had raised him and grown up beside him knew that he had been called thus as a child because he was forever causing messes and losing things.

Everyone else seemed to think it had more to do with his fighting style. It helped the Tribe, and had once made his father happy. Otherwise he would be glad if no one but Wafai ever said it again. He stared back at Jabbar for several seconds, then respectfully dropped his eyes, head dipping politely. When Jabbar shifted attention back to his father, Sahayl allowed his gaze to wander.

Some of the men he recognized; familiar faces from skirmishes that had not ended as bloodily as most encounters. Others he did not.

His gaze landed on a man to the far right, standing just behind the rest of the men on Jabbar's right side. That one he did not recognize, but he knew him on sight anyway from the descriptions of his men.

Slight build, obvious even under the disfiguring robes, an array of feathers and medallions that seemed completely random, though a few Sahayl had started to pick out as possibly marks of battle. This man had few of those, but that did not really matter. It was his eyes.

Eyes that his men were always describing. They had not exaggerated.

As blue as the sky, startling and bright in a place where shades of brown were prevalent.

Western eyes, set against skin that was definitely not Western. That dusky gold color, only hints of it visible above the mouth-covering, was something no Westerner would ever achieve.

They were beautiful eyes.

He was snapped to attention by the too-familiar sound of growing tension in his father's voice. Until the blue eyes, he'd been listening to the negotiations just enough to keep apace.

He wondered what crucial bit he had missed and cursed himself .

His father's anger built quietly, so quietly that only those who knew him well could anticipate when he would finally lose his temper. Sahayl stifled a sigh and twitched his fingers at his side. The movement was slight, little more than a show of restlessness in having to stand for so long. But Wafai would know the signal immediately, and would sign to the others. The men would be on guard.

Sahayl curled his fingers back into a loose fist and sent up a silent prayer that his father would not ruin everything. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to wear his father down, convince him that the idea to reconcile had been Hashim's idea, get him to believe that reconciling with the Falcon would get him more power faster than simply trying to kill them.

What tipped the scale, he didn't know, but suddenly his father exploded into action, sword drawn even as he hurled epithets in retaliation of a slight that was probably all in his head.

He should have paid closer attention! Though he knew he could have paid all the attention in the world, and it would have done nothing except to show just how unstable the Sheik of the Ghost Tribe truly was.

The sound of a sword being drawn filled the oasis, and Sahayl shoved his father aside as steel flashed, catching the blade against his own barely in time. Someone - he though the Falcon Sheik - barked out a command for no one to move, for his opponent to cease, but his opponent ignored the order.

He stared into blue eyes, and for a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Then Sahayl forced himself to think. Here was a chance for distraction, to draw attention away from his father, give everyone a chance to break it up, get away. There would be no chance for peace now, but perhaps he could avoid bloodshed this time. With a savage cry, Sahayl pressed an attack, his movements fast and brutal. He knew to most combatants and onlookers he looked as though he fought wildly, with barely any control. A Sandstorm sweeping through the oasis.

It was just enough that no one else would interfere - especially as the blue-eyed man had been the first to attack.

Hashim would not thank his son for stealing the fight, but Sahayl had resigned himself to that before he'd drawn his sword.

The blue-eyed man was good. Very good. It was no wonder his men had encountered him again and again. But he wasn't used to Sahayl's wild style, and Sahayl pressed that advantage ruthlessly, finally knocking the man off balance, knocking him down with enough force that as he struggled to sit up, the blue-eyed man lost his head and face coverings.

Sahayl blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. "What's this?" he asked loudly. "The Falcon is so desperate for soldiers they've begun enlisting women?" He sneered at the man crouched in the sand. Those blue eyes, blazing with rage, were set in a fine-boned, elegantly sculpted face. There were further hints of his western blood in the lines of that face, more still in hair that was true black, almost blue where the sun hit it. Sweat beaded on his upper lips, blood staining them where the man's teeth had scraped them at some point in the fight. The man was beautiful.