Sons of Ironstorm: Book 5 - Griffon's War

Chapter 1: Siroccos of the Desert

"Thousands of cycles ago, when Humanity first came to the dunes,

It is written in the old tongue that thousands died.

Hunger, thirst, heat, and fatigue; they all took their toll.

The creatures of the desert: the scorpion, the viper, the biting spider,

These were even less merciful, killing thousands more.

Only by fighting against the dunes did the survivors win.

And when they defeated the desert, they fought each other,

Knowing only conflict their entire existence."

- From druidic treatises about the Scattered Kingdoms

The knife, finely honed to a razor's edge and perfectly balanced, danced carefully across his brown, scarred fingers. A twist here and a twirl there before it hopped to the next digit; it was a dance the weapon, a curve-bladed desert dagger, had made a thousand times before, its master using the intricate motion to focus his mind.

Not that there was much in the chamber he sat in that could distract him. It was a simple box of weathered stone and polished marble with slit windows on its two outer walls and a vaulted ceiling of expertly fitted arches and slate tile. Other than the chair he sat on, it's only other furnishings were a couple of thick, nomad-style carpets in colorful hues of russet, orange, and bronze, strategically placed to cover cold stone on the way to the pair of windows.

Letting his breath come in and out in time to the gentle whisper of the wind passing by the windows, he sent the dagger dancing once more across his scarred knuckles.

"My Lord," a quiet voice said respectfully in the desert tongue from the chamber's only door. "El'Faetwah has approached the gates once more."

"Turn him aside with arrows and spears as we have a hundred times," the man replied in the same language, his voice as dry as the desert itself. "And water the approach with the blood of the magi that have come from their islands to lend him their aide." He turned slightly to look over at the man standing in the doorway in a torn and bloody uniform. "Why must I tell you this, general, time and time again? It should be as soon as you see that ferret's face, fill it with arrows!"

The officer quickly bowed, his expression apologetic.

"Forgiveness, my lord, but he approaches alone, without either his personal guard or the Chain Islanders!" the general reported. "Flying a banner of truce!"

"Truce?" the man repeated with a snort of disbelief, the dagger suddenly still. "The man has attacked me at every turn for over 20 cycles. Never has he ..." Then abruptly he was standing and savagely stuffing the dagger into the sash tied around his waist.

"To the gates!"

Abdulleh kaeDrith el'Faetwah frowned as he looked up at the massive gates of the Dragon's last holdings in the Scattered Kingdoms.

- Are you sure you wouldn't rather just knock the gates down and confront him? - a quiet voice asked into the depths of his mind. Abdulleh sighed and nodded even though he was alone.

- I am sure, general, - he replied with his mental voice. It had taken a while to get used to how the Chain Islanders spoke into one's mind over distances but now that he had mastered it, it was second nature.

- A boot on his neck will only make Bek resist that much more strongly and we'll be forced to kill him. And if what the elves are saying is true, we need every capable warrior with us when the Return washes over the desert sands. Or it'll be our blood being spilt instead of that of the demons! -