The caravan snaked across the desert in a cloud of dust and biting flies. Personal wealth and Clan status determined one's place in line, and so Gavram Belso's three wagons were neither at the front nor the rear, but in the very ordinary, very dirty, very fly-ridden middle. Of course, one could take his chances by being an outrider - free of most of the dust and flies, but more vulnerable to attack from vraks, wandering unclean spirits, bandits, and worse things. Gavram shuddered. "No thank you, I'm just fine where I am," he muttered.
"Talking to yourself, Uncle?" his nephew Arvid asked with an insolent grin. "They say that's a sign of creeping senility, you know."
Gavram scowled and poked him in the ribs with the butt of his whip. "In my day, we didn't mouth off to our elders."
Arvid rubbed his side. "Aw, you know I was just--"
"Or," interrupted his uncle, "they didn't get a piece of hard candy!" He held out a gauze-wrapped bit of honeyed sugar tauntingly and his nephew's eyes lit up as he reached for it. Nearly twenty years of age and still a boy, thought Gavram before relenting and letting Arvid grab the treat.
After a few minutes of quiet (or as quiet as the caravan ever got), Arvid pointed out one of the Lower Dorwine's ubiquitous ruins. "Why are there so many ruins down this way, Uncle? And who made them? And why are they ruins?" he mumbled around a mouthful of candy.
Gavram sighed. "Don't they teach you young ones anything in Clan school any more?"
Arvid flashed his strong, white teeth in another grin. "Of course, but everyone knows you're a scholar and know more about the deserts than nearly anyone, even the Loremasters."
Gavram frowned and splayed his fingers in a forked sign to ward off ill-luck. "Don't speak ill of the Loremasters, boy," he said, but his heart wasn't in it. He never could resist a well-timed compliment. "Long ago, the Vasty Blue was much more vast than it is today. It's gulfs and inlets reached far inland from here, and the land was rich and green. Another civilization thrived here then, back in the days when our people were warring savages in the far far north. They prayed to what some call living gods, and what others call demons of the Firey Pit. Their magics were great, but their hubris was greater. Some say they tried to tame the weather on a grand scale, and it spelled their doom. The ocean began to retreat, the rains stopped, and the desert began its march. They--"
He was interrupted by a harsh shrieking howl that seemed to go on forever. In the shocking stillness that followed, cries of "Vrak! 'Ware Vrak!" could be heard up and down the caravan.
Uncle and nephew glanced at each other. Arvid gulped and his ruddy face paled noticeably under the sad beginnings of his first adult beard. "Be calm and remember your training," murmured Gavram. "Now go and rouse the hirelings and see to the weapons locker."
### Latest WIP ###
