Sandstorm Read online

  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.

  Silence had fallen as Sahayl spoke, and he continued speaking, striving to bury his father's behavior beneath his own. "What sort of brutes would bring such a flower into the world of men?" He leered. "Were you a peace offering, my desert rose?"

  With a snarl of rage the man threw himself up and forward, and Sahayl felt the sting as steel whispered along his cheek, could feel the blood beginning to seep. Still laughing, he returned the favor and watched smugly as blood blossomed on the man's right cheek.

  "Setcha!" Sheik Jabbar's voice thundered out across the oasis, forceful enough that even Sahayl stopped moving. Jabbar motioned to his men, to the blue-eyed man. "We are going.

  Tetcha. Now."

  Obediently the blue-eyed man relaxed his fighting stance, watching Sahayl cautiously as he retrieved his head wrap and then stalked to a horse the color of smoke, throwing hostile glances over his shoulder, clearly displeased that the fight had ended. Sahayl watched as Falcon mounted and gathered together, then with a sharp order from their Sheik, rode off into the Desert, vanishing quickly from sight.

  Sahayl steeled himself as his father stormed toward him. He dropped his sword, lest he react without thinking and do something he and the rest of Ghost would regret.

  "How dare you!" Hashim bellowed, fist flying, crashing into Sahayl's jaw. If he had not learned long ago how to take his father's blows, Sahayl would not be alive. He weathered the hits and let his father rage, biting back cries of pain and stifling the urge to fight back, knowing that to do so would do more harm than good. At last the storm of anger abated, leaving them both panting heavily, Sahayl on his knees in the sand. "Be certain I do not see your face anytime soon," Hashim said, then turned away and mounted his horse, curtly ordering the men to follow.

  Laughing bitterly, Sahayl wiped blood from his lip with the back of his fist and allowed Wafai to help him up. "Saa, that could have been much worse."

  "Yes," Wafai said quietly, "and one day it will be, if he is not stopped."

  "But who would stop him? I think half the Tribes in the Desert must hate us, yet none of them can manage to kill him…and I do not like the options left to us." He laughed again, and for a moment it sounded more like a sob. "I do not know how much more of this I can take, brother of my soul."

  Wafai embraced him tightly. "We will find a way, my Sandstorm Amir. Until then…"

  "We continue to improvise." Sahayl grimaced as they reached his horse, groaning in pain as he mounted. "It makes me tired, Wafai. Saa, so very tired indeed."

  Two

  It never failed. When he wanted to find something it was nowhere to be found. The very moment all he wanted was his bed and a warm companion to make everything better, he found that which had cost him six weeks of aggravating work.

  Grumbling softly enough the words were absorbed by the cloth over his mouth, he slid from his horse and quietly ordered her to stay. The job would go much faster if he could ride her all the way into the camp, but the very last thing he wanted or needed was for the Viper to realize they had an intruder.

  Such discoveries tended to be bad for the intruder's health, and as he was the intruder he was hoping to keep his health intact.

  And it would be all too like the Lady to confound his efforts after four hard years of work.

  Continuing to grumble he slunk in the direction of the camp, heart beating rapidly in his chest

  .As many times as he had done this, it never failed to make him nervous. He loved and hated it. He would not be sorry when his task was at last completed. But Lady only knew how many more Tribes there were to go…

  Six weeks it had taken him to figure out where in the camp it was. Six weeks! Usually simply finding the camps was the hard part. After that it was relatively easy. Sneak into enemy territory, take a look at their most valuable possession, then slip right out again. Easy as anything. The Lady laughed at him, he knew it.

  He paused alongside a rough rock wall in a twisting, winding canyon that - he could not help it - snaked its way toward the primary camp of the Viper Tribe. He wondered idly, or maybe not so idly, how many people who were not Viper had traveled this way and lived to tell about it.

  Probably not many. Viper was one of the most vicious tribes in the Desert. Just like their namesake, they were fond of hiding in wait and springing upon their prey in surprise.

  So he had better watch himself. He always did, but still.

  His lips twisted in a smile beneath the fabric covering his mouth, and he laughed softly at himself. Too much sand in his head, clearly.

  He grew more serious as he finished wending his way through the mazelike canyon.

  Crouching in a dark corner, he waited. The patrol should pass by shortly, after which he would have exactly three minutes to reach the tent that was his destination.

  Thank the Lady it was not the Sheik's tent this time. He hated when it was. Of course, that also usually meant he did not spend six weeks of frustrated searching. Lady will his job be nearly done. He loved the Sands, sensed his heart belonged to them as much as his father's had not, but he would like to enjoy them, be a part of them, not skulk about in the chilly night looking for the quickest way to be a scavenger's next meal. He snorted. Meal. Che. More like snack. All his weight came off with the clothes.

  Stifling an urge to laugh at himself, reassured that even in the middle of the desert he was his own worst enemy, he tensed as the patrol passed by. They moved with near-perfect soundlessness, no doubt the result of years and years of training. No one heard a Viper until too late.

  Unless he was good at not being seen.

  Grinning behind his face cover, he waited until the patrol vanished around the corner and then bolted. His steps were soundless. One didn't survive four years sneaking around the desert unless he had a talent for it.

  He stilled as he reached the second largest tent in the camp, certain everyone could hear his heart as it tried to hammer out of his chest. Steady…steady…near-soundless steps reached his ears, and then two men strode by on patrol in the inner ring. They passed out of his vision a moment later. He didn't move. Two minute later another pair of men passed by. He snorted in disgust as he heard them nearly a minute ahead of time. Sloppy, this pair. He stilled as they passed by, not really worried.

  Sneaking into camps had been hard at first. Then he'd realized how arrogant most of them had gotten. So used to being cloaked, to not being found, very few of them took security as seriously as they should. Two men where there should have been four, the way others had kept patrolling close to camp instead of sending out scouts to keep an eye farther out. Some had even taken to staying in their home camps longer than was wise, resting when they should be moving…truly the Tribes were not as sharp as they should be.

  Not once in four years had anyone noticed that he'd been methodically sneaking into each and every Tribe in the desert. Into every last primary camp. Into their homes.

  Well, each and every Tribe except the ones he hadn't gotten to yet. And Ghost.

  He'd long ago determined that his chances of ever finding Ghost were nonexistent. There was a reason the aggravating, frustrating, half-wild, vexing, arrogant, stupid Tribe was nowhere to be found anywhere in the Desert. Exactly as their name implied, they gave the impression of being specters, phantoms that could appear and vanish at will.

  Stupid Ghost.

  The men on patrol vanished and he bolted, sneaking into one of the tents on the far side of the wide canyon. This was not actually Viper's home; that was deeper into the canyon.

  Thankfully he didn't have to trek that far - but it had taken him two weeks to figure that out.

  Then another four weeks to determine where amongst the myriad guard camps the object of his desire was hidden.

  So protective, the Tribes, of their precious treasures.

  Not protective enough.

  Soundles
sly he glided between tents, weaving his way until he reached the one he sought, farthest from where he had entered. There had been other way to get here, all of them shorter, none of them even remotely worth the risk. Even now he could be caught any second. The Tribes had grown comfortable with the arrangement of the dunes, but that did not mean they had forgotten the winds would change them. Or that a sandstorm could rearrange the entire desert in a single night.

  Shaking off the worries that never left him for more than a handful of minutes or a rare night of complete rest, he slid into the tent he sought and stalked to the bed. From a pouch at his waist he drew a small vial and pulled out the stopper, then held it under the nose of the man snoring softly in the bed. Seconds passed, and the snores faded as the man sank into a sleep from which he would not wake unless forcibly roused - hopefully the man didn't have the next patrol shift.

  Returning the vial to its pouch, he turned sharply around and stalked to the table in the corner. He knew it was here, now it was just a matter of where. Hopefully not somewhere in the near vicinity of the bed, because he hated moving all-but-dead men out of a bed so he could rifle through it.

  There were some things he just did not need to know about strangers.

  Shuddering, he set aside several books after examining them carefully for odd pages or strangely thick covers. Next were the long, leather tubes that held rolls of paper - none of them what he sought. An hour passed as he carefully examined the contents of the table and the shelves arranged neatly on top of it. Finally he shifted his attention to the table itself, examining the legs, the underside, the top…still nothing.

  Sighing softly, not quite yet frustrated, he spread his search to other sections of the tent. It was on the large side of small, perfect for a man who spent all his time either on duty or snatching what sleep he could before going back on duty. Vipers, it seemed, never relaxed.

  Nor, as his presence indicated, did they pay enough attention.

  A shelf near the bed gave him nothing, neither did the chest alongside it. Holding back a curse, he finally turned to the bed. If he had ever needed proof that the Lady despised him, here it was. Yet another bed search. Lady willing, this one would not be as disgusting as the last one had been.