Shifting Sand

Chapter 1 The hot desert air blew in through Young Master’s open window, carrying with it the scents of the clan outside: camels and horses, roasting meat for the midday meal, the sweat of people. The clang of steel on steel echoed into the room, traveling from the training grounds at the eastern edge of camp. Soldiers completing their daily lessons, or else sparring to keep their skills as honed as the long swords they carried. Yashiv longed to be out there with them. His fingers itched to grip the hilt of his own blade, sheathed at his hip. He wore the scabbard over a plain tunic and pants, both made of a lightweight linen. Normal attire, as the heat still clung to the desert, even in late autumn. The breeze did little to cool the brick dwelling where Master and his family lived, nor the tents or reed huts erected outside. In winter, when the air could cut as sharp as a knife, Yashiv was happy for this mostly indoor task. Not now, when the warriors prepared for approaching raids on the king’s caravans. Only a year ago, when he’d reached the age of fifteen, and was finally trusted to go on raids, he’d been pulled from the soldiers’ tents and placed here instead. Master Alim himself had reassigned Yashiv to bodyguard duty, watching over Master’s nine-year-old son, Cassian. Yashiv wrinkled his nose—this was nothing more than glorified babysitting. The boy wasn’t difficult; in fact, the lad was dutiful, smart, and attentive. He never shirked from what his father, or the elder council, asked of him. Even after such a short time, Yashiv respected the child. Cassian wasn’t the problem. Yashiv’s grievances came from wasted skill. He was easily one of the best warriors in the clan—besides Rafiq, the leader of the army. Yashiv would be of better use on raids, not watching after a child in no real danger. Everyday Yashiv spent indoors was one day the others soldiers had to improve. Before long, he’d be outstripped. As an adopted member of the clan, Yashiv could not afford to be seen as worthless. “Yashiv?” Yashiv looked down at the lad, sprawled on his stomach on the floor. A sheet of papyrus written with glyphs detailing the clan’s animal population lay in front of him. His bright blue eyes shone through a thick fringe of black hair. His nose appeared beakish on his tiny face; his ears sticking out like an elephant’s. Still, his smile stretched wide, and it brought a grin to Yashiv’s own mouth. “Yes, Young Master?” The boy’s lips turned down at the formal title. He didn’t care for it and had tried to get Yashiv to call him by his given name. They had bantered back and forth over it their first day together. It had turned into a good-natured wrestling match, Yashiv pretending to let the boy pin his arm behind his back. When Cassian had gloated about winning, demanding that Yashiv do as he said, Yashiv bowed his head. “You’ve bested me in battle, Young Master. I must now honor you for the rest of my life.” Cassian’s clear eyes had widened, realizing Yashiv got the upper hand. They had both laughed then, and Young Master hadn’t brought up the subject again. He only showed his displeasure with an occasional grimace. The boy stood to his feet and looked out the open window. He hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet, making the seven-year age difference between them seem much larger. Side by side, Cassian only reached Yashiv’s chest. “Can’t we go out for a walk? It’s hot in here.” “It’s hotter outside,” Yashiv pointed out. Cassian glanced over his shoulder, sticking out his bottom lip. “Well, we could go to Mother’s workshop.” “Young Master, you know you aren’t allowed to leave the room.” “It’s boring. I’ve already finished my report.” “Your father is having an important meeting. It’s best we stay here as a precaution, where it’s safe.” Again, the boy pouted, his brow drawing down. Yashiv had told him that his face would freeze that way, but the lad had shrugged off the warning. “This is a meeting calling for peace,” Cassian said, returning his eyes to the window and the activity out there. The room’s view faced the Flat, an open area where a shrine to Gala and Gaius sat, the center of their camp. All life revolved around the shrine, as all lives circulated on the divine nature of the god and goddess. “How did you know that?” Cassian flashed him a withering look. “I do listen to what’s going on, Yashiv.” Yashiv’s smile widened. The child heard more than he should have. Likely due to his small size. He had a knack for being overlooked. “I know you do, Young Master. I saw you hiding outside your father’s study when you should have been with Uliana going over your arithmetic lesson.” The boy at least had the grace to blush and look away from Yashiv’s gaze. He was a good child. Yashiv’s fondness for him grew every day. It helped dampen the resentment that welled inside him when he saw his fellow soldiers working with swords and fists. He reminded himself that he was blessed to even be taken in by the Eanraig Clan. The goddess Gala—who watched over orphans—had cast her protective charms on Yashiv, allowing him to survive for two whole days alone in the desert. It was Master Alim who had discovered Yashiv among the dead bodies of his parents. They left no clue of who they were and why they had traveled so far into the desert. I owe Master so much. He asked me to look after his son. I need to take this responsibility seriously. Yashiv sighed. “Maybe it’ll be okay if I go to the kitchen and grab you an apple.” The boy grimaced. “How about ataif instead?” “I’m not sure the cinnamon supplies have been replenished, Young Master.” Cassian’s blue eyes looked up at him hopefully. “Can you check? Please?” With a nod, Yashif patted Cassian’s head. “I’ll check. Don’t you sneak off, though.” “I won’t; I promise.” Yashiv locked eyes with the lad, making sure he saw the seriousness Yashiv implied. Once he was certain it sank in, he left the room and headed down the hallway. As he walked to the corridor’s intersection, he nodded to four guards standing at the entrance to Master Alim’s study. The building, the only one made of brick within the camp, was a sprawling structure. The back rooms housed Master’s bedroom, and Cassian’s, the location being more secure and easily protected by a single, narrow hallway. Two guards could hold the hallway from attackers. The front rooms contained the kitchens, a large meeting hall for formal events, food pantries, even an indoor tub for bathing, as well as one for laundry. Master and his family lived in comparative luxury to the others of the clan. None begrudged their finery, either. All members, from the most seasoned soldier to the lowest stable hand, would give anything and everything for Master Alim. He had earned their love and respect a hundred times over. His peace treaty with the Acenath Clan and the Jendayi Clan had held for the past twenty years, and his keen sense for trade had increased the clan’s export numbers drastically. They prospered much more than others in this harsh desert. In the kitchen, Yashiv flagged down one of the many cooks. Some were elderly women, some young apprentices. Most were women, but a few young men dashed among the ovens. The Eanraig Clan was one that let the children find the right fit for apprenticeship, instead of forcing them into tasks they weren’t eager to perform. That was why Cassian had been allowed to frolic among his mother’s weaving workshop for so long. Even Master Alim had encouraged Cassian to develop his weaving skills. “Yes, Yashiv?” asked Nenet, a middle-aged woman with sun-bleached strands mixed with her dark hair, all pulled back with a colorful scarf. “How may I serve you?” “Young Master was wondering if you had any ataif. I told him you might be out of supplies.” Nenet smiled up at him in a motherly fashion. As an adopted child, many of the women of the clan had kept an eye on him as he grew. Nenet’s hut had been one of the homes he’d stayed in before moving into the soldiers’ tents at age ten. “It just so happens we made a batch this morning. Why don’t you take a few? You need to keep eating or else you’ll waste away.” “Not likely, Nenet,” he muttered. “I haven’t trained properly in a long time. I’m afraid I’ll grow fat.” She laughed and placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t think you need to worry about that. Give me a moment to get a plate prepared.” She busied herself with getting snacks. When he accepted the plate, it contained a dozen sweets. Maybe Yashiv should worry about Young Master getting fat if the workers constantly pampered him like this. Yashiv decided to take the child out to the training yard. He’d benefit from learning basic sword skills, and Yashiv could make sure his own body stayed well-toned and ready. Who’s going to attack a child? It was an unnecessary worry. Even their worst enemy wouldn’t spill the blood of the innocent. Yashiv headed back to Cassian’s room, laden with enough food for a meeting of the elders. And those old men ate like wild dogs—biting and snapping at one another for the last date. He noticed something was wrong the moment his foot passed the narrow passage connecting to the back rooms. The scent of blood—so familiar to his nose—stirred the air. Trusting his instincts, Yashiv set the plate down and pulled his belt knife from the scabbard on his right side. His long-sword lay on the left, but it was difficult to maneuver in these narrow corridors. The knife would serve him better if it came to combat. Cautiously, he craned his neck to peer around the corner of the stairwell. The four guards that were previously on duty were spread along the floor, pools of blood draining from their unmoving bodies. For half a heartbeat, Yashiv battled with himself. Master Alim was obviously in danger, and Yashiv could aid him in the fight that likely raged in the study. Yet, Yashiv’s duties were tied to Cassian. He needed to ensure Young Master’s safety. Shit and sand, he cursed, rushing toward Cassian’s room. He could see the finely-woven mat that covered the doorway from here, and it looked undisturbed. Then a high-pitched, childlike scream pierced Yashiv’s ears. His speed doubled, long legs stretching to their limit as he hurled himself through the mat. He had only a moment to take in the scene—two armed guards advancing on Cassian, who had ducked under his small table—before the two men turned at the commotion Yashiv caused by entering. “Faas?” Yashiv said, recognizing the man on the left. Realization dawned on Yashiv; Faas had betrayed Master, and now raised a weapon against his son. The treachery was unheard of. “Yashiv,” Faas said, his sword lowering to his side. The other’s was still raised, ready to strike. “I’m afraid you are on the losing side, my friend. If you help me kill the child, I will tell Master Abelino of your deeds. The Staffan Clan will accept you with open arms.” Out of the corner of his eye, Yashiv saw Cassian stiffen. Did the child honestly think Yashiv would hand him over for death? Then another motion from Young Master made Yashiv’s heart clench in fear—the lad was reaching for a clay pot filled with ink that rested atop the table. He meant to take part in the fight. Yashiv couldn’t allow that. He rushed forward, striking at Faas first, since his weapon was lowered. Yashiv had sparred with the man several times and knew his attack style. Dodging the upswing of Faas’ sword was easy, except it put him closer to the second man, within range of a lunge. Yashiv gripped his knife tightly, preparing for impact as he sidestepped Faas’ swing. Yashiv’s blade sank into the other man’s thigh, downing him. Yashiv’s body clenched, expecting the blow that was likely coming from the second man. Instead, the crack of smashing pottery echoed through the room. Yashiv spun, looking at Cassian—his blue eyes glossed with hate—standing over the man. The blow had only stunned the attacker, though, and he was quickly recovering. Yashiv switched his knife to his left hand and drew his sword in his right. He pushed Cassian out of the way with his elbow. Before the intruder could regain his feet, Yashiv struck, burying the long blade into the man’s heart. A gurgle escaped the dying man’s throat as he collapsed once again. Yashiv’s blade did similar work to Faas, who moaned in pain on the floor. A quick flick of Yashiv’s wrist sliced clean through the man’s neck, his whimpers ceasing instantly. His body still close to the boy, Yashiv made a complete turn around the room, checking for any more attackers. They were alone. But for how long? “We move, Young Master,” Yashiv said, his voice harder than he intended. Once the bloodlust of battle took over, it was hard to remember manners. “Who are they, Yashiv?” “Assassins.” “Why?” Yashiv had no answer. Instead, he sheathed his sword and gripped onto Cassian’s small hand; it trembled within his. With a soft tug, he pulled the child behind him into the hallway. Again, Yashiv was filled with the desire to check on Master Alim. No. He hated the thought, but his obligations lay elsewhere. Gritting his teeth, he led Cassian quickly down the hallway, and into the food pantry beside the kitchen. There, in the back of the room, was a rug that covered a small, underground hole. After sheathing his knife, Yashiv pulled up the corner of the rug. “What—” Cassian began, but Yashiv shushed him. Yashiv’s fingers tightened on Cassian’s and led him forward. The boy understood and climbed into the hole. It was larger than it appeared, the hidden pit stretching north and south, and supported by pillars of clay bricks around its perimeter. Once Cassian was safely hidden, Yashiv moved into the hole, too, then returned the rug over the entrance. With the rug in place, the room was dark, without any source of light. Cassian’s hand sought Yashiv’s again. Relying on his free hand to find the wall, Yashiv led Cassian into the far corner. If the attackers somehow found their hiding spot, Yashiv could still protect the child with his own body. The boy sank to the ground and pulled his knees to his chest. “My father’s dead, isn’t he?” Cassian asked softly. “I don’t know, Young Master.” “But you suspect.” Yashiv nodded, though he wasn’t sure the child could see the motion. “The guards on his door were dead. He had very few with him inside the study, since it showed a lack of trust.” Cassian’s fingers began to tremble harder, and a small whimper escaped his throat. Fighting a sniffle of his own, Yashiv sat down in front of Cassian. “Young Master…I’m sorry.” He put his arm around Cassian’s shoulder and pulled the child against his chest. The boy didn’t resist, allowing himself to be wrapped in Yashiv’s embrace. “But I swear to you, we will see Master avenged and Abelino’s deceitful life cut short. We will have vengeance.” “Yes,” Cassian replied, his voice sounding harder than any nine-year-old’s should. “Yashiv, I want Abelino’s head. And I want it now.” A chill went through Yashiv’s body. “Yes, Master,” he promised.