The Hunt for Revenge [Flashback] [Solo]

[Cyrus]

13th of Summer, 505AV. After the slaves had been freed, and Cyrus had stocked himself with enough food for the journey, he and the Sand Devils had rode out on horseback, charging through the barren desert. They served him now, they were his men. And with these new found followers, Cyrus would find Erzal and bring him to justice. None knew where he was, though the Benshiran knew that he roamed the desert with his men, bringing destruction and death upon any who were unlucky enough to cross his sadistic path. The ride had been long, and spent in silence, and in some ways it reminded him of when he used to hunt with his people, spending long days away from home. This time however, he was surrounded by forty men armed with spears, clubs and scimitars, with far more armour than his people had ever worn. Cyrus led the horseman from the front, his brown mare faster than those of his fighters. It had belonged to Bablagu, the former leader of the group. The King always rode the fastest horse, it was accustom to this group of raiders and thieves. Cyrus was not particularly fond of horses, yet he rode one all the same. The other warriors were not far behind, clicking tongue and slamming flanks to make their own horses run at maximum pace. The group left a dwelling cloud of sand and smoke in their wake, and from afar would have looked like a desert worm, or some other large creature. There was no time to speak or converse during the journey, only when they stopped to make camp. And judging by the sun beginning to set, they would have to do so quite soon. Cyrus began to pull against his horses reins in a desperate attempt to get it to stop. It’s hooves slid through the sand for several feet, before the great brown steed came to a steady halt. The other men did the same, wondering why Cyrus had stopped in such an open location. Nothing but sand was around, yet there were no hills to hide within either. Just an open plain of golden grain. Cyrus turned his horse to face the other men as they all stopped, their faces ripe with confusion. “We will make camp here, before the sun sets and we lose light.” He commanded, and many of the men quickly began to dismount. He did so shortly after, approaching one of the helmetless men. His black hair was cropped to hug his scalp, though his large beard had been plaited and adorned with beads. He was Ralet, assistant to the King of the Sand Devils. Cyrus had not made much conversation with him earlier, though he knew that his services would be of use, as his advice and counsel. Ralet dived into a low kneel as Cyrus approached, yet he only told him to rise. Ralet did so, then spoke quietly. “What do you need of me, m’lord?” He asked, almost dropping into a kneel again. Cyrus stopped him with a hand. “Where was Erzal the last time you saw him?” Cyrus asked, his tone stern and serious. He wanted to find the man as soon as he could, and not waste any more time. “Bablagu met him at the Keerdash Grove, m’lord. Few days south from our current position.” He pointed south, and Cyrus ran a tongue over his own lips. Clearly the bandit that was Erzal had already moved on, as nobody stayed in one place for too long in this desert. Nobody. “Keerdash? I have heard of it.” Cyrus replied, trying to think of the place that Ralet spoke of. It was a small grove of trees amongst the desert, red leaves falling amongst the golden sand. It was a perfect meeting spot solely due to the fact it stood out so much. Cyrus needed to lure Erzal back to that grove, so he could exact his revenge. Men walked past continuously as the two spoke, trying to set up tents and a fire before the cold night came. One bumped into Cyrus accidentally, muttering apologies as he walked off as quickly as he could. “Indeed, a beautiful grove amongst a barren desert, m’lord. Bablagu always made that his meeting point, no matter who he was meeting. It stands out so much that once it’s in sight, it’s hard to miss it. Unlike the rest of the desert, which is nothing but the same thing for miles. What were your plans, m’lord?” Ralet dropped into another kneel, and Cyrus shook his head. He was not a King, he was a man who killed a man. Nothing more. He was tired of being treated like one, yet he knew it was the only way these men would follow him. “Ralet, tell me, can you find him? He surely doesn’t know that Bablagu is dead. One man can travel far lighter than forty, so it will be easier for you to find him.” “I could try m’lord, I would do all in my power to find him for you. But if I did find him, what then? What would you have me do?” Ralet asked curiously, reaching for the dagger on his belt. He thought that Cyrus wanted him to assassinate the man, but he was wrong. “Arrange a meet. Tell him that Bablagu wants to meet him at the Keerdash Grove.” Cyrus said sternly, and Ralet raised an eyebrow in confusion. “But Bablagu is dead...” He stated, and Cyrus tried not to bark a laugh at his stupidity. “He does not know that, and he doesn’t need too either. I am sure he will not meet me if I tell him my true name, for he and I have unfinished business that I must take care of.” Ralet nodded, and loosened his grip on the dagger. Cyrus smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder, the first time he had smiled in years. “Take my horse, and meet us at the grove in four days, whether you find him or not. Good luck.” No more words were spoken as Ralet bowed and turned away, running off to pack food and do the bidding of his master.

[Cyrus]

As his adviser left him to do his bidding, Cyrus turned to the men. They had set up a rather sizeable fire, one that seemed to catch the dull scales of the armour Cyrus wore. Armour that he had scavenged from Bablagu after his death. The armour was known as Kings Wall, a set of iron worn only by the leader of the sand devils. It was uncomfortable and heavy, and during the daytime Cyrus literally felt like an egg being boiled alive. It was daunting to wear, yet it was also mandatory. Without the armour he was not truly King, and so he needed to wear it to gain the men’s complete loyalty. As he approached the great fire that the men sat around, many dropped into low kneels, though Cyrus told them to rise. His iron boots shook and clanged as he made slow, trudging steps towards the other men, taking a seat upon a piece of wood they had scavenged from the slave wagons. He did not know who had carried it this far or why, but it was a nice change to sitting in the sand and nearly sinking in his armour. The man beside him gave him a grin as Cyrus looked in his direction, and the Benshiras gave him a nod out of respect. A few moments silence ensued, and Cyrus was given a stick, mounted with a small piece of steak. He held his stick over the fire to cook it through, and the man beside him began to speak. “So, m’lord, where are we headed?” He asked, tenderly biting the edge of his cooked steak. Cyrus’ arm was left uncomfortably straight before the fire, hand twisted so that he could cook it thoroughly. It was hard not to drop the stick as he spoke, as most of his concentration had been focused on the man. “Keerdash Grove.” He replied, licking his lips as the embers soon began to devour the raw meat to make way for cooked desert cow. He was unsure how everything would turn out once they reached Keerdash, though he only hoped Ralet would get the job done; and lead Erzal into his trap. “For what reasons, if I may ask?” The man replied, ripping at this meat with sharp, stained teeth. Cyrus was never usually honest, though he found it would have been cruel to be anything but honest to these men. After all, they were prepared to die for him. His meat had finally seared so that it was cooked all throughout, a thin film of black char on either side. Cyrus pulled the side of the meat off with his forefinger and thumb, and threw it carelessly into his mouth. It was hard and extremely chewy, yet he managed to swallow it without too much trouble. To him, the steak tasted like a grand feast in the afterlife, despite it’s obvious flaws. In the desert, food was scarce; especially steak. “We are headed there for reasons that are my own. I am after the man who hired Bablagu to escort the caravan of slavers.” He ripped another bit of meat from his steak, this time taking longer to savour and enjoy it. The man looked at him as if he had spoken a profanity towards him, eyes wide and hands twitching. “You mean Erzal? Lord of Bandits? Surely you don’t wish to kill him m’lord?” The man asked, and Cyrus merely nodded in response, ripping at his meat with his gnarled teeth. Many would not believe him, for Erzal was a famous bandit, a famous raider. He was revered among people like the Sand Devils, and even though they would go against him if their leader wished it, they knew that chances of victory were slim. Cyrus believed he could do it. He knew he could do it. All he needed was time, preparation, and a damned good form. He was confident that he had those things already, and as such was prepared to meet Erzal and come out with his head. “They say he is immortal, a god. Already has he been brought into a dozen enemy camps, and escaped alive and without harm. Some say he is a shadow, slipping past anybody who tries to catch him. The stories in Yahebah say that he is the Scorpion of the Sands, and his men a pack of wolves. They rule this desert, and anyone within it must bend the knee or they will die.” The man spoke in a hushed tone, barely audible over the sounds of crackling fire and laughing soldiers. Everyone around him had been enthralled in their own conversations, and Cyrus had to move closer just to hear the other man. “He is just a man, like me and you. He escapes these camps because he promises things he cannot keep, and then rains steel upon those who captured him. He is no god. By the end of all this, I will see his head on a spike, god or not.” Cyrus ripped the last bit of his steak apart in his mouth, and hastily tossed his skewer into the fire. To call a snake like Erzal a god was crossing the line in his opinion. As his stick fell into the fire and began to burn away, Cyrus spat upon the ground, slapped his hands on his knees, and stood up. The man looked at up at him as if he had said something offensive. “He will die.” Cyrus said, and then made way to where his tent had been erected. He could distinguish it from the rest because it was larger, capable of holding two or three men rather than one like the other tents. A banner of brown and yellow had been hung from the doorway, which was nothing but a small crawlspace. Inside resided a bedroll, and nothing more. It was not some fancy tent fit for a god, and the only superior quality was that it was larger than the others. The sun had set now, and night had fallen, though as he approached his tent; Cyrus no longer felt tired. Instead, he turned back to the fire and the conversing men, searching for a way to pass the time.

[Cyrus]

As he turned back, Cyrus was met with the man from moments ago. He was a head taller than Cyrus, though his body was far thinner. A small tuft of hair protruded from his chin, though his hairline had been covered in a mail helm. His eyes shone wide, and Cyrus jerked as he pushed him into his tent with a single hand. He would have drawn his sword, had the raider not followed him in and shut the tent flap behind him. He did not seem like he had murderous intentions, and rather looked as though he was genuinely worried about something. And he was. “M’lord, some of the men conspire against you. Already have I heard Paku and a few of the others discussing your death.” He spoke in a hushed voice, constantly peering outside to make sure that nobody overheard. Cyrus raised an eyebrow and scratched one ear as he thought. He knew that it would come to this at some stage before they reached the grove; he knew there would be those amongst the ranks that wanted to see him overthrown. They fought as a group, but they were not soldiers. They were common thieves, bandits and desert raiders, not military-born men raised under the principles of discipline. There was always going to be some inner struggle between a group of men like that. “Paku? Who is he?” Cyrus asked, hand slipping towards the hilt of his scimitar. The other man peered back out the tent flap, and then turned to face his master. “He was Bablagu’s greatest friend, and perhaps his only. The two were inseparable, and now that Bablagu is gone, he wants to see the man who killed him dead. You need to leave.” He moved towards Cyrus’ sack of belongings that rested by the door, though the Benshiras quickly stopped him by standing in front of it. “I am not going anywhere. I have a task to complete, and you will all help me with it. You follow me, and I say that I am staying here, and that we are all moving out at sunrise. I am not leaving because a single man wants to kill me. Let him come, and let him die.” Cyrus’ words were as cold as ice, and the man backed away from his as he spoke. He was not one to take orders from others; especially those who were sworn to follow his own. He was not about to leave the camp because a man wanted to kill him, if that man wanted to kill him so badly then Cyrus would let him come. He would fall just as many had before him. ”M’lord, Paku is a skilled warrior. You would do best to avoid him.” The raider advised, which caused Cyrus to snap. He jolted forward and grabbed the man by the brim of his shirt, tossing him down beside the bedroll. The man stared up at him in shock, and Cyrus drew his blade, pressing it against the man’s stomach as he spoke. “I am not running. Do not question, or advise me again, or I will gut you and hang your insides from a pike. If Paku wants me, then he can find me himself. I am not fleeing my own camp.” As he finished, Cyrus moved his blade away from the man, who stood in fear. His eyes had become glassy, a small tear running down his flushed cheek. His lip began to quiver as he spoke. “I apologise, m’lord. Would you like me to retrieve Paku for you personally?” He asked, clearly trying to redeem himself. Cyrus was lost in thought for a moment, then realized that confronting the perpetrator sooner rather than later would have been a wise decision. “Find Paku then, bring him here.” Cyrus said without looking at the man, and smiled as he rushed out of the tent. To command these men he could show no signs of pity nor remorse, or love or friendship. He had to be stern and strong, never faltering in his rough persona. They were raiders and killers, not soldiers – compassion was not an option amongst them. To a raider of Eyktol, compassion was a weakness, and so was pity. Cyrus would not be deemed weak for showing such emotions, and had decided that he would no longer show emotion at all. His face would be as blank as a wall, and his heart would be forged from the fires of battle. He would no longer take shyke from anyone, and punish those that did. Brandishing the scimitar in hand, Cyrus walked out from his tent, briskly running a hand along the banner as he did. Outside, the conversation had died down, and only the fires crackles ran noise into the night. Cyrus had not been free of the tent for long when the man returned, followed by a man about Cyrus’ own size. The taller man bowed to his king and moved away from the area, leaving the confrontation to unfold. The man known as Paku was slender, with olive skin and wiry black hair, tied into a ponytail. His beard was cut close to his face, and his right eye had been removed from its socket and replaced with a distinct scar. The man sneered as he looked Cyrus up and down, a long, slender hand wrapped tightly around the hilt of his longsword. ”You killed Bablagu? I find it ‘ard to believe.” He asked, voice carrying an accent that Cyrus had never come across before. The Benshiras nodded without saying a word, his own hand gripping tight onto his drawn blade. The man did not seem to notice, as his remaining eye was fixated upon Cyrus’ own pair. “I thought I’d sooner see him dead to a desert cow than a man like you. Shyke 'appens though,” He paused and drew his blade, its thin form gleaming in the fire that burned brightly behind him. “Now I have an excuse to kill you, and avenge me beloved friend.”

[Cyrus]

As the man drew his own blade, so did Cyrus raise his. He pressed it against the man’s neck as a warning, twisting it slightly so that it pierced his skin, sending two drops of dark crimson to run down his neck. The man quickly stepped back, and turned to the crowd of men that had formed an arc behind him. He gave them all a toothless grin, before turning back to face Cyrus. He raised his blade as Cyrus had before, keeping the other hand behind his back, fist clenched. Paku had seen as many battles as Cyrus, if not more, and had the experience to match. He would prove more than a worthy opponent. “I’m not goin’ ta answer to a man that has come from a foreign place, killed our leader and expect us ta’ follow ‘im like nothing ever happened.” Paku said, slowly taking steps to the right. Cyrus’ eyes never left his own, even when the man had been speaking. He seemed dangerous, and one false move could have ended the Benshiran. He knew that he had to make his moves carefully, and whilst usually brash and hot-headed, he had to remain calculated. It was all about timing. “You are honour bound to follow me. You will do so, or you will die.” Cyrus warned, pulling his blade up so that the tip pointed towards Paku. The man did not say anything in response, and instead charged forward, swinging his blade down upon Cyrus’ head. The Benshiras blocked with seldom effort, pushing the man back with both strength and footwork. Cyrus swung down at the man’s knee in an attempt to slice it in two, though Paku raised a foot to push the blade away. Cyrus moved back at an accelerated pace to keep his footing, charging back with another wild swing. Paku blocked effortlessly, and drove a booted foot into Cyrus’ chest. He toppled backwards, clutching onto a man so he did not lose footing. Paku then unleashed his assault, swinging an arc of steel towards his opponents neck. Cyrus raised the flat edge of his scimitar to block, then pushed his sword arm towards the attack, causing Paku to stumble back. The two soon met in a stalemate, iron rubbing against iron. It was Paku who broke the stalemate by jumping backward, then lunged forward with an attempted stab. Cyrus managed to sidestep the attack, and slammed the hilt of his blade into Paku’s nose. It began to bleed profusely, though the injury was not enough to stop the contender. As if the blood riled his anger, Paku swung three slashes towards Cyrus, each of which was blocked in turn. Cyrus managed to sidestep another stab attempt soon after, his mail armour clambering about as he moved. It truly did weigh him down and restrict his movements, but he still managed to fight the unarmored man without too much trouble. As Paku missed his stab and jerked forward, Cyrus slashed his blade across his bare chest, raining crimson upon the sand. The wound had once again not been enough to kill him, though the pain caused him to grasp the wound, and subsequently drop his scimitar upon the ground below. Cyrus sheathed his own blade at that point, and leered out from the barrels he had fallen behind. Fist after fist met the man’s face, Cyrus’ knuckles soon growing bare and swollen. He quickly grasped the mans ponytail and dragged him to the fire, holding his head above the crackling embers. The Benshiras' body was a furnace of hatred and anger, and it showed through the way he handled the man. He was angry, and simply wanted the duel to end. “Surrender or die!” He gave the option, though Paku only responded with a solid elbow to the stomach. Cyrus stumbled backwards, and the bandit turned to him, delivering a hard, clean jab to the jaw. His own face had been extremely beaten up, but somehow he still managed to see through the curtain of crimson that covered his eyes, still he managed to fight. Paku unleashed his own flurry of fists upon Cyrus’ face, aiming particularly for his cheeks and jaw. Cyrus felt like he was back with Bablagu, as Paku’s own fists were incomparably similar. They were large and heavy, and each punch felt like he was slamming his face against a stone wall. After the flurry had been finished, Paku lined his fist up with Cyrus’ face and pulled it backward. As he swung it toward him, Cyrus ducked, and lifted the man up by wrapping his arms around his waist. He brought him into the sand with force, quickly sitting atop him with his arms pinned down by his knees. Cyrus raised a fist, and brought it down upon Paku. Then another, and another. Soon, the man’s face was a mixture of blood and skin. Believing he had won, Cyrus stood up, trying to wipe the dripping blood from his hands. It had been a shykefest, there was no doubt about it. As Cyrus turned to face the crowd, and address the men that witnessed the duel, he did not notice Paku rising from the ground, using his palm to wipe the bloodied mess from his face. The raiders looked past Cyrus in shock and awe, and he turned to see Paku charging towards him, a dagger in his hand. Cyrus barely managed to avoid the attempted kill, the tip of the dagger slicing across his forearm as he tried to rip it from Paku’s grip. As he did so, the man yelped in pain, grimacing as Cyrus bent his wrist backward and snapped it. It made a loud crack noise as the bone snapped in two, rendering the man's sword hand useless. “It’s over, you have lost.” Cyrus said, wrapping one hand around the man’s broken wrist. He pulled the broken body towards the fire, and lifted him up so that he was standing. Paku was suffering far too much pain to be able to resist, and was helpless as Cyrus threw him into the fire, the barbaric raider soon setting alight amongst the crackling orange flames. He ran screaming for several moments as a bright entity of fire. Cyrus’ face remained blank as the man burned alive before him, soon toppling forward onto his face, dead. The raiders all around began to cheer for Cyrus, applauding him on his victory. He had nothing left to say, and merely turned to the men with a blank expression, waving a hand down at the body, which was still burning. “Bury him.” He commanded, and made haste towards his tent.

[Cyrus]

At the next sunrise, the raiders moved out. At the rising of the sun, the men had already packed their tents, stamped out their fires and hid any evidence of them ever being there. The evidence of their presence among that spot had been removed on Cyrus’ wish, precautions that made sure nobody followed them through the desert, be it man or beast. Stalkings were often common, and it was men who were foolish enough to leave tracks that were those who littered the sands with crimson and flesh. Cyrus did not want to end up as one of those men, and as such took the time to hide their tracks. Constricted to a regular destrier, Cyrus was moving far slower than he had been the past few days before. He still led the pack, yet he did so at a trot, not a gallop. He did not want the other men to know he had given Ralet his warhorse, and as such moved his new steed at a pace that hid it’s true form. If the others knew he had given his horse to a lesser warrior, he surely would have been challenged by more than one of his followers. He had kept to himself ever since they moved out, giving orders only when it was necessary. Many had shot him disorientated looks, others had whispered behind his back. Some believed him to be more beast than man. Cyrus ignored what they had to say, as none of it truly effected him. As they began trotting up numerous rolling sand dunes, the man from the night before trotted beside Cyrus. His body was covered in a desert garb, face concealed by a thin cowl. If it had not been for the tone of his voice, Cyrus wouldn’t have recognized him. “M’lord, the men whisper things. They say you cannot die.” He said, tugging at his reins so that his horse slowed down on the descent down a dune. Cyrus did the same, digging his heels into the flanks of his steed. He looked to the concealed man with a raised eyebrow, giggling slightly. “Tell me, do you always believe what they say? If the men whispered that I was a desert wolf with eight legs, would you believe them then? I am a man, and all men die.” He shot the man a cautious look, then turned back to face in front of him. The man rubbed dirty teeth along his lip, trying to think of what to say. Unfortunately for him, he had nothing, and instead nodded and faded back into the ranks. He heard whispers from behind him once again, though had now learnt to block them out. Instead he kept riding forward, headed in the direction that his counsellor had set him in. He hoped to arrive at the grove as soon as he could, and hoped Ralet would be able to lure Erzal to him, so that he could end the bastards life himself. He would be petched a thousand times with a knife before he let that man die after him. He would have gone to the deepest pits of hell just to find him, and to kill Erzal himself. He would never stop the hunt, not until Erzal lay dead in a pool of his own blood. There was nothing that he would not do to end the man, and put to rest a sadistic being that had already caused him so much pain. When he found him, he would let him feel the same pain, tenfold. As the raiders approached the crest of a sand hill, Cyrus couldn’t help but notice the smell of blood on the air. It lingered about like a heavy burden, and filled his nostrils with its foul scent. As he reached the top of the hill, Cyrus’ eyes were adverted to a group of white sheets that lay still at the other side of the hill. He flicked at his reins to make his horse gallop down, tugging at them to stop by the sheets. At a closer investigation, he realized the source of the smell. The sheets were actually robes, robes that were drenched in blood and clenched to the back of several men. They had been unarmed, without horses, and clearly without skill. Each had several gashes through their back, and claw marks that were only the doing of a golden wolf. The men had not been killed, they had been ravaged, and tortured. Their deaths were not swift. Cyrus threw one leg over his horse and landed in the sand with a soft thud. Many other men did the same as he approached the bodies, kneeling down so that he could take a closer look. The smell of blood was now undeniable, and he almost grimaced as he turned one of the bodies onto their back. They had no face. What was once a face was now a flat section of flesh, as though the very face had been ripped from them. Many of the men began to vomit at the sight, though Cyrus remained blank, expressionless as he looked death in the eye. It meant there was something about, something stronger, quicker and deadlier than a common bandit. As he pulled the robe back over the mans former face, Cyrus stood up, dusted himself off and mounted his steed once again. Before he moved forward he looked back at his men, twitching his nose as he did so. “From here out, keep your eyes peeled. Dangers lurk in this desert, dangers more deadly than a sword or bow.” His words were stern and serious, and many of the men nodded, while others cringed. There was a beast in this desert, either a large one or a large amount of small ones. Whatever the case, Cyrus knew that he and his men had to be ready; if they ever wished to face it and live to tell the tale. He quickly pushed his horse to a gallop, no longer caring about whether or not the man realized his new steed. It was now about survival as much as it was revenge, and Cyrus wanted to survive.

[Cyrus]

The men continued for another hour in silence, cautious eyes flickering amongst the sands, scouring for the threat. They saw nothing, nothing but rolling dunes. The desert was an endless entity, one that Cyrus felt he could travel on forever and still not see it all. He was a Benshira, a man of the desert, a man born and raised in the desert, and a man that would die in the desert. Yet all the same, he hated the desert. It was unforgiving, it was hot, and it lacked life’s most precious liquid: water. Sometimes, Cyrus believed that water was more precious than your own skin, especially when lost or travelling through the unforgiving Eyktol. He, on occasions, would have gladly given up his own arm for a full waterskin of cold water. Yet, he had to make do with what he had; and the raiders surely did not have much left. He was dehydrated and hot, and all the same scared and eager to reach the grove. The constant fear of an ambush chilled his very core, and Cyrus kept a tight hand wrapped around the shaft of a spear he had been given by his men. It was short for a spear, with a three-pronged tip made of iron. It was far lighter than his sword, yet the wooden shaft would also snap far easier. Cyrus did not truly plan to use the weapon, unless he needed to prod at someone from a short distance, or javelin it into somebody from a long one. Either way, he would rid of it as quickly as possible when the time came. As the raiders began to trot up the crest of a hill, Cyrus felt something in the air. He raised a clench fist, and the men slowed down behind him. Several of them rode up to his side, eager to find out what was going on. Cyrus felt an uneasy feeling run down his spine, he could feel an unknown presence in the area. The markings upon the sand confirmed his suspicions, as footprints had been left by boot; not horseshoe. The prints were heavy in number, running back and forth across the sand. It seemed they had been doing something, like setting up an ambush, or digging holes. Whatever it was, the sight was not comforting. “Someone is here.. or has been here. Be cautious as you pass, who knows what they could have set for us.” Cyrus dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, and the destrier soon broke into a trot. The other men followed him, though their horses were soon halted as men sprouted from beneath the sand, covered in nothing but loin cloths. They screamed foreign cries as they began hurling spears at the mounted men, many finding their place within both horse and head. Cyrus’ own horse was stabbed with a spear, causing the steed to topple over on its side. Cyrus scrambled away before the beast could land, and as he regained his footing, tossed his own spear through the stomach of the attacker. The man reeled backwards as the iron shot through him, coughing up blood in his final moments. The Benshiras turned to his men as the spear made its mark, ripping his blade from its sheathe. All around him the raiders were thrown from their horses, and the ambushers rained spear and mace upon their fallen bodies. Some managed to fight back, and those that did cut through the wildmen with ease. He had expected an ambush to occur, but not one like this. It was a massacre, sand devil falling like flies at the hands of the far less experienced men. Cyrus hollered his own battle cry as he began to cut through them, slashing at any who stood in his way. Several times was he forced to deflect several blows, though all the same did he cut down the attackers where they stood. His dull mail soon gleamed crimson, drips of blood running down the chain torso. His left cheek was covered in a splatter of blood, and his hair was drenched in the precious crimson liquid. The ambush continued on for only ten minutes, before the tide began to change. “Cut them down! Fight back!” Cyrus screamed to those that were left, and those that were left heeded his orders. They soon began a frenzy of iron, slamming their own blades down upon the enemy. Cyrus was met with the brunt of a mace, and pushed back into the sand. Laying vulnerable on his back, the Wildman ran over toward him, mace raised above his head to finish the Benshiras. As it came down upon him, Cyrus slammed his heel into the man’s knuckles, and he dropped the weapon beside Cyrus. He was quick to capitalize, and slammed the attackers own mace into his skull, leaving a crack where his forehead once was. The man jerked back abruptly, before blood began to squirt from his face. Cyrus rose hastily, and used his sword to deflect an incoming spear. The shaft snapped at the collision, and the man was left weaponless. Cyrus lunged forth, piercing the man’s throat for a swift kill. As he pulled the blade from the man, another approached. This one was armed with the sword of a raider, and a shield made of hide. “Kill them!” Cyrus yelled above the clattering of weapons, yet the man did not seem to understand him. He rushed forward with a darkened grin, though was met with the sole of Cyrus’ foot to his stomach. He moved back coughing, and the Benshiras removed his head in one swing. These men were inexperienced and barely armed, and it had only been the element of surprise that had allowed them to take as many lives as they had. In a fair fight, these wild men wouldn’t of stood a chance. They were more farmer than warrior, more boy than man. They were clearly untrained with weapons, and the ambush would have been an ill attempt at scavenging from the dead. Another scan of the battlefield saw the tide changing, as raiders soon began to finish off wild men, and others fled. He approached the body of a wounded wild man, one who had lost three fingers and been stabbed during the ambush. Cyrus pushed a foot down on the wound, and aimed his blade towards the man’s head. He was no longer affected by his surroundings, as they were all tipped in his favor. The ambush had been a short, and unsuccessful one. “Who are you?” He asked sternly, unaware if the man could understand him.

[Cyrus]

As the last of the enemy were stamped out, the remaining raiders joined Cyrus’ side, panting and exhausted from the brief battle. Many bodies and horses lay littered behind them like waste, streaks of crimson painting the yellow sands like a canvas. The smell of death lingered about in the air, and flies soon began to swarm to the area like people swarmed to a carnival. The golden wolves of the Burning Lands would surely be feasting well tonight. But it did not affect Cyrus. The only thing that affected him was the matter at hand, and the ambusher that lay on the ground before him, injured and broken, yet still very much alive. He would have his answers. “Who are you?” Cyrus asked again, annoyed that the man hadn’t answered the first time. The wild man did understand the common tongue, that much was evident, though he chose not to reply. A kick in the ribs from one of the surviving raiders changed that, and he willingly opened his mouth to speak. “I have no name.” He replied, and his voice carried an accent seldom heard in the desert. Cyrus only suspected him to be from some foreign place, a land that was not the Eyktol. Whatever the case had been, he and the other wildmen had done well to conceal themselves beneath the sand and spring the ambush. Cyrus spat beside the mans head. “Do not lie. We are all born with a name, you included. What were you doing here? Did you know we were coming?” The questions were spat rather than answered, and the man remained silent for several moments before he finally spoke, eyeing off the raider that stood beside him—foot aimed towards his ribs. “Crawk, they call me. We were following you for days. Saw that you made camp so we decided to move ahead and set up the ambush.” He spoke the truth, Cyrus could see it. For a moment, he believed it to be clear, then he realized: how had they known where he was going? How did they know that he would travel on that very ground? Clearly, there was a snake within the ranks, someone who had gave it all away. “Tell me, Crawk, who gave away our destination?” He moved the scimitar closer to the man’s throat, and his pale face grimaced. He was losing a lot of blood through his wound and the loss of fingers, and Cyrus did not expect him to last much longer. He had to pry the information out of him, and he had to do it fast. “A man known as Luca. He told us you were heading to Keerdash.” Cyrus moved his sword away from the man’s throat and looked to the raider beside him. He nodded, and soon a curved dagger came down upon the man’s chest, stabbing him repeatedly until he finally died. Cyrus turned back to the men behind him, piercing green eyes scouring through the ranks. If Luca still lived, or was still with them, he would be nervous, he would be afraid. Cyrus had to depict Luca solely through the way the men acted, their body language would give it all away. ”Who is Luca?” Cyrus asked them, waving his sword about. The men looked amongst each other, and Cyrus soon realized that only a dozen remained. He very much doubted that he would be able to defeat Erzal’s men with such a small amount, yet he would try all the same. You only live once, and he would have preferred living for a cause than dying for nothing. Minutes passed and the men remained silent, which tugged at the seams of Cyrus’ anger. He stormed forward and grabbed a brunette man by his long curly hair, then dragged him back to where he stood. The other men watched in horror as Cyrus thrust him to his knees and held his scimitar against his jugular. “Is it you? Are you Luca?” He asked, pushing the scimitar into the man’s throat so that a trail of blood began to fall down his neck. He coughed, before moving back slightly and shaking his head. “No, m’lord, Razuv.” Cyrus moved back for a moment, lowering his blade. Razuv seemed relieved, and began to rise to his feet. Though before he could do so, Cyrus moved back and swung his blade across, slicing the man’s throat wide open. Blood began to spurt outward onto the sand, and three small gurgles allowed the man to die. He fell forward into the sand, a pool of blood drowning his head. Cyrus wiped the crimson from his sleeve, paced forward, and turned back to the others. As he did so, a man walked forth with a dead body slouched over his broad shoulders. He threw the body before him, revealing the man from the night before. His blonde hair was matted with blood, and a spearhead had been ripped off where his heart was. Cyrus did not gasp, nor did he shed a tear. He had spoken to the man, but he had not respected, nor befriended him. He had died at the hands of an ambush he had allowed, a fitting death for a traitor. “So he is Luca? I should have known.” Cyrus walked forward in strides, and rammed his heel into the dead man’s temple. The other men watched as his boot came down over and over, until a thick, oozing puddle of blood had formed below his face, and his eye hung from the socket. Thanks to him he had lost many of his soldiers, soldiers that were his only chance at exacting revenge against the cruel petch that was Erzal. They would now be forced to travel on foot, without water and without numbers. He was no longer King of the Sand Devils, but King of a group of tired bandits. Cyrus turned back to the others as he finished his booted onslaught, sheathing his bloody blade away. “We continue then, on foot.” He said, and began to walk in the exact same way he had been headed before. There was no time to bury the dead, nor scavenge what they owned. The desert was cruel, and it would swallow them soon enough.

[Colombina]

Let Me Help You Hey, Cyrus! I sent you a PM about this thread. Once we clear a few things up and you make some edits, I will grade it.