I haven't written a story in years and years and years. Seriously, I can't even remember the last work of fiction I ever did.
Here's something new. It's not very long, but please, tell me what you think.
One Who Rides Lightning, a Desert Tale - Alex MacInnis
The sky was white with heat. Some called the desert cruel. How could something so vast be inclined to cruelty, he wondered. The windblown knew. The desert was impartial. The desert had no mercy, no compassion. The desert simply was.
He cursed. He would have spit if he could. He remembered the teachings of his father, the man's words echoing in his head.
"Do not fight against the desert. Rather, seek to find its pattern, the rhythm of it. In joining that rhythm, you will survive. In fighting it, you die. And never travel alone."
He wobbled upon his horse, but Eeshi'a would not let him fall. His horse, Eeshi'a, or 'thunder', so named for the noise the horse's hooves made against the rocks when it ran. It was one of the fastest horses, and only he could ride it.
Eyes squinted to razor thin slits. He was nearly certain that he was lost now, his mind nearly gone with the lack of water. He trusted the horse knew where to go. It had saved his life once already today.
Sand blew in his face, causing his eyes to squint tighter. The dark indigo head scarf about his face and neck kept it out of his nostrils and his mouth. His loose fitting clothing, meant to keep him cool, wasn't even soaked with sweat anymore. That, too, had evaporated, along with the rest of his body's moisture. A thick red stain ran down his front. His throat had been deeply cut, nearly severed completely. He was losing blood. The scarf was tied tightly about his neck, but it would not be enough. He must get back.
His empty water skin hung from the saddle, spent and withered. He had long since given up trying to squeeze the remaining moisture from it. There was none to be had. He cursed Khamesh for abandoning him, cursed the desert, and cursed himself for being so careless. It was in his nature to be careless.
Sight flickered as his mind took him back in time. Back to before he had come upon the raiders who had gotten him into this situation.
--
His mother had named him Eshiil, which was how one described an object or mind that could not be moved. Eshiil. Immovable. Stubborn. Though he lacked the calm stillness those words implied. He was defiant.
The elders had tried to guide him. He was born with the gift. His eyes gave him away wherever he went. Even those of al-Akeen, his own tribe, treated him differently than they treated each other. He had the eyes, after all. The elders laid a path out for him. He would become a great leader, or a seer. With the gift he'd been blessed with, the elders told him, he had responsibilities. Such responsibilities were above the needs of the self. They were the needs of the tribe. Foolishly adhering to his name, he had refused their teachings. His was not the path of the seer or the elder. His was the path of the scimitar.
On the day of his nineteenth birthday, the day he came into manhood, he was given a task. Go to Sh'hazrid to meet with another of al-Akeen, they said, and bring back the package they give you. It is important. Choose another to go with you, they had said.
Foolishly, he had refused the company. That he would be a courier on this day, of all days, seemed an insult. It is half a day's ride to Sh'hazrid, he told them. Traveling at night, in the cooler weather, he said there would be no risk. He would be safe.
They told him to choose another, again. He refused, mounting his horse and kicking up sand in his wake as he tore across the dunes towards the city. He had ridden hard into the night. It was not long until he approached the outskirts of Sh'hazrid. The slums, where he had been told to go. Meeting his tribesman, he took the package.
"You travel alone?" The man seemed incredulous.
Eshiil sneered, turned his horse, and disappeared into the sands. In one way or another, he thought to himself, he always traveled alone. He'd drank his water, but he would drink more when he got back to the tribe. It had been many hours since he left, and many hours still until he got back. It had taken him longer than he had thought, and now the sun threatened to be upon him. And he without water. He cursed his luck. He would have to be swift.
His eyes flashed suddenly. Duck, a voice told him. He flattened himself to his horse as an arrow streaked overhead, passing through the space his throat occupied a moment ago. He turned his head, saw two men on horses, dressed like raiders. Thieves. Killers. There would be more behind them. He must be swift, he knew.
One spoke in a guttural voice, a tongue he did not know, and charged. Eshiil drew his knife, ignoring his scimitar. The thief laughed. When they were within fifteen feet of each other, the dagger left Eshiil's hand, propelled by his mind, and pierced the man's throat and vertebrae, killing him instantly. He drew his scimitar then, the blade screaming, as it always did, in a frequency just beyond human hearing. He screamed, also, and charged the other man, scimitar pointed above his head. The man drew his own sword, heavy and thick, and kicked his horse, launching him forward.
They met in the middle, the soft noise of blade on flesh. The man's head dropped to the ground, and Eshiil made a wet, coughing noise. By the weight of the other man's blade alone, it had cut his throat, even as he'd severed the man's head. Blood poured down his chest, soaked his scimitar. It nearly blinded him, the realization that he might die here.
Nearly a day passed. His water was gone, Eeshi'a was tired, moving slowly, and his mind was fading. The desert did not care.
He cursed.
Falling forward, his face landed on his horse's mane, wisps of hair tickling at his brow. He sighed and went silent. The horse carried on, seemingly unaware of its rider's plight. The horse knew the way. Eshiil coughed, spat blood, and the desert went black.
--
When he awoke, it was not to pry gummed-shut eyes open and squinting into the brightness of the sun, with his mouth like leather. It was to the comfort of silks, and pillows, and moistened lips.
"Do you remember the one of the first things I ever taught you, Eshiil?"
He could do nothing but croak weakly in response. He felt a moist cloth pressed to his lips.
"Never travel alone," his father said, "Or you will die."
"I had my horse," Eshiil replied lamely.
"Your horse saved your life," his father answered, "We found you a three hour ride away from us. It might as well have been three days for all the care you took."
The tent grew quiet. Eshiil reached a hand up towards his throat, only to have it slapped away.
"Don't. It will be long in healing," he said, "Today is the day you take on the mantle of manhood, yet you almost died. Your horse, and only your horse, saved your life. In spite of your apparent attempts to shorten it."
Eshiil coughed, reaching for the wet cloth again. Khamesh's bones, but he was thirsty! His father wetted his lips again.
"Your name is no longer Eshiil. You are a man among us now, for better or worse. Your name is Amnay Usem."
One who rides lightning. He was named for the horse which had saved his life.
"Sleep now. Tomorrow I will show you what you did wrong."
