Thursday, March 2, 2017

The Tehir Chronicles, Part 5, The Seeds of Greed

The hammers ring, their sound emanating from the open sided tent.  The smiths work hard, bending the metal to their will, making beautiful things out of what was once an ugly ore.  The huge muscles of their arms ripple with each swing of the hammer and sweat glistens on their nearly hairless heads, making them shine in the light of the fire of the forge.

The metal they work with is as close to being holy as anything can be to these people, and the smiths are revered within their society.  These skilled craftsmen and women transform a raw ore to a beautiful ornamentation, destined to adorn a member of their society, in a matter of days.

Copper is the name of the metal, and the smiths train for years to learn the nuances of it and the secrets of their craft.  Many generations ago, this particular clan of people were fortunate enough to discover a vein of rich ore, and since then they have become known as masters of the art of crafting copper; turning it into items of necessity, like pots, or fine jewelry.

Many other clans trade for the copper items made by this clan so they are rarely in need of anything; their craftsmanship is such that they are known throughout this harsh desert land as some of the best at what they do.

Unfortunately, to be the best at something can have its own notoriety, and word sometimes reaches unwelcome ears and brings unwanted attention…



"Why are we here?"  I say to no one in particular, as I gaze up into the sky with its merciless sun.  I take a long drink from my canteen, but it does little to quench my thirst; I always feel thirsty here.

Day sixty-eight since we left the comfort and relative safety of the outpost at the edge of this land, forsaken by all but scorpions and vultures, and there is no end in sight to our expedition.  "Riches abound here," we were told.  "The people are a primitive race of nomads who fight so much amongst each other that they won't be able to mount an effective resistance against heavily armored knights."

So far, over half of the expedition is dead; one hundred and six out of our original two hundred men have been lost.  The morale of the rest of us has been in a steady decline since our commander was eaten alive by a huge beast that lives beneath the sand; it resembled one of those great animals of the sea that moves through the water on wings, rather as a bird does through the air.  One minute he was there, the next, he was gone, a single scream echoing across the dunes to announced his passing. 

Every day more men die, either from the heat, or one of the multitude of deadly desert creatures that inhabit this wasteland or, as has been becoming more and more common in the last week, men just come up missing.  There is never any sign of anyone having been in camp, yet each morning someone fails to answer morning muster and, upon searching, we find them, staked out in the sand a short distance from camp.

Some we find with their throats cut, the sand greedily drinking their blood.  Others…well, let's just say I certainly don't want to pass through Lorminstras gates in that fashion, nor would I wish that manner of passing on my worst enemy.

No matter how they died, they all have one thing in common.  Copper.  A circle of raw copper ore has been laid out around the body.  It is almost as if they are teasing us with its presence; after all, it's what we came here to get.  

We are now following a trail.  The tracks we follow are from some great beast that the natives use as mounts; a terrifying creature, I have never seen the like of it anywhere else in my travels.  I also find it very unsettling to be following this trail, since there was no trail before, and it just seems to have appeared before us. 

Our acting commander, the brother of a rich merchant who is about as qualified to lead us as some trollop from a brothel, thinks it's good fortune and that we shall soon be upon these natives and then we will give them a taste of our steel.

As dusk approaches, we settle in at the base of a large series of dunes; there is certainly no shortage of sand here, and it gets into everything, your clothes, and the food, even the water we drink is tainted with it.  I swear, if I get out of here alive I'll live in a place where everything is green all the time; I am so sick of the brown of the sand.

I am awoken sometime in the middle of the night by cries of warning.  I exit my small tent, which I share with two other soldiers, and, as I rub the sleep from my eyes, I look up at the top of the dunes.  There I see dozens of people, all bearing torches and dressed in a similar fashion, a loosely worn, robe-type of garment that covers them from shoulder to foot, with long sleeves.  Upon their heads they wear a sort of cloth covering that seems to be wound around their head numerous times and covers all but their eyes.

We quickly form a defensive square, the butts of our spears braced into the sand to defend against a charge by the enemy; we are already on the defensive, the enemy holds the high ground.

We hold our position until dawn, the enemy has not moved; they haven't even made a sound.  Our commander is asking for volunteers to go out and talk to them.  I think he should volunteer himself, and, in my own stupidity, I say so, just a little too loudly.

He hears me, turns, and looks at me, then he thanks me for volunteering, and he assures me I will be given a fine burial.  Well, I suppose I could have declined, and then he would have made it an order.  At least this way I am choosing the manner of my own death.

I unbuckle my sword belt, drop all my weapons upon the sand, and step from the square, slowly walking up the dunes towards what I believe to be my end.  I get about three quarters of the way up when one of their number steps out from among the rest.  He hands a wicked looking sword to another of his party then moves to stand apart from the rest, his arms at his side, palms facing me.

I approach to perhaps five paces from him and I stop.  Our eyes meet, each of us sizing up the other.  He says something, in a very foreign tongue, guttural and harsh, and another of his party hands him a water-bag.

He holds the water-bag out to me, his eyes never leaving mine.  I warily cross the distance between us and accept it.  I take a drink, it is surprisingly cool and crisp, and I hand it back.  He does the same and then passes the water-bag back to the one who gave it to him.

He then motions and the line of people parts to allow his passage.  Obviously, he wants me to follow, but I hesitate.  My fear is real; my stomach is doing flips.  But eventually my curiosity wins out and I follow him. 

As soon as I am by, the gap in the line closes and they charge down the slope of the dune, into the defenders.  Angered and surprised by this turn of events, I turn to re-join my comrades but the leader grabs my arm, his grip like iron, and turns me around to face him.  His eyes bore into mine as he shakes his head in the negative.  Four more of his men, weapons drawn, surround me to make sure I keep my place.

I can hear the battle raging below my position; the screams of the vanquished and the cries of the victorious mingle with the sounds of metal clashing against metal.  Soon, all that can be heard is the whimpers of the mortally wounded and faint pleas of mercy in my own language.  It is obvious who won this battle.

The leader studies me intently for what seems like an eternity, then he escorts me back to the top of the dune, raises his arm, points down into the pit between the dunes, and shows me the result of the battle.

None of my troop is left alive; they have been stripped naked in the sun, no shred of honor left to them.  The leader then grabs my hand and places six nodules of copper ore in it.  He taps the nodules in my hands, shakes his head emphatically NO, and points back in the direction from which we had marched, all those weeks ago.  He says something to the four men surrounding me.  They depart, returning soon with five mounts.

The four Tehir escort me to within a half days ride of my old outpost.  The entire time we traveled none of them ever spoke to me; in fact, they rarely acknowledged my existence.

Upon returning to the outpost, I was questioned at length regarding my own survival.  It was surmised that, since I had shown enough bravery to approach them unarmed, they deemed me worthy enough to bear their message, primitive though it was; I didn't have the courage to tell them that my "bravery" was actually a punishment due to my big mouth.

Their message, such as it was, was definitely received, though not in the fashion they had hoped.  Rather than having the desired effect of keeping us out of their lands, it made it all the more important for those in power to not lose face against these primitives.


Expedition after expedition was mounted against the Tehir, we wanted their copper.  Some were successful, some were not, but, over the years, we began to learn what worked and what didn't against them.  Soon they will be defeated and their copper will be ours.

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