Moosi'Kar

Jordan stared intently out into the deep desert. Unease etching a map further into his sun-creased forehead, dark eyes examining the desolate dunes surrounding his small patrol.

Sand-scratched gaze restlessly scanning for any sign of booby-traps or ambush, the damn Byouthi tribesmen could wait silent in the sand, immobile for days. Buried inches below the surface of the desert, only emerging when the Empire soldiers relaxed. Once the sentries were posted and the pickets set, only then would they emerge silently from their shallow graves to butcher as many Empire soldiers as they could, sacrificing themselves as they fought like cornered beasts until the sentries could cut them down. The bloody heathens had no honour, just ambushes and traps, death without purpose.

Their dragon riders, flyers as they were called here, had tracked his patrol all day. Well they’d been tracked since leaving the Bayathu garrison over two weeks ago, always just on the edges of the horizon watching, waiting.

Today was different. Today the flyers would swoop in close on their dragons, just into range to release volleys of arrows, then hurriedly retreat behind the dunes; constantly keeping his marching column on edge and disrupted. Doing little harm - more like they were trying to slow the march rather than looking for a fight.

Jorden’s warrior nerves were rattling his brain like a gypsy band. He could sense something big coming, though he could see no sign of threat in the silent desert with the sands sitting placid and calm like a contoured lake rippling in the cool spring moonlight. Despite what his eyes told him, there was a continual uncomfortable rumble deep in his guts, emanating from the black sands engulfing him. He knew the tribesmen were out there, watching and waiting for a chance to strike; hidden outside the pickets and watching every move the soldiers made, waiting for a mistake, a hole to exploit in the defences. There would be no holes tonight, he vowed.

Jordan had been posted to the Fire Province for the past five years, mostly it had been an enjoyable and calm tour. A few engagements with the tribesmen now and again, more harassment than real conflict and even these raids had slowed after the first couple of years when the Empire patrols became more adept at spotting the ambushes and night raids. The pickets sounding a blaring alarm well before the flyers were within arrow shot of the camp, the defenders armed with heavy lead tipped bows would shower the incoming attackers neutralising the threat before the winged lizards could rain fire on the camp

Things were different now. The whole Province was on edge. The sea routes were completely blocked to Empire ships and the raids on Empire mines and transports were increasing each month. The Empire patrols had been doubled, both number of soldiers per patrol and frequency of patrols. No patrol ever left the camp now without at least one full battle wizard in the company.

Jordan had personally checked that all sentries were set properly. The whole camp felt like a pressure cooker, to the extent that even the imperturbable old warlock Hlara seemed on edge. She had for the first time in his memory gone with Jordan to check all the magical defences and alarms, her lined face tight with tension. Everything was set and perfect of course; no one was making mistakes tonight. There was no reason to worry, nothing larger than a rat could get within five hundred yards of the camp’s outer picket without him knowing, but still his mind was not eased. The old warrior, used to trusting his instinct, knew he would get little sleep tonight. Only two days march back to Bayathu and then he would only feel comfortable enough to rest.

The alarms, when they came, were almost a relief. The flyers came on their horse-sized dragons, swooping inches above the dark sands, keeping dunes between themselves and the sentries where they could. The well drilled defenders leapt into action at once, letting loose volleys of heavy tipped arrows at the approaching riders, while the magical traps released balls of flame from the ground when a flyer passed too close.

The riders were close enough to start showering the camp with arrows and Jordan could see the lizards themselves starting to glow, ready to vomit their flame onto the hapless soldiers. As usual, the defences held, the flyers were forced back into the desert under a hail of arrows and brilliant bursts, as magical balls struck the sand around them hurled by Hlara, her long grey hair flying behind her as she rushed toward the flyers, silently mouthing her spells as she let fly her magic; even catching one rider directly in the chest, causing him and his mount to smash into the next rising dune just out of sight. He smiled to himself, nothing would survive a hit like that.

Jordan memorised the crash site, he would send a couple of soldiers to inspect the corpses in the morning to see if the rider was carrying any orders; anything that could explain the uptake in raids on the mines, or the unusual daring in openly harassing an Empire patrol. Things were worse than the Colonel believed, thought Jordan; he had to get the latest information back to Colonel Deanathi and onto the Empress.

The patrol was still two days from Bayathu and home after three weeks on the mining highways patrolling the desert between the cities and mines. All his soldiers were tired, dirty and frazzled. This time was much worse than ever before. Usually the flyers kept their distance from a patrol of forty armed men accompanied by a full battle wizard; that along with a new Empire magical defence systems around the camps should have been deterrent enough.

Well, it was their loss if they wanted to keep throwing away lives at a defended camp, it did interrupt his sleep but, if that was the worst that happened, he would be content. Just as he turned away from the desert, he sensed rather than saw a flash of darkness from just outside his vision, near the edge of the camp, on the inside of the picket line. He stared at the spot for a long moment until he was reassured that nothing was moving there.

Attempting to extract mental burrs from his nerves, Jordan forced himself to consider the situation rationally; the perimeter was set and sentries alert. Nothing threatening could get close to the camp, never mind past all the wards, alarms and sentries protecting it. So why was he so damn jittery? He had been on patrol in the black desert hundreds of times and had rarely lost a soldier to the tribesmen. Not one after the first years, he reminded himself, and he wasn’t going to start again now!

There was another flash of movement in the darkness from near his command tent, the disturbed air seemed to tickle the corner of his eye calling the hair on his nape to full alert. Right hand clutching for his sword, Jordan whipped his eyes around to glare into the night, vainly trying to see a tell-tale ripple or mobile shadow to show the cause of alarm. Just as his grateful fist clutched his weapon’s hilt, a great weight smashed into his back while exploding pain bit deep into his brain circuits, momentarily blinding him. Before his vision was restored fully, iron hard claws cut through his light riding leather armour like paper and shredded his spinal column. Captain Jordan flopped boneless to the ground. The pain dissipated quickly like water from an upset ewer leaving only a strange numbness as he tried willing himself back to his feet, whilst only dimly aware his body would not respond, nothing, not even a finger wiggle.

Jordan was more bemused than scared. Until the screaming started and his restored sight showed his men rushing from their tents, only to be felled by dark forms crashing into them followed by fountain-like bursts of blood from shredded veins and arteries. Some fell as their hamstrings were cut, the screams silenced quickly as talons punched though their armour into chests, guts, and skulls. There was nothing but chaos all around him now, men and women were screaming in panic, slashing wildly with swords or maces at immaterial shadows that stayed just beyond reach, and still they fell, one by one surrounding Jordan with the shuddering corpses and pleading gazes of his command.

Jordan’s eyes were dimming and he knew death was near; this was perversely quite a relaxing concept to him right now, which amused him further. The last thing he saw was his soldiers strewn like children’s dolls ravaged by wolves, and there in the centre of the camp was old Hlara rushing toward him pitching balls of flame and hissing magic frantically at the surrounding demons. To Jordan’s dying eyes, they looked vaguely like Moosi but much larger; the flames and magic dispersed like smoke against the attackers as they formed a tight cordon around the wizard, closing remorselessly on her position.

That cannot be good he thought dully, I need to warn Colonel Deanathi! The words crept through the embers of his brain, then faded as his eyes, still open, stared at eternity.