raise caution and old fears across the lands. It is not wise to throw them about so casually,” he scolded.
Aphere shot him a disparaging glare and pushed through the crowd. He had no choice but to follow. Many in the crowd were old and spattered in drying blood. Their armor was tired and abused from constant exposure to the harsh desert elements. Each man was proud and strong in his own way. Shields were cracked, helms dented. Several bled but remained in good spirits. These were the crème of the eastern tribes.
Following her lead, Pirneon stopped and watched.
She leaned in to whisper, “That’s Salac in the dark blue turban. Remember, he is now the sovereign ruler over all of the Jebel Desert. Do not dismiss him lightly.”
He supposed he understood her sudden hesitancy. However, Salac was hardly the first king or lord he’d stood before. Pirneon was about to tell her so but wisely decided to hold his tongue. Their situation was still much too perilous for his liking. He folded his hands in front of his waist and waited.
Salac stood with his hands on his hips. His skin was dark, making his almost black eyes appear hollow. His nose was long and hooked at the tip, further strengthening his angled face. Pirneon’s eyes glanced to the scimitar tied to his waist. It was a weapon made for killing, not the ornamental toy of a boy ruler.
“Welcome back, general,” Salac said after noticing Aphere. “I believe this day belongs more to you than to any other. It is only fitting you have come to celebrate with us.”
Pirneon was instantly wary, knowing how well the last celebration had fared in this camp. He had no desire for a repeat.
Aphere curtsied. “I just came up with the plan, Sultan. Your men executed it very well.”
“Indeed,” Salac agreed. His sharp eyes fell on Pirneon, and he stiffened. “I have seen you before.”
“Indeed you have, Sultan.”
“Last night in my father’s tent. You came to kill him.” Venom dripped from the words.
“He is the one I mentioned,” Aphere stepped in, hoping to avoid bloodshed.
“What is your name?”
“I am Pirneon, son of Gaimos.”
“Gaimos is dead, much as my father,” he snorted. “A regrettable act of war, but one both my father and I deemed necessary. But I am being rude. I am Salac-ib-Habrim. Let us save titles and stature for another time. Tonight, I wish to celebrate the end of the war and a new dawn of peace for the tribes of the desert.”
“Tell me, Salac, is there one among your prisoners named Bradgen?” Pirneon asked.
“Should there be?”
He shook his head. “It would be in your best interest. He killed Adonmeia and took control of the army last night. Without him in custody, the war won’t end.”
Salac’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He barked for his minister, sending the man scurrying off shouting orders in a high pitched shrill. “We shall soon know if he is still here. Checking the dead will take a very long time, however. Will you identify him once we have him?”
“My pleasure,” Pirneon replied with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Salac clapped his hands twice, and music started from the far corner of the tent. “Then come, let us break bread together and form ties of fellowship. Tonight is a special night, and, though you have been my enemy, I name you friend. We would not be standing here tonight were it not for you.”
Pirneon wasn’t sure how to respond. That familiar nervous feeling rippled through him again. The last time he had been here with talk of feasting and celebration, he’d nearly been killed. Escape hadn’t been possible then, and he knew it wouldn’t happen this time either if things went sideways. His only security came from having another Gaimosian with him. Blood didn’t fight blood. He was forced to rely on that alone.
The feast lasted hours, much to Pirneon’s dislike. They were all exhausted, him perhaps most of all. A series of unending speeches spanned the event, and the men roared and
Aphere shot him a disparaging glare and pushed through the crowd. He had no choice but to follow. Many in the crowd were old and spattered in drying blood. Their armor was tired and abused from constant exposure to the harsh desert elements. Each man was proud and strong in his own way. Shields were cracked, helms dented. Several bled but remained in good spirits. These were the crème of the eastern tribes.
Following her lead, Pirneon stopped and watched.
She leaned in to whisper, “That’s Salac in the dark blue turban. Remember, he is now the sovereign ruler over all of the Jebel Desert. Do not dismiss him lightly.”
He supposed he understood her sudden hesitancy. However, Salac was hardly the first king or lord he’d stood before. Pirneon was about to tell her so but wisely decided to hold his tongue. Their situation was still much too perilous for his liking. He folded his hands in front of his waist and waited.
Salac stood with his hands on his hips. His skin was dark, making his almost black eyes appear hollow. His nose was long and hooked at the tip, further strengthening his angled face. Pirneon’s eyes glanced to the scimitar tied to his waist. It was a weapon made for killing, not the ornamental toy of a boy ruler.
“Welcome back, general,” Salac said after noticing Aphere. “I believe this day belongs more to you than to any other. It is only fitting you have come to celebrate with us.”
Pirneon was instantly wary, knowing how well the last celebration had fared in this camp. He had no desire for a repeat.
Aphere curtsied. “I just came up with the plan, Sultan. Your men executed it very well.”
“Indeed,” Salac agreed. His sharp eyes fell on Pirneon, and he stiffened. “I have seen you before.”
“Indeed you have, Sultan.”
“Last night in my father’s tent. You came to kill him.” Venom dripped from the words.
“He is the one I mentioned,” Aphere stepped in, hoping to avoid bloodshed.
“What is your name?”
“I am Pirneon, son of Gaimos.”
“Gaimos is dead, much as my father,” he snorted. “A regrettable act of war, but one both my father and I deemed necessary. But I am being rude. I am Salac-ib-Habrim. Let us save titles and stature for another time. Tonight, I wish to celebrate the end of the war and a new dawn of peace for the tribes of the desert.”
“Tell me, Salac, is there one among your prisoners named Bradgen?” Pirneon asked.
“Should there be?”
He shook his head. “It would be in your best interest. He killed Adonmeia and took control of the army last night. Without him in custody, the war won’t end.”
Salac’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He barked for his minister, sending the man scurrying off shouting orders in a high pitched shrill. “We shall soon know if he is still here. Checking the dead will take a very long time, however. Will you identify him once we have him?”
“My pleasure,” Pirneon replied with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
Salac clapped his hands twice, and music started from the far corner of the tent. “Then come, let us break bread together and form ties of fellowship. Tonight is a special night, and, though you have been my enemy, I name you friend. We would not be standing here tonight were it not for you.”
Pirneon wasn’t sure how to respond. That familiar nervous feeling rippled through him again. The last time he had been here with talk of feasting and celebration, he’d nearly been killed. Escape hadn’t been possible then, and he knew it wouldn’t happen this time either if things went sideways. His only security came from having another Gaimosian with him. Blood didn’t fight blood. He was forced to rely on that alone.
The feast lasted hours, much to Pirneon’s dislike. They were all exhausted, him perhaps most of all. A series of unending speeches spanned the event, and the men roared and
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