Samin Chapar never failed to deliver a message. Not even a sandstorm as great as the First Whirlwind could bar his path. In some way or another, he would reach his destination. The wings to carry the Khah’s word. An unassailable oath cast in his mind. Yet, on a day much like this one, certain situations made him question whether the affairs of others were more important than his own life.
Five moons had elapsed since he’d ridden out of Shanghala’s gates, on course to Monthaven. His mare, Lorelle, had been equipped with novel saddlebags to bear the weight of the small chest. The Lord Speaker had expressed the significance of this delivery in their meeting. Its contents were unknown to Samin, but knowledge of them was immaterial to his task. His masters had ingrained that principle thoroughly into him during his years of training as a featherless foal.
They travelled along the Old Road toward the Pillar of Eadala, his first stop. He estimated it was a three moon ride from where he stood, currently. Lorelle maintained a steady jog now, taking some much-needed rest after the gallop from Shanghala. To call it a road was generous, though. Mounds of ashen sand had encroached from the sides, and it was riddled in potholes. The work of the ancient Gorhadi dahns undone by the encroaching will of the Skin. Samin spotted the rare, ruined shack beside the road. They would be his best chance at setting up a camping site. The winghorse handbook advised riders to steer clear of the Skin, but Handler Waltur had emphasised the timely importance of this assignment, and, just this once, authorised him to make use of the Old Road. A trade route once used to connect northern Gorhad with the south, but now it was barren and dilapidated, yet rife with scoundrels and bandits hungry for any man’s gold. By the Winds, encounters with them would be kept at a minimum, if not avoided.
For leagues the landscape continued steady. Samin and Lorelle passed ghost towns and forlorn trading posts. The sun exuded scorching heat upon the land though it cowered behind the clouds. The skeletal remains of a traveller and his mount lay on the side of the road like discarded shards of glass half buried under the greyed waste. The camel’s cranium was shattered down its eye socket where cinder dust pooled like in a basin. The sandy fog distorted the skies and imbued it with a lilac hue where distant lightning strikes cracked in a muffled mess.
Sweat dripped from his brow and jumped off him with each of Lorelle’s strides. Yet, she and he were one; Samin caught every bounce of her rhythm, Lorelle’s hooves thudding heavily on the ground beneath them. Ahead, the grey road stretched beyond the horizon where it bled uncannily with the skies above as if a mirror of the earths below. Surrounding them was a sea of undulating, mountainous dunes, expanding every which way. Some of the dunes were vibrating amidst the distortion of the heat. With his luck, one of them would rise and reveal itself to be an abominable dunedrake. Handler Waltur had warned him of their existence; enormous reptiles with a crown a of ten horns and ridges armed with spikes, but enough distractions. Samin had a parcel to deliver, and a long journey ahead. The only way to move was forward.
Under normal circumstances, somebody would relieve him of his duties and continue the journey fresh, but Handler Waltur had been very clear to not allow any other pair of eyes to lay sight on the chest. The other messages in his saddlebags would find their couriers, but he would see the chest to Monthaven. There was no doubt about that.
They happened upon an abandoned roadhouse. Parts of its roof had caved in; its walls were dusted and cracked. Its windows were boarded up, and there was no door on the frame The stables were barren, the gates busted and splintered, and the fences were half buried in sand. Just the thought of stationing his horse there made his blood run cold.
Then something startled Lorelle.
Her ears twitched. She flicked her head left to right and let out a sharp snort. She stamped her hooves on the sandy road as her gait slowed to a wary trot. Samin held the reins tightly and scanned his surroundings. He saw nothing at first amidst the wavering desert, save for the shimmering heat and the relentless breathing dunes.
Until, three figures burst out of the doorway, clad in tattered cloths and faces wrapped in scarves. Two carried curved swords. The other held a crossbow with a loaded bolt aimed not at him but Lorelle.
“Stop right there, winghorse,” said the man with the crossbow. “Anything in your saddlebags, give it us and we all walk away happy.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” replied Samin, his hands shaking.
“Hey! I wasn’t asking. Don’t waste my time.” They took a step closer to him.
Lorelle suddenly got on its hindlegs and neighed.
“Calm your bitch horse or I’ll stick a bolt through its brains.”
“Shh.” Samin tapped her neck, caressing its mane. Lorelle soon quietened, but she remained shaking like a boiling pot. “I have darios. Thirty of them. But you will not look in my saddlebags. The Khah’s word is for his to speak and for us to carry.” Even Samin wasn’t convinced. He cursed the Khah under his breath. All oaths are either ink or air in the end.
“A winghorse with a death wish, aye,” said the one on the right.
Samin reached into his saddlebags and tossed a pouch on the ground. “Take it. Two hundred darios. More than you’ll get from any traveller on this road. Goodwind, I’ve a long journey ahead.”
The crossbow shot with a crack. As Samin raised the reins to evade, the bolt cruised wide of Lorelle and stung his forearm, shooting a sharp pain down to his fingers. But there was no time to worry about that. He kicked Lorelle’s belly with his heels and stormed toward the bandits. They quickly jumped out of the way, and finally there was naught but the road in front of him.
“To hell with you and your Khah!” screamed one of the bandits in the distance, but Samin paid no attention to it. Or his pierced arm.
He gripped the reins taut and rode Lorelle at her top speed for hours, without a single look back. His grasp loosened as pain shot up his wounded arm, but he looped the reins around his wrist and pressed on, steadfast.
Nightfall had sneaked upon them, and Lorelle had begun resisting his commands, panting and slowing down. Samin snapped out of his trance and immediately loosened his foot pressure on Lorelle’s belly. “Easy,” he whispered. “I’m sorry,” he said, patting her neck. She replied with a dismissive grunt, but he knew Lorelle didn’t mean it.
It was then that he noticed the violent throb in his arm. His sleeve now soaked in blood, and the bolt still impaled through his forearm. When they reached the next shack, Samin dismounted Lorelle and tied her securely to a post. He scoured his saddlebags for the apothecary’s supplies. He tore a sheet of cloth from his shirt and wedged it between his jaws. He grabbed the splintered bolt—clenching like a rabid dog—and ripped it out. The wine stung like southern spice as he irrigated the wound, blood balloons still bulging from the hole. He tightened the bandages to the point where his fingers were not his own, and chugged half of what was left in the wine skin.
Samin relieved Lorelle of the saddlebags and scavenged them for a ration. It was gone in a single bite.
The bench inside the shack was no mattress. He could already feel the morning aches, but only three moons stood in the way of him and his first stop. He could hold steady until then—where the Pillar waited, rising from the sands like a promise beyond this ashen waste.
© Jaime Abad 2025