Breath of the Desert – an Empire of Dust Short Story – Part Three

Today we’re finishing our exciting serialisation of a short story inspired by the Empire of Dust. Written by D. R. Chester, who is currently working with Winged Hussar on an upcoming novel, Breath of the Desert is a three part story. You can read part one here, while part two is here and part three follows below.

If you’d like a little more info on the background of the Empire of Dust, then check out this article here. But, without further ado, let’s take a look at part one of D. R. Chester’s short story.

A lone rider watched the struggling army as it marched up the dry riverbed away from the coast and into the barren depths of the desert wastes. They weren’t stupid then. The fine drifting dust of the northern wastes was a hard slog, while the cracked baked mud and rocks of the dried- up river bed made their progress easier. It also made it a predicable route to follow. The people living here had managed to eke out an existence far longer than anyone would have imagined once the river had run dry. The rider had watched with fascination from afar as they went about their mundane, wretched lives. They were the enemy, though not the true enemy. The ones that had damned him to this existence were far away or long gone, and these simple folk might not even be close ancestors. It had been curious to watch them though. He had almost forgotten the notion or the sensation of such simple tasks like eating, smiling or even breathing. A small part of his previous humanity almost regretted giving the order to have them all killed but one of them had found his army hidden in the desert and he could not risk its discovery, and that spark of remembered emotion was too insignificant to interfere. The great awakening was a momentous process, and he had been ordered to this position and told to wait until the time was right.

He had been waiting for years. Silently holding in the desert, and yet still the legions had not yet arrived. He led a fine army but nothing approaching the full might of the Ahmunites. He must guard and wait. His patience was not infinite though, even if his time was. This would prove a satisfying distraction to the trace of tedium that had crept into his thoughts of late. He willed his mount to turn and headed down the dune, the gait of its fleshless form swaying him gently from side to side as he contemplated the fate of his new-found entertainment.

As arrows rained down and thudded into armour, shields and flesh without discrimination, the ogre leader quickly re-organised his forces and a line of heavily-armoured warriors rushed forward, shields as big as they were, and wielding heavy hammers that could easily crush armour and bone alike. Naphet-at-ahem saw they could make short work of his spearman, but that would not come to pass. Humming an ancient hymn of summoning, he raised a carpet of dead creatures from the riverbed. Lizards, insects, and small mammals all embedded in the baked clay of the river found themselves animated once more and broke free, swarming over the charging ogres. The brutes were hardened veterans that were not initially phased by such a pathetic enemy but even so, the charge ground to a halt as they threw the irritating creatures off their skin and crushed  them beneath their feet.

A troop of ogres that had been using the dunes as cover revealed themselves carrying great blunderbusses, but Naphet-at-ahem sent a pulse of will to his archers who sent a volley into them before they could unleash their terrifying weapons. The only one to survive dragged itself away, a spread of arrows protruding from his back.

The enemy attack had stalled, and Naphet-at-ahem was about to launch his counterattack when a single man, clad in the garb of the enemy’s people, stepped out alone. He looked out of his depth, dressed more for leisure than war, and drew out a pottery urn with a sealed wax bung from his bag. He nervously spoke an incantation, while holding the urn at arm’s length, as though he were afraid of the contents.

Naphet-at-ahem felt the meaning of the words and immediately knew the power that rested inside the jar. Thin reedy wisps of air were dragged through his dry bones, and he let out a strained croak behind his golden mask as his mummified body responded to the magic. His mask showed a serene, idolised image of what his face had looked like in life and completely hid the drained face of death that lay beneath. As a member of the minor nobility, he had been blessed to undergo the rituals required to preserve his organs, although the years had still bestowed their inevitable decay. The mask heaved again with the next croak as the magic holding his physical body together fought against the power trying to unravel it. Naphet-at-ahem understood what was happening and knew it was futile against his forces. The gathering air continued to stream through his parched vocal chords towards the jar, and he emitted a barking, stuttering sound. It sparked a deeply forgotten memory of amusement. Was he, for the first time in centuries, laughing?

With the last line of the incantation rising at the end so high the Ophidian’s voice broke at the crescendo, he smashed it to the ground and released the lesser djinn bound within. It had been enslaved for one purpose, and a swirling tornado surged forward. The ogres stood dumbfounded, shielding their faces from the sand that soon clouded their vision as the magical torrent of air swept through the enemy line. Naphet-at-ahem felt the power of the djinn dissipate as the strength of the incarnation burned out and it escaped across the desert, its work done. His spearmen had been thrown out of formation, forced back by the gale and bodies flung everywhere, yet already they were drawing themselves back to a fighting line. The ogres were in no fit state to take advantage as the deep drifts of fine sand that lined the riverbanks had been greatly disturbed by the eldritch wind.

Rank upon rank of Ahmunites had been revealed, now free from the dirt that had concealed them; immobile lines of warriors that had been buried motionless in the sands. The presence of many could still only be determined by the tips of their spears, while others stood fully exposed, the last of the sand running freely from the gaps of their armour. Ranks of cavalry on their skeletal steeds stood proudly next to a line of chariots, while mighty bronze statues stood guard, wielding huge glaives. Bared to the glaring sun, it was as if the desert had opened its mouth and jaws of golden teeth stood dazzling bright and ready to bite. All it would take was a simple command. Naphet-at-ahem swept down his ancient khopesh and gave it.

The teeth snapped shut. Scores of arrows swept through the sky and the thunder of hooves kicked up a storm of dust as, a wall of skeletal horsemen crashed into the disordered ogres from both sides. Enslaved djinn, trapped in their ensorcelled, runic armour, stalked forward and hacked into the slasher with their great blades, carving great gashes into its flanks. It snapped one up in its colossal jaw and shook it viciously before casting it aside, then sent another flying with a sweep of its tail. Yet it was not enough, and the battle cries of the slasher soon ended in pitiful yelps while it was carved to pieces.

Naphet-at-ahem watched the massacre with a cold detachment. He supposed there was a beauty to behold in seeing his proud warriors at war once more after so very long, but what was left of his free will could not grasp that human concept. The Ophidian had somehow made it away from the carnage and was running, tears streaming down his cheeks. Naphet-at-ahem contemplated letting him get away so the story would get back to his so-called God-Kings.  Let them know that death that was coming for them. They would find out soon enough. An arrow hit the man and he fell unceremoniously into the dust, wheezing from a punctured lung, his lifeblood feeding the parched ground. Naphet-at-ahem’s cold blue eyes gazed dispassionately as the man struggled to continue living, desperate for every torturous last breath.

Hadn’t anyone ever told him? There is only death in the desert.

Hope you’ve enjoyed Breath of the Desert. Let us know if you’d like to see more of these lore blogs in the future. Also, the Empire of Dust are shipping from Mantic this week, and wave two will be going on pre-order this Friday.