25th of Garm-mah to 1st of Atash-mah, 641 S.C.

The Journal of Rafiq al-Rashid

The golden dunes of the Bahar Desert finally gave way to barren hills that marked Black Crescent territory. We knew it was a gamble, our last encounter with the mercenaries was bound to leave a sour taste and we would no doubt have some blood debt to repay. Despite the unrelenting heat, Raouf had an unusual spring in his step, maybe his last encounter with this band played out better than my own. I however, had no intention of becoming an extended guest of theirs again.

Our search led us across the rocky wastes for several miles, through dusty ravines and sharp outcroppings until we finally found our quarry. There’ looming upon one of the hilltops stood a formidable construct of steel, stone and timber. A few gilded words and some parted coin later and we were escorted through the fortress gates and into the depths of the encampment. There we were met by the unmistakable stout form and bushy beard of Samadi “Two-swords”.

And there we learned the extent of our debt. Four thousand gold pieces was to be the blood price. The price we were to pay for the men lost. And the price we would pay for Raouf to keep his head. And so a bargain was struck. We were to pay a princely deposit to leave alive and Samadi charged us with the recovery of an ancient artifact; the Scimitar of Moktor, first of the Black Crescents. With its safe return, we would prove our worth to Samadi and buy the time needed to pay our debts. And Shushan would get its army.

We purchased what supplies we could, loaded up the camels and set off once more into the desert. I remember growing up in Darvish Kapur, where any noble worth his salt could hire a sedan chair for less than a handful of gold. Whereas these beasts cost several times as much and were at least eight times as unpleasant, if such a quality was even quantifiable. They were loud, uncomfortable and there was never a moment when they didn’t smell of manure. Had they not cut our journey time down significantly, I would have been much happier on foot.

We travelled north, over the mountains and back into the vast deserts that the Bahari called home. With Maissa guiding us through the arid wastes, the golden dunes finally gave way to one of the wonders of the caliphate; known to the Bahari as The Great Oasis. The Jandisari tells us that this is the northern hub of her people, where tribes from all over come together to tell stories, trade goods and find suitable partners for their sons or daughters.

That night, despite the constant celebration ringing out from the Barahi camps, I slept better than I had done in many weeks. When dawn struck, we gathered our belongings and set off once again northward towards the rumoured location of a mysterious black pyramid. We reasoned that given the total lack of landmarks, if the Black Crescent’s scimitar would be anywhere it would be there.

Nearly a day’s travel under the beating sun brought us to the lands of the Arkas Mesa. There, under the stone gaze of the jet-black monoliths, we found a structure buried deep within the desert sands. It was protected by a magic that felt far older than anything I had encountered and took several hours to unlock more than a few words of its spell. And then, as though it took no effort at all, the spell took root in my mind, and the shifting sands around the structure suddenly fell still. Along one face of the pyramid, surrounded by runic symbols and no wider than I am tall, a small aperture appeared.  

We followed the tunnel as it snaked deep into the heart of the pyramid before opening up into a large open chamber. Six sarcophagi lay evenly spaced out along the floor, 3 on each side of the room, and one of which was buried deep in rubble that had fallen from the ceiling. Finally, along the back wall was a single shrine of white stone where upon a golden scimitar lay, bathed in light from no apparent natural source. We had found the final resting place of Moktor ibn-Jazeera but it would seem that we were not the first. There, standing by the shrine, was a hulk of a man. His long blonde hair and fair skin reminded me of the men from the north yet his long fangs and sharply pointed ears betrayed the true nature of the beast.

Spells flew and swords clashed as we fought to repel this new foe. Strange how he assaulted without provocation or warning. Maybe he was the protector of this crypt, or perhaps he was just another grave robber that found himself in the wrong place. Never the less, it was clear that for him, this was a fight to the death and we had little alternative than to comply.

Northman felled, we all turned as one to the scimitar as it lay almost defiantly on the stone. There was our prize, yet somehow I felt rooted to the spot. Strength of will alone would not be enough to command my legs forward and my hands felt as heavy as lead. I could only watch as Maissa stepped up to the sword and grasped the hilt.

And then, time froze. The room filled with a presence that filled every pit and illuminated every shadow. I felt the weight of millennia, of everything that was and everything that will be, press upon my shoulders. Under the scrutiny of an ageless gaze, I fell to my knees and sobbed.