The Journal of Rafiq al-Rashid
Several weeks have passed since the City of Sapphire fell foul of the Darvaki horde and life has slowly returned to normal. Bazaari once again crowd the markets, the great mosque is no longer just a refuge of the old and sick and even the sekut have returned like rats after the passing storm. From the ruins of the old Bazaari quarter, my academy flourished. It feels like just yesterday that we opened our doors to talented individuals from all walks of life, yet I now find myself as the tutor of a dozen of the finest minds in mardoum society.
Day blended with night and I very quickly lost track of time while surrounded by tome and scroll, forgotten relics of the cities library. Hamzi made tutoring look so easy, yet I find myself struggling to keep up with the students’ thirst for knowledge. Often my day would be spent teaching one methodology and then my evening spent researching the next. But all this education is good for the mind, I had become lazy in recent years and relied too much of cheap tricks.
Just as things had started to settle, my evening routine was disturbed by a heavy and somewhat authoritative knock at the door. With only moments to gather myself I was greeted by two Pasdari ready to collect me for the Majlis ceremony in my honour. I remember looking over at the stack of papers on my desk and there, under several stacks of scroll cases, is a crisp and unopened letter that bears the official seal of the city. No time to shave then.
The ceremony was breathtaking. It seemed like the entire city had emptied into the civic hall and for the first time in weeks I felt the weight of our achievement as thousands of eyes sat fixated on myself and my companions.
Once the ceremony had subsided, we were invited to a more private meeting with the Vizier and a few select members of high society. It transpired that we were once again needed in service our adopted city. Construction slowed as materials had become harder and harder to acquire. If there was any chance of returning the Sapphire to its old splendor, we would need a sizeable supply of raw materials from the great northern city of Behoustan.
In addition to the sizeable fortune entrusted to us, the Vizier placed us under the charge of a young and bright eyed mufti named Benn.
So the next day, with Benn and the city’s wealth in tow, we set out towards the third jewel of the Caliphate: Behoustan, City of Topaz.
No matter how often you travel through the Bahar, it becomes no more forgiving than the last. Wind, sand and sun lashed at any exposed skin it could find and the dunes spanned out for miles in all directions. Though the journey was unusually quiet, which given previous experience, was never a good sign. The Caliphate is a dangerous place, any journeying party would expect to encounter any number of the predatory creatures along its travels, yet we rarely saw anything larger than a desert lizard.
We did encounter several small Bahari groups travelling westward for the rainy season, many of which brought news from the various parts of the Caliphate. It would seem that life in Darvish Kapur had returned to the status quo albeit with the new Sheikh, Wassim al-Kapur. As for the civil unrest in Yasminah, word was that it had come to bloodshed. These were dark days indeed.
Our journey took us north, to the Great Oasis. Once populated by vast numbers of Bahari, this desert jewel was now completely desolate. Dark clouds hung overhead and in the distance, thunder boomed. At first I didn’t realise what I was hearing, dismissing the thunder as a sign of the coming storm. Yet the sound replayed in my mind over and over until realisation swept through my thoughts and drew my gaze skyward. This was not thunder, but the booming voice of a creature far too abhorrent for the natural world. Once again it boomed out Maissa’s name and the beast fell from the heavens like a swooping hawk. The ground around us exploded as more creatures, born of lightning, began to whisper a dark chorus in reverence of this winged beast, this Shaitun of Atash.
I’ll admit I was worried about Benn. He was a sheltered creature, much like I used to be, and to experience such horrors first hand could easily break a man. But he stood firm in his conviction and we brought a swift end to this new monstrosity.
Exhausted, we set up camp overnight at the Great Oasis before continuing our journey north, out of the Bahar and into the mountainous realm of Behoustan. There we crossed onto the main trade route between Darvish Kapur and the northern cities, a vast winding road that followed the banks of the river Kimri.
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.
