gathering in the center of the camp, surrounded by children straining to see through the forest of
legs. Two of the khan’s guards appeared, dragging a man between them. A third followed, sword
in hand. The khan’s face remained emotionless as the guards held the man still. A swift, sure
stroke. The wineseller shuddered at the sight and retreated further backwards into his tent. The
tribesmen would be shaken, he knew. They would not show it, much less admit it, but it was there
for all to see on their faces and in their subtly shaking hands. The men would need something for
their nerves later today. Perhaps a little wine...?
The Nomad
The nomad paused. There it was again. The first time he had heard it he had dismissed it as the
moaning of the wind. But now it was closer, and unmistakably the voice of a man. He turned his
mount towards the sound.
The camel struggled and wheezed as it attempted to climb the steep rocky cliff. The nomad
dismounted, and continued on foot. As he reached the top, a haze of blinding white met his eyes.
The snowfall was fresh, and it covered the land in its bleached, colorless tones. Here and there sparse
clumps of vegetation protruded from underneath the pale icy blanket, but for the most part the vista
remained unmarred. There - the sound again, shattering the dead, cold silence of the plain.
As the nomad ventured closer, what he had initially mistaken as a clump of ferns from a
distance resolved into several distinct figures. A camel lay on its side. One, no, two men were
sprawled in the snow beside it. Their loose clothes were worn and frayed. Perhaps sixteen or
twenty steps away, a larger group of men and camels lay in the frost. One of them was still alive.
A track of churned snow and mud behind him told a tale of hours passed struggling to crawl away
from the carnage, as he did even now. An ornate scabbard, now empty, slapped against his thighs.
The man moaned.
Judging from their clothing, they had to be Turk raiders, the nomad thought. Hunters -
probably the khan’s men - had run them down, doggedly pursuing them day and night until at
last the raiders had reached the end of their strength. Here they had rallied at last, and here they
had fallen. The nomad carefully skirted the corpses of the men even as he searched among the
camels for anything useful. Not likely, he thought. A man desperate enough to turn to raiding
would not have much in way of worldly possessions. But it would be a terrible crime to let
anything go to waste. Winter left little room for mercy.
As the nomad turned to depart, he gave the fallen raiders one last glance. The survivor now
lay still and unmoving. His wounds had been too serious to treat in any case. Around him were
sprawled the raiders that had terrorized and murdered hundreds of traders in their lifetimes. It was
the way of the desert. Predator became prey. Death came to all. And life, harsh as it was, continued.
The nomad turned his back on the men and left.
The Snake
The sandsnake watched the nomad depart with an unconcerned gaze. It had hidden, silent and
invisible, among the corpses while the clumsy man had scrabbled about among the scattered
debris. He had been no threat to it. The viper uncoiled and sniffed the air. Food had come, and
food had gone. There was nothing left for it in this place. Oblivious to the carnage around it, the
sandsnake stole away into the timeless desert as if it had not a care in the world.
