The Queen Above Golden Sands - Prologue (Patreon)

And here's the first installment of my new ongoing series! I cannot express in words how much I struggled with figuring out how to start this and where to go with the first chapter lol. I went through a good five drafts yesterday before finally settling on what you're about to read. 

And in the end I decided not to force in sex on the very first chapter (or rather the prologue) even though I mainly write erotica in the first place. And while that won't always be the case for every chapter I think I'll let some chapters in the future go without anything naughty taking place. When it seems appropriate. But rest assured there will be smut down the road. Likely in the very next chapter lol.  For now I hope y'all enjoy this little foray into what amounts to the first chapter of what'll likely end up being a whole ass novel.

Beneath the sweltering heat of a midday sun a band of marauders fled across the golden dunes, a storm of sand and laughter not much greater than themselves hounding their every step. “She cannot chase us forever!” One man cried.

“We cannot run forever!” Another screamed.

Twin beams of crackling, golden energy erupted from the depths of the maelstroms. In the blink of an eye two more men were struck down as the magical blast pierced their armor and  rent their flesh asunder. A terrified scream rang out amongst the survivors as they stumbled and slid and threw themselves down another towering dune. Only a dozen of their number remained from almost thirty who'd ridden out that morning. Their horses were gone, their supplies destroyed, and death herself bore down upon them at long last.

Another man tripped over himself in a frantic bid to keep running and the storm descended upon him before he could even scream. Though none of his companions heard the blade sinking into his flesh or saw the blood spraying into the swirling sands they knew his fate as surely as they knew their own. But still they fled, hopelessly sprinting across the desert in some foolhardy bid to reach their home. As if bringing more lambs to the slaughter would save them from her wrath.

Two more streams of golden power streaked out of the sandstorm. One passed so close to a man trailing behind the others it burned the hair from his cheek and sent a torrent of fresh piss running down his legs. The other struck his fellow square between the shoulder blades, burning his armor and singing his flesh in an agonizing burst of pain. And still they kept running from the figure hovering at the center of the sandstorm. Her laughter turned their blood to ice even as it sent adrenaline pumping through their veins. Their muscles screamed in agony and every labored breath felt like the last they would ever take as sweat stung their eyes and terror gripped their hearts. Little by little the storm, and the woman within, was gaining on them.

Before long the men lagging behind could feel the sting of the winds biting at their back. The sand swirling through the air and choking their already labored breaths. Some tried to cover their mouths or turn away from the fury. Others flailed wildly with blade or spear or mace, wasting what little energy they had left in a fruitless attempt to ward her away. Some even managed to strike something amidst their wild blows. But still the storm raged on. Still it encroached upon them more and more until several of the marauders were nearly engulfed. They tried to turn away from the onslaught. To break away from one another and spread out like those head of them did. They were too late.

Faster than any of them could react a wave of force exploded from the heart of the storm. Booming like a peal of thunder it sent three men flying away like toys thrown by an errant child. The fourth stayed on his feet long enough to watch his fellows collapse lifeless in the sands. Distracted as he was by the deaths of his friends he didn't see the man ahead of him fall over himself as they tried to climb the face of another dune. Both he and his companion tumbled over one another in a screaming mess of tangled limbs as they rolled towards the maelstrom. None of the other marauders even looked back at them as the storm fell upon them and the woman within laughed once more. Their screams, and their lives, were cut short a moment later as glittering steel flashed through the whirlwind in a brutal assault. Their blood sprayed across the golden sands and dripped from her scimitar as she raised it above her head with a taunting cry.

“Hazim dies today!” She roared, “And his marauders die with him!”

More screams rent the air as the few men still alive tumbled down the other side of the dune. For a few terrifying moments they saw no sign of the woman chasing them. But they knew better than to think she'd given up her pursuit. Instead they waited for the skies to darken and the wind to flay the skin from their bodies as she summoned an even greater storm. Or else the sands to open up beneath their feet and drop them into some unfathomable darkness where their bones would molder for the rest of time. Fear clouded their every surviving moment as they scrambled over themselves and one another in an endless gambit to steal a few more seconds of life. And when they looked back to see her emerge over the top of the dune behind them another chorus of frantic screams and terrified whimpers echoed across the empty desert.

The acrid smell of piss and shit followed in their wake as true, unabashed terror washed over them, a terror their foe seemed to delight it as her laughter rang out, “How many died for Hazim's greed?!” She demanded, “How many felt the same fear coursing through your veins?! Will you beg for mercy as they did?! Will you beg for mercy as I cut you down?!”

“We were only trying to survive!” One of the men screamed, “We were only trying to—”

His pleas ended in a blood curdling scream as another blast of golden energy erupted from the storm, both beams hitting him in the back and bursting through his chest in a shower of gore. He dropped like a puppet who's strings had been cut and one of his fellows tripped over his corpse. The rest continued to flee as he tried to crawl away from her. But as she bore down on him he spun around to face his doom, tears streaming down his face as he scrambled backwards all the same.

“We never killed anyone we didn't have to!” He whimpered, “And we never took anything we didn't need!”

Light glinted of her blade as it moved within the sandstorm. The man held out his hand and begged for mercy like so many of the women and children he'd killed across the years. She cut off his arm at the elbow and lopped off his head with another stroke. Before it'd even stopped rolling she returned to her dogged pursuit of those still left alive.

Only four remained. Only four were left to slaughter before she attacked their main encampment. But instead of striking them down in a cold fury as she had the rest the woman pursuing them chased the survivors across the sands like a force of nature. Shadowing their every step and blasting them with streaks of golden energy she bruised and battered and harassed them even as they screamed in anguish and begged for mercy. They knew she was playing with her food. As surely as they knew she was letting them lead her straight to Hazim's oasis hideout. But it didn't matter to them. Every moment they drew breath was a gift from the Gods. Even as they came to a horrifying realization.

Another man was killed as brutally as the last and two more fell after collapsing in exhaustion nearly within sight of the oasis. The last staggered his way up the final dune and fell to his knees at it's peak as she descended upon him too. He felt the biting sting of sand and wind at his back only for it to fade mere moments later. A hand gripped his sweat soaked locks and pulled his head to the side. The cold bite of a blade dug into his neck and he let out a soft whimper. Too tired to beg and too scared to glance up at her he simply stared down at the oasis below. At the men already scrambling to help. None of them would reach him in time. Hazim would never reach him before she stole his life. But he watched them all the same, quietly wondering what might've been if they could.

“Should I make a gift of your head to your brother Majtariff?” She asked. “Would he appreciate it as much as Sultan Sirajid appreciated the head of his daughter?”

“It doesn't matter . . .” Majtariff whispered, his voice hoarse and his throat cracked, “You'll kill him no matter what I say . . .”

“You're right.” Her blade vanished from his neck and he took his final breath. “I will.” A moment later his head was cut from his shoulders and his body collapsed to the sand. She kicked it down the dune towards the men scrambling below and cried out in a furious bellow, “Hazim dies today! And his marauders die with him!”

Mounting his horse and snarling at the men around him Hazim shouted, “I want every man beside me now! Kill anyone who doesn't obey!”

All the lieutenants within earshot nodded and rushed off to obey, some mounting their own steeds while the rest sprinted off to muster everyone. One of the few soldiers worth a damn brought him his freshly polished helmet and spear as he buckled his vambraces and tightened the straps of his half plate. He doffed his helm and snatched his weapon from his lackey's hands before ushering him away, his eyes turning to the figure slowly approaching their base. He watched her walk oh so leisurely towards them with a glittering blade in one hand and a severed head in the other. His scarred, wizened face twisted into an even deeper scowl at her approach and it only continued to deepen as his men gathered all around him.

Soon enough all the riders he had left, fifteen men in total, were gathered around and beside him. At least twenty more were gathered behind them on foot, a nervous silence hanging over them like a cloud while he and his lieutenants waited. After a few moments Hazim looked across his marauders with as close to a smile as he could muster before turning back to their foe. He raised his spear above his head and ushered them all forward in a slow, careful march. The footsoldiers quickly spread out alongside his cavalry and before long all of them were marching together towards the woman who'd dared attack them.

Yet instead of ordering a charge and running her down he commanded them all to stop at the edge of his oasis. Though none of them could claim to know his mind his men stopped for fear of what he might do if they disobeyed. Just like their leader they watched the stranger slowly approach from the haze of the desert sun, her distorted silhouette slowly coming into view until she was some fifty feet from them.

As tall as any man in his company, taller than most even, she was dressed in flowing white and blue cloth like many a noble they'd robbed and killed across the decades. But unlike the fat, lazy rich they so often preyed upon beneath much of her finely embroidered garb was studded leather armor. Across her chest and waist, down much of her legs, covering her wrists, and across her shoulders it protected all the vital areas without reducing her mobility at all. And much like the rest of her garb the craftsmanship was truly undeniable. Indeed everything from her boots to the few pieces of jewelry visible amongst her clothes seemed of a much higher quality than any of them expected. Especially for the terror that'd hounded them across the desert and slaughtered so many men. But while they might've been taken aback by the quality of her armor none were surprised by her face or the blade in her hand. The few men who'd momentarily escaped her wrath and returned home had spoken of both before succumbing to their wombs.

Fierce and strong with all the harshness and beauty of the desert around her the woman's face was framed by a turban much like the rest of her clothes. Her glittering purple eyes burned with a fire none of them had ever seen in a woman before and the scars dotted her dark brown skin spoke to her prowess as surely as the rest of her exploits. Even as the fullness of her lips and broad sculpt of her nose spoke to the strength of her allure and that strange combination of warrior and woman she seemed to so perfectly embody.

The blade she carried was entirely unlike anything Hazim or his men had witnessed. Even more elegant and finely crafted than her clothes it was the most beautiful scimitar they'd ever seen, perhaps even the most beautiful weapon they'd ever seen. The hilt was all at once ornate and opulent without being gaudy or garish while the blade was somehow both visible yet nearly translucent when it wasn't reflecting the sunlight. It's flowing curves seemed to embody the fickle winds themselves, even if none of the men gathered before her could quite say why. Of course their attention was quickly turned away from her garb and her weaponry as she slowly turned the head in her right hand towards them all as if to gloatingly reveal who it was.

“Majtariff!” Hazim gasped.

A ripple of shock and horror spread through the men around him. Anger followed soon after as their leader grimaced at her, a single tear rolling down his cheek, “I come bearing gifts!” She replied, echoing the same words he'd said to Sultan Sirajid.

Hazim glared at her for a moment before realization dawned on him and his eyes widened, “Did that pompous old fool send you?” He demanded, “What did he pay you to hunt us down?”

“He didn't pay me a single coin.” She laughed. Tossing Majtariff's head towards them with all the care of one throwing away a rotten ample she spun her blade in her hand and moved her newly freed hand in a strange little motion. Some of the jewelry wrapped around her bracer shifted and she seemed to close her fingers around something but Hazim didn't care and none of his men would go against him, “I do this for myself.”

“Then you face a pointless, agonizing death!” He shouted, “Enjoy the Abyss you miserable bitch!”

Thrusting his spear into the air with a hateful cry he pointed towards the woman before them and all his men surged forward. Instantly outpacing his footsoldiers  he and his cavalry surged forward while she stood her ground with a maddening nonchalance. She even smiled at their wild approach. As if amused by their attack. But her utter lack of fear only infuriated him all the more and Hazim screamed in blind fury as he brandished his spear and urged his men forward. With every thunderous step his horse started to outpace the men around him. Couching his weapon in the crook of his arm and hunching forward as his vision seemed to narrow until she was all he could see h continued his reckless charge without a thought to her powers or what she might do. And his men followed his near suicidal lead even as she finally acted.

Raising her clenched fist into the air and uttering something lost to the roar of charging horses she let out a triumphant laugh. A heartbeat later a towering wall of howling wings erupted beneath the charging cavalry. Many of the horses were ripped in half by the force of the gale. Those who survived were thrown back along with their riders. All the men trailing behind them stumbled and faltered as they watched the carnage unfold.

Hazim and two of his lieutenants were hurled through the wall of wind even as all the rest were battered and knocked away, their broken bodies raining down on the handful of soldiers foolish or unlucky enough to follow too closely behind. All three of them were left stunned and gasping for air as they lay sprawled cross the sand. With armor rent and bones splintered they could scarcely move even as she approached them with a smile Her fist remained clenched in the air above her head while she slowly spun her blade in a long, flashy taunt. One of his men managed to roll onto his side and almost push himself upright but she opened his throat with a flick of her wrist and he collapsed into a growing pool of his own blood.

Neither he or his other lieutenant could move even that much as she sauntered close. Hazim could only watch from the flat of his back while his companion lay on his stomach. And just as he expected she didn't cut him down first despite him laying closer. Instead she slowly walked right past him to behead his friend as casually as one might pluck a weed. Then and only then did she turn back to him.

“I wonder if your men with stay and fight.” She asked, her voice strangely clear over the how of the massive wall of wind roaring mere feet away from them both, “How many more have to die because of you?”

“I'll find you . . .” He spat, blood trickling from his mouth as he pushed himself up just the tiniest bit while she circled around him, “I'll find you . . . in the deepest pits . . . in the darkest corners of the Abyss . . . no matter where you hide . . . I'll find you . . . and I'll make you pay for this . . .”

Laying her blade across his cheek and cutting a long, bloody line she simple replied, “My soul is already taken. You'll find nothing but the agony you deserve.”

Spitting blood at her and scowling in one last act of defiance Hazim didn't say another word. He just stared into her eyes with all the unfathomable hate he could muster while she smiled back at him with nothing but contempt. A moment later her blade dug into his neck and he found himself staring up at the heavens as his head separated from his body. All the pain and agony seemed to fade away in an instant as he watched the boundless blue sky until an all consuming darkness covered his vision. Then everything was nothingness.

None of the footsoldiers on the other side of the howling wall could see what happened beyond. Nor could they find the courage to try and circle around the nearly fifty foot breadth of it. Most were simply frozen in shock and fear as they stared at the dead and dying lieutenant's they'd been following only moments earlier. Some tried to help the wounded men but there wasn't much they could do but watch them die and sink further into despair. Especially when the nearly fifteen foot high wall suddenly vanished and they finally saw what'd happened behind it.

“Hazim is dead!” The woman proclaimed. Kicking his head towards them and unclenching her first she took a step closer and all the men left standing took a step back, “Who wishes to join him?”

Not a single soul responded to her question as a deafening silence fell over the last of Hazim's marauders. Only the mournful howl of the wind sweeping across the dunes and the agonized moans of dying men filled the quiet. Many of the footsoldiers were so paralyzed with fear they couldn't have spoken even if they tried, their jaws clenched and their eyes so wide they just about rolled out of their skulls. Clenching their weapons tight and watching her like cornered animals they were little more than statues as she stood there smiling at them. And the few who still had control over themselves didn't fare much better.

One man weakly lifted his spear as his eyes darted to the bloody chaos spread across the sands between him and the woman responsible. Another cowered behind his shield even as his weapon threatened to slip from his trembling fingers entirely. Two more clutched their bent and broken sabers with both hands and mouthed little prayers to their Gods as they soiled themselves. But nobody was stupid enough to make a move. Nobody could bring themselves to advance or retreat. Their feet were entirely frozen to the ground.

Until she took another step forward. Even with her hands at her sides and her blade angled downward that simple motion was enough to send a frightened cry erupting from many a man's lips. Nearly half of the footsoldiers broke whatever passed for ranks and ran, throwing their weapons down as they scattered like embers on the wind.

The rest watched in utter terror as their numbers dwindled, sweat rolling down their faces and piss staining their breeches even more. Anyone with a shield cowered behind it all the more while the rest could only hold their weapons up in some halfhearted attempt to protect themselves. Only a single man had the courage to point his spear at her with any sort of intent. And the moment he did she raised her free hand into the air.

Clenching that ornate little urn in the palm of her hand she stared into the terrified depths of his eyes and uttered a single word. Golden energy erupted from her hand once more and both beams lanced through his chest in a flash of crackling power. He collapsed to the ground with nary a whisper, blood pouring from the gaping crater that was once his chest and armor. Another terrified cry rang out among the survivors as every last one of them finally broke ranks. Throwing down their weapons and sprinting away from her in a frantic scramble they ran off into the desert howling and gibbering like madman, pleas and prayers filling the air as surely as the stink of blood and death.

Watching them all leave with a satisfied smirk the woman cast away her scimitar with a flick of her wrist. It vanished from existence as if it'd never truly been there while she stepped over the bodies of the men she'd slaughtered. Though she stopped to put down any horses still left alive in agony she left the marauders to bleed they deserved.

Only when every last one of them was dead did she enter the oasis hideaway Hazim had claimed nearly two decades earlier. To most travelers it was little more than a patch of trees and greenery no bigger than a market square or a luxurious home. But to any child of the desert it was as beautiful as anything beyond the golden sands. The cool, clear spring at it's heart was more inviting than even the grandest of cities and the shade cast by the trees bending and twisting above was more comforting the the touch of a hundred lovers. Though before she could partake in any of it she had to search the tents scattered around the encampment. Perhaps even scour the ill gotten loot they'd pillaged from their most recent raid on the caravans passing nearby. But more than any coin or baubles she might find she was searching for something far more important. Someone her patron wanted dearly.

Yet no matter how many tens she searched she found no sign of the man she sought. Not so much as a hint of his presence even among the personal belongings of the marauders. Even knowing he'd been taken by Hazim during their last raid she was left wondering if Amatiya had been brought to the oasis at all. Or if he'd been killed on the journey and left to die in the desert like so many others. The thought alone was enough to fill her with melancholy as she continued her search but before she gave fully in to despair she called her blade back from the pocket reality it'd vanished too and threw caution to the wind once more.

“Amatiya!” She called out, her voice strong and clear across the silent encampment, “Amatiya!”

The winds themselves seemed to carry her voice even further across the oasis as she continued to shout for the man she sought. Upon reaching the next tent she cut through the fabric with a single stroke, destroying it outright and revealing everything within as the winds swept the cloth away. Every time she uttered his name her tone was the tiniest bit more concerned and the wind a tiny bit more powerful yet no one called back to her no matter how long she shouted.

All the world was deathly quiet save for her own madly beating heart and the ever mournful howl of the winds swirling around her. Until she finally heard a voice crying out on the far side of the clear pool, “H-Help!”

Her heart leapt into her throat as she turned towards the voice and called out again, “Amatiya?!”

A long, anguished groan met her words and for all of a moment she hesitated. Fearing some trick or ambush she watched the small cluster of tents with a wary caution, her free hand held out at the ready and her blade crossed before her chest. Before she took so much as a single step the winds swirling impatiently around her pushed her forward with a sudden, powerful gust. Stumbling towards the voice with a mixture of amusement and exasperation she cast her eyes towards the heavens for a moment then shook her head and continued onward. Though she never lowered her weapons no matter how insistent the winds might've been.

Within a few nervous heartbeats she was standing outside the ramshackle cluster of tents connected by patchwork cloth like a little bazaar. Or somewhere valuable prisoners might be left to sleep, “Amatiya?”

“Ishala? I-Is it truly you?”

A joyful gust of wind swept through the oasis before she could even speak and Ishala laughed in delight as shouted, “Who else would come all this way for you?!”

A wheezing, aching laugh filled the air as she set upon the tents with an eager abandon, throwing away her scimitar to tear at the fabric with her bare hands. It only took a moment to reveal the man she sought and barely a heartbeat to see what'd been done to him, His once regal clothes were in tatters around his slender frame and bruises dotted much of his sapphire skin. Though his soft, angular face was comparatively unharmed one of his golden eyes were swollen shut and a faint trickle of dried blood clung to the corner of his mouth. Without the meager hide blanket wrapped about his waist he would've been almost entirely naked and Ishala feared to look beneath and see how extensive the damage truly was.

“I'm all right Ishala . . .” He groaned, seeing her eyes darken as soon as they fell upin him “I'm alive and unharmed.” She knelt beside him and gently laid a hand on his shoulder, instantly making him wince and laugh, “As fine as can be expected . . .”

“I'm sorry.” She whispered, “I should've come sooner. I should've come the moment I heard you were taken. I could have—”

“Ohhhh that won't do any good.” Amatiya sighed, half laughing and half groaning as he brushed his dark, curly blue hair from his face and laid back across his bedding, “You're here now. And since you're still alive I have to imagine you were successful?”

“I was.” She replied, smiling at him in spite of her worries. Reaching into the small, unassuming pouch behind her back she produced a golden scarab the size of her fist and a small bottle filled with a deep crimson liquid, “I finally found a way into the pyramid.”

Amatiya took the scarab with both hands and held it above his face, slowly turning it over with an impressed smile before eventually handing it back. He heaved another quiet, pained sigh and looked at the bottle she was holding, “Is that a healing potion?”

“Mixed with a little spiced wine.”

“Oh you do know how to tempt me don't you?”

A soft, caressing breeze swept through the area and both of them smiled, “It wasn't solely my idea,” Ishala admitted.

“Well I suppose I can't refuse such a lovely gift. No matter who it might be from.” He knowingly replied.

Taking the bottle from her and pulling out the stopper with his teeth he poured the bitter liquid into his mouth and swallowed every last drop as quickly as he could. “But I did add a little more spice to the mixture this time.” Ishala remarked.

“You didn't add enough!” Amatiya coughed. Handing her the empty bottle and wiping his mouth he continued to wheeze and sputter as the potion burned all the way down into his belly, “It's more horrid than ever!”

“Well it wouldn't be a problem at all if you didn't insist on your little sojourns.”

Scoffing at her and shaking his head her companion simply closed his eyes and let out another sigh as the potion did it's work. The swelling around his eye started diminishing before he could even take another breath and the many dark bruises marring his skin lightened by the time he had. Although nothing disappeared entirely when he sat up again much of his strength had returned and his breathing was far more even. He even let out a quiet laugh without any wheezing at all.

“Thank you.” He said with a smile, “For everything.”

Ishala smiled back at him for a moment before reaching back into her unassuming pouch and retrieving an elegant, flowing gown for him to wear, “You're welcome.”

She rose to her feet and offered him her hand as he took the dress with an eager smile. His fingers closed around her forearm a moment later and she effortlessly pulled him to his feet. What remained of his previous attire fell away from his body like so many ribbons and she politely averted her gaze while he stood naked before her. Much to Amatiya's delight.

“I'll never understand you.” He remarked, slipping into his dress and slowly pulling it up his aching yet no less voluptuous body.

“No, you won't.” She replied. Both of them smirked as he adjusted his gown and soon they were smirking at one another as she looked him up and down. “Are you ready to return home?”

“Did you already loot the camp?”

“Not yet.”

Covering his heart with both hands and smiling at her Amatiya stared up at his companion and said, “I never realized how much you care!”

Snorting at his silliness and pushing him away with a laugh Ishala turned her back to him and stepped out of the crumpled tents, “Shut up and hurry up. I'd like to return home before nightfall. I can't be certain the marauders I left alive won't return for the same loot.”

“You left some alive?”

“I let some of them flee.” She corrected.

Both of them made their way around the pool and towards the modest pile of crates, bags, and other supplies stolen from caravans across the desert. But as they approached they saw a long trail of blood leading from a nearby tent to the far side of the far edge of the pile. Before they could do anything more than stop dead in they tracks they heard an unfamiliar voice muttering under their breath.

“Where is it? Where is it? Oh Gods I don't want to die here!”

Summoning her blade to her hand Ishala slowly approached the crates while Amatiya trailed a few steps behind. The stranger continued to groan and plead as the faint sound of clinking glass and creaking wood filled the air. Pausing at the edge of the mound of loot she closed her fingers around the small urn hanging from her bracer before glancing back at her companion. He gave a little nod and retreated a few steps.

“There has to be one left! There has to be! We stole a whole crate of them last—”

“Apparently I missed one of you!” Ishala remarked, stepping into view and pointing her scimitar at the young woman laying in the dirt beside an overturned crate of empty bottles.

“Oh shit!” Dropping the glass she was holding and scrambling backwards the Half Elf groaned in agony and clutched her bloody stomach, all but curling up into a ball even as she tried to stare up at Ishala, “P-Please don't kill me!”

“Why not? It's what you deserve.”

As she spoke she stepped closer, sliding the end of her blade beneath the woman's chin and forcing her head back even more. What little color was left in her pale, golden face drained away as her dark eyes filled with tears, “I-I know . . . b-b-but I've only been w-with Hazim for a-a-a few weeks! I-I'm not even a warrior! N-Not really!”

“Then what are you?” Amatiya asked, approaching the pair and remaining behind his friend as he looked down at the woman with far more compassion than Ishala.

“I-I was an entertainer!” She groaned. “Th-They never made me touch a w-weapon before today! And when I tried to-to refuse one of them stabbed m-m-me in the belly!”

Not at all convinced of the woman's story but confident she was no threat in the state she was in Ishala pulled her scimitar away and the woman let out a pent up breath. She looked down at her wound and groaned as blood streamed through her trembling fingers. When she lifted her head once more her long black tresses clung to her sweat soaked face and pale skin as she peered up at them with utter desperation.

“Did they take you prisoner?” Ishala asked, “Or did they hire you to accompany them?”

The woman stared at her for a moment before looking to Amatiya and casting her gaze down at the earth beneath her, “They hired me . . .”

“Your honesty is surprising.” Ishala remarked, “But it seems to me you've earned this death. You couldn't possibly pretend Hazim and his men were anything but thieves and bandits. Even if you didn't know when they first hired you.”

“P-Please!” She begged, “I d-d-don't want to die! Please h-help me!”

A cool wind swept through the camp, brushing the woman's hair from her face at the same moment Amatiya remarked, “She doesn't deserve to die for a single mistake . . .”

“Then you believe her claims?” Ishala asked.

“I do.”

“Th-Thank you . . .” The Half Elf whimpered.

Another soft breeze flowed through the oasis and Ishala could only shake her head and sigh. “So does our patron, apparently.”

“Maybe she wants us to bring her with us.”

“Maeve . . .” The woman gasped, “My n-name is Maeve . . .”

Staring at Amatiya for a moment before kneeling down beside Maeve and sliding her scimitar beneath her throat once more Ishala quietly replied, “Well then Maeve . . . what am I going to do with you?”