The Chronicles of Mansour Al-Sharif

By: Daalo Posted on: August 21, 2011

Again, I return home. Praise be to Sarapis, the Logos, Guider of men.

I am welcomed by Habbib's smile. A lilt of steam rises from his kahwe, inviting me to chronicle my journey amongst the stir of spoons and tongues. Two old men grumble at one another in the corner, a clatter of dice tumbling alongside their conversation. Marwan waves to me from the distance, offering a fresh shawarma if I but share my tales. The men here try to forget the desolate lure of the Mhojave, wrapped amongst their robes of linen and silk, this cackle of life distracting them from the blanched desert bones waiting just beyond. But tales they crave, to remind them.

Two camels I lost, in the sandstorm. One of them - the moronic beast - strangled to death. The other vanished, snatched by one of those abominations roaming certain tracts of the endless dunes. I shiver in their sight. Sahlab has been hammering for so long within these oasis' walls that he has forgotten the sound of our fears. There is no scimitar sharp enough to cleave the odium from my heart. I have not traveled far enough to yet deafen myself to an abomination's wail.
The storm passed - after it had scraped and clawed against my robes, shrieking for open flesh to scour - and I found the desert new. A sigh slipped from me. My remaining camels snapped at their tethers. I knelt in the face of twilight's first shades, giving my prayers to the Logos, pressing my head to the earth in the waning sunlight, that Lord Sarapis' glowing eye may see His faithful.

That night, in the whisper of my dying fire, I heard my mounts startle.

"Sahib!" rang a young voice from the dark. It belonged to a boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, mounted on a dextrous pony. He trotted to my place in the sand. "Sahib," the boy said again, "there is a rake of monitors headed this way from the northwest. They have already ravaged what they have seen. Your camels will be next." Several other youths joined him, male and female alike, equally wild. Behind them, in the night, larger steeds rustled.
"What do you want of me?"
The boy who had spoken, of knotted black hair and bright, argent eyes, clapped forward his mottled pony. "Sahib," he said. "You must fight."

I am not wholly unprepared for danger, mind you. I carry a scimitar with me, and I keep a dagger in my boot. I can dismember a bandit, or disembowel a hyena. But a rip of lizards, roving the desert thirsting for gore, preying on anything weak or foolish… was no trifle. Striding to the camels, I freed my blade. There would be blood tonight. Death would come.

There were seven of us in lot. Some were scared, wild-eyed and anxious. Most were submissive, unsheathing weapons amidst prayer. Several - sentinels of the desert, specters of men - had transformed, adopting bestial traits. Glory to the wonders of Sarapis.
Though quickly did this scuttle of mounts and chatter of men quiet. There had been heard a scraping in the distance: a clawing ill presence. The monitors were near. A murmur went up that there were nine; that they had already butchered a trip of goats and two children.
I understood.
The nomads had only stumbled upon me after the sandstorm, in their pursuit of the lizards. I whispered to the empyrean my admiration of the Merciful Logos.
The tearing of sand soon swept over us, closer than before. Gurgles and snarls became phantasms of the night. Horses spooked, punching their hooves into the sky. Several nomad thrust their lances heavenward. The slick scurry of the lizards became furious, crazed. You could hear them slaver and gnash. The first one crested the dune in a ripple of sand, storming down it. Others followed, bellowing. The nomads and myself were atop the opposite brow, waiting for the lizards to race into the valley between. The beasts were large, larger than myself, scrambling on their bellies; their claws were shed, their threshing fangs clanging the air. Ropes of sputum thread from their jaws, all maws dappled with blood. The nomads reared, yelling a charge, driving themselves down the dune. The lizards did not waver, rushing upward to meet their fate, rushing into those shining blades of wrath.
There was no silence, no peace before the tempest.
There was the crunch of flesh and the snap of ash. There were cries of horror and gurgles of death. Horses rolled through the sand, tatters of themselves. The monitors ripped and sawed and died on lengths of blade. A boy's leg was plucked away, a girl's arm ribboned. Wayward plunges pinged from reptilian skin. Teeth cracked against cavalier shields. Three blades thrust into a lizard's flank; another was decapitated. The nomads were overcoming, but the monitors had taken their levy. Soon, there remained only staggerers on the blood-damp dunes. The three standing nomad dispatched any brave, dying monitors. There was no mercy for the beasts. The nomad then relieved the suffering of their kinsmen own. Once the final sickly thrust sunk through the sand, the three collapsed in weary. I knelt to the earth, praying for those departed. Their challenge had been won, their glory ground to sand. Praise be to Sarapis, Architect of the desert.