Mid-month Bonus Chapter of Swine Prince

#Just Deserts#

"Another sandstorm," Hal spat into the rising wind. "Just what we need. Thank you, Azifir."

Tasha raised an eyebrow at him as if to say, "What did you expect?"

"I know he's the god of sandstorms and all that," said Hal. "Teeth of the Desert, Scourge of the Unbeliever, He Who Must Not Be Angered, etc. etc. etc., but does he have to keep dropping the stuff on our heads day after day after day. All we did was violate his temple a little bit and steal a few things he really wasn't using." A particularly nasty blast of hot sand swept over Hal. "Ok, so maybe we killed a couple of priests and a guard or two, but is that really so bad? We didn't bump off anyone who didn't need it."

As Hal finished speaking, they topped another low dune. A brief lull in the storm combined with the fresh vantage to give Hal a momentary view of some vague pointy shapes ahead in the distance. They looked an awful lot like mountains and more importantly—at least in Hal's mind—they appeared to be covered with greenery. He let out a whoop. They were finally coming to the edge of the desert, and not a moment too soon.

It had been three weeks since they escaped the Gullan Beck Ep-Azifir, and every minute of it filled with blowing and drifting sand. Azifir had very much lived up to his toothy title—constantly chewing on them with sand filled winds. But—Hal reluctantly conceded—that wasn't necessarily all bad. If not for the storms, the Denturati would surely have caught up with them by now.

For readers who are less versed in the lore of the desert, it is probably worth a brief digression to give Hal's thoughts here their proper context. The Denturati were the elite assassins of the cult of Azifir. As truffles had explained in excruciating detail, it was a divine mandate that all geographically remote death cults must employ a group of elite assassins. The provision for this requirement was laid out in the rules and traditions governing religions and cults as set down by the third convocation of the Gods—which happened shortly before history began—though the efficacy of such troupes of assassins was governed by divine whim and thus highly variable. Unfortunately for our heroes, candidates for Azifir's Denturati were selected from a pool of children who had successfully completed a vigorous regimen of standardized tests and survived a series of murderous challenges. Only those children who could unerringly fill in the correct dots in the allotted time were allowed to join.

Now, that might have served as cultural deterrent if it weren't for the many perks of being a Denturati family. Not only were the assassins themselves well compensated, including one of the best retirement plans in the region, but all parents of successful applicants were automatically guaranteed entrance into the most most luxurious of Azifir's many hells—the god's creed didn't allow for heavens or other paradise-like afterlives—so families competed to have their smartest and most talented children selected by the priesthood for entrance to the trials.

Once the candidate children had been chosen, they were separated from their families and brought to the main temple. There they spent every waking minute learning the arts of the Denturati: killing, riding, disguise, and, of course, skulking. Skulking was very nearly as important to elite assassins as it was to sneak thieves and cutpurses. The children devoted their entire lives to the service of Azifir, becoming his avatars and extending his bite into places where he could not reach, the teeth he could use at one remove, his Denturati.

The assassins had been dogging the party for days. But every time a confrontation had seemed inevitable a sandstorm intervened. The god clearly preferred to kill them himself if possible, with the latest storm being so fierce the Denturati actually seemed to have lost the trail, at least temporarily. Hal imagined the Denturati must be getting rather frustrated and annoyed with their patron. But if they did finally reach the mountains, the sandstorms would be unable to follow. Hal sincerely hoped the fading of the storms wouldn't improve the assassins' luck at that point, though the tradeoff sounded more and more worth it by the minute. He was getting to the point where the thought of nice weather plus battles with murderous assassins felt like an improvement over the dealing with another damned sandstorm.

When he told the others what he'd seen the news of imminent mountains generated a good deal of whopping and hollering, particularly from Gnormin and Bogvar, though everyone had their own reasons to be happy. Bogvar was overjoyed by the thought of parting company with the crazy adventurers who had hijacked his life, and it was his fondest hope that he would never see any of them again. Gnormin, made miserable by sun and heat, would have been happy with pretty much any change of landscape. Truffles' was looking forward to finding food that was optimized for flavor instead its ability to withstand weeks of abuse at the bottom of a pack. And Tasha was all but consumed with a desire to be somewhere she could watch her back trail, somewhere without a lot of airborne sand obscuring her view.

That desire pushed her to look back over her shoulder for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. In the first the week after they'd escaped the temple the sensation of being followed that had kept her nerves a-jangle all through those stone cut halls had been little more than a paranoid memory. But over the past few days it had returned and grown steadily stronger until now when it felt like whatever was stalking her had slipped nearly within striking distance. To make matters worse, she kept catching glimpses of a large dark shape trailing them just at the far edge of vision—or at least she thought she did; they were always too quickly obscured by the choking clouds of sand for her to be sure. Because of that failure of concrete evidence and her concerns about whether she'd be believed, she hadn't yet shared her growing certainty as to the nature of her pursuer. Her head might have doubts, but her heart was sure the creature she had come to think of as The Black Camel was out for a rematch.

Within an hour after Hal spied the mountains they came to the first tree. The friendly verbal jabs and playful banter that had been scoured out of their social dynamic by the constant abrasion of the storms began to reemerge. Another hour saw the sandstorm diminish almost to nothing, failing for lack of ammunition. They rode now through a sere landscape of long dry grasses with low and twisted trees cropping up every hundred feet or so. When they reached a great spur of rock running at right angles to their progress, Bogvar waved them to a halt.

"I must leave you now, dear companions," he said. "From here on my way lies along a different rode from yours." His tone was the sort used by politicians who are trying to get out of a speaking commitment. "I will always treasure our time together, but I am a child of the great desert and I can never leave her." He looked at Tasha. "My only regret is that I could not convince you to give up the crazy life you lead and become one of my wives. Such a flower of loveliness as yourself is wasted on this kind of existence. Please take the camels as a parting gift and that I will write them off as a business loss and get my insurance to cover it. Now, farewell." He turned his steed to mount the great stone spur.

"I don't get it." Hal was distinctly suspicious now. "Aren't you even going to try to gouge us out of guide fee?" Exposure to the desert had taught him that—unlike pigs—one must always, always, always, look a gift camel in the mouth, especially if it came from a pre-owned dealership.

"No." Bogvar shook his head. "My reward is knowing that you still live to continue your noble quest." Under his breath he added "And that your tracks will lead the Denturati away from me." Speaking aloud he called, "Goodbye!" Then he cantered away, checking as he went to make sure that his horse's hooves were leaving the stone largely unmarked.

"Goodbye!" Hal waved after him. Once Bogvar was well out of earshot he added, "And, good riddance. I've never met another soul who's voice so reminded me of a hog with one trotter stuck in a wasp nest. Still, I do wonder why he didn't try to get something out of us before he left. I just don't trust used draft animal salesmen." Then he shrugged "I guess that's not important as long as he's gone." Flicking his reins he started his own horse moving again. "Let's get the rest of the way out of this desert."

"I'm for that," said Truffles. He looked at the departing camel dealer one last time. He too felt suspicious. Then he shook his head. "Who knows? Maybe he turned over a new leaf."

#

As soon as he was out of sight, Bogvar stopped to check his saddlebags. He had spent the time while Hal and Tasha looked for Shagreen by scooping up anything that looked both very light and extremely valuable and stuffing it in the pockets of his robe. This was his first chance to really look at his take. It included a number of "desert pearls"—various fine gemstones polished into perfect shiny spheres by the action of thousands of years of sandstorms.

They were ridiculously rare to begin with and sacred to Azifir on top of that, so they almost never left the desert. The price that just one such gem would fetch on the black market in Zola would buy Bogvar a small yacht complete with crew which he would immediately use to cross the ocean to Casar. The price the rest of the stones would fetch there would buy him a rather large estate along with all of the servants, concubines, and guards needed to staff it.

He would have all the luxuries he could ever want. Although he would be forced to change his name and leave the desert never to return, he would be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. That seemed ample compensation as well as being wise.

Bogvar was sure the tracks of all those camels and horses the crazy foreigners had in tow would lead the Denturati to miss his own much fainter traces along the rock spur, at least at first. Combine that with the effort it would take the assassins to finish off the mad adventurers and he should have plenty of time to get to Zola, sell that first pearl and get out the other side with no one the wiser.

Since the Denturati had never operated on the western side of the great ocean he ought to be home free once he reached the far shore. After double-checking the ties on his treasure bag, Bogvar quickly remounted, heading for the nearby village of Cardast. From there a small but navigable river flowed along the northern edge of the Himun, eventually emptying itself into the sea at Zola. After he boarded a boat at Cardast, not only would he be able to take his ease, but there would be no tracks for the assassins to follow at all.

#

Tasha and Gnormin stood side by side on a patch of bare stone thrust out from the largest of the nearby mountains, surveying the terrain ahead. While they did that Hal and Truffles, using a combination of magic and Hal's hog-herding skills were busy getting the camels and horses into a cohesive mass and headed along the base of the mountains to their right.

The peaks and passes of the Devil's Backbone were almost impassable even by the most hardened of mountaineers at the height of summer, so the party had decided to skip the high road entirely. Instead, they intended to go under, using Gnome tunnels. That would put them beyond the reach of Azifir, at least temporarily, since the Denturati had neither a gnome guide nor a safe passage signed by Queen Gneela. Which meant the only remaining use they had for the animals was as a potential distraction for their pursuers.

"That ought to do it." Hal scrubbed his hands against his desert robes as he climbed back up to join the pair. "With any luck following the heard will pull the Denturati off our track long enough for Gnormin to find us an entrance to the underground." He looked back the way they'd come. "I do hope Bogvar is well away by now, or he'll be in for a world of hurt once they double back."

Truffles arrived next. "If everyone's packed and ready, we should get moving. The assassins could arrive at any moment."

They started briskly up the slope, making sure to walk only on bare rock and to keep out of sight of the plains below as much as possible. Several thousand feet and a couple of hours later, Gnormin let out a happy exclamation.

"There we go!" He pointed to an apparently featureless rock face. "All we need to do is figure out how to get it open. Let me see…" He started mumbling to himself and prodding and pulling every projection he could find. Then, "Aha!"

Cracks appeared in a section of rock which had looked absolutely and unalterably solid only seconds before. They grew until the thing suddenly lifted up like a large granite gull wing. Gnormin started through before it even finished opening. Truffles ducked in behind him an instant later only to have an arrow splinter against the rock inches from pointy hat. Bloodcurdling screams broke at all around them then and Tasha threw herself at Truffles, sending them both through the dark portal just as another arrow occupied the space he had been filling moments before.

Hal lunged after them but was not as lucky. The third arrow found a target in his thigh, striking with a meaty smack and a terrible lancing pain. His leg buckled, but he was already moving diving toward the doorway when it hit and he fell into the tunnel instead of in front of it. Even so, another arrow caught him in the calf as he tumbled into darkness.

The arrival of the arrows preceded that of the assassins by mere seconds. But even as they came pouring up the slope, waving a veritable plethora of hard to identify but obviously sharp instruments of death and mayhem, the door snapped shut, becoming one with the stone around it once again. Much banging and thumping interspersed with shouted threats soon gave way to cursing. But it was all to no avail, since granite pretty much ignores anything that hits as lightly as the average curse, and eventually the voices faded into an angry and bitter silence.

#

Sometime later, after they had given up on breaking the door down, the Denturati formed themselves into a small circle to discuss their next course of action. A single bite of assassins stood there, tall, with sunburned faces and black robes. Five were men, three women, a small band, but more than enough for most jobs. The number was sacred—it represented one quarter of the teeth in the gods fanged mouth. The Denturati ranks reflected this with seven junior teeth of the chewing and biting variety—incisors, molars, and premolars to be specific— and one senior canine or, fang, making up the basic killing unit.

"The defilers have escaped," said the youngest of the assassins—rank, premolar. He looked stricken. It was his first assignment and it was not going as he'd imagined it would.

"Only for a time," said the leader, an older woman with a scarred face. "Only for a time. They have to come out somewhere sometime. When they do, we'll be waiting."

She turned to her lieutenant, a senior incisor, "Send to the chapter house. Tell them we need a full mouth of Denturati. I want a watcher at every entrance to the gnome warrens and I want them equipped with signal magic. Also, no son of the desert rode with this group, yet the reports spoke of such a one. He must still be loose on this side of the mountains. Those who come after us must see to him. We will take the road around the mountains as soon as you return. I do not think the defilers will be seen again on this side and I wish to deal with them personally. But another bite must be sent to follow us as back-up just in case. Put that in the message as well. Now, go."

Even as the incisor raced back to where they had left their camels, she turned her gaze on the six remaining teeth. "Now, it is time to make camp and wait. See to it."

The Denturati snapped to obey their leader, setting up tents and preparing food. They chose a site above and to the left of the now vanished door where they could see it but would not be readily visible themselves. The preparations were soon finished, and the watchers settled down to eat, and wait. They did everything smoothly and calmly, showing no signs of frustration. They were trained to patience.

Suddenly and unexpectedly a large and dark form appeared on the ledge below them. Plates and eating utensils flew in all directions as the Denturati scrambled for weapons. They were too late. Before the first arrow or dart could fly the creature—far too big to be human—had come and gone, speeding higher up the slope and deeper into the mountains. Even the assassins, rigorously trained in climbing, could not have matched its pace. A few of them—prepared to try despite that—rose and started after it. Their leader called them back.

"Sit down," she said. "Eat. That was not one of our targets. I think rather that it was something hunting them, much as we are."

"But Fang," said the youngest assassin, "it looked like…" he trailed off.

"Spit it out."

"It looked like a camel," he said

"Yes," she agreed. "It looked very like a camel, a great black beast with a patch over one eye. It also climbed like a goat. Ask yourself this: Do you really want to know?"

The assassin thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. He emphatically did not want to know.

#

Great bolts of lightning and huge gouts of flame rain down upon the gray tower cascading over the stones in ceaseless torrents. The light and sound provide a show fit for the theater of the gods. But as each immense neon plasma serpent slithers its way down from the skies it is met by an equally immense frozen methane mongoose. The collisions of the various spells and counter-spells are awesome in their effects, causing all sorts of magical side effects in the jungle around the fortress. Despite everything, the citadel at the center of this maelstrom of destruction remains unchanged. Not even the dust on the gargoyles is disturbed.

Grendal sits peacefully at the heart of the arcane storm, mumbling to himself. He bides quietly, waiting for his enemies' energies to flag, preparing himself to make a counter-attack. He smiles all the while, for even though he is hard pressed he can feel that his strength is the greater and that he will be the ultimate winner. Still, the battle will rage for weeks to come and while it does he has no attention to spare for other details, no time to see that Azifir has not done the job, and that there are those who hunt him still.