Barghast "Blackshot" Unalaq watched Commander Rake and Lydia fade into the night. There one second and gone the next, as if they'd never existed at all. He let out a deep sigh, trying to ease the tension in his belly and shoulders. Rake and Lydia were sneaking into Fort Erikson to rendezvous with Sara. He offered a silent prayer to Mother Moon for their safe return, a habit he'd never been able to shake even though he had abandoned the life of the Okanavi long ago. Barghast's job was to keep an eye on the other two members of the Stray Dogs and meet up with Rake's group when the time came.
Until then I'm just a glorified babysitter.
Normally he wouldn't haven't minded staying behind in their little camp, playing game after game of Drop 'Em with Jack; the calm before the storm was as familiar to them as drawing breath. But old fears and superstitions were taking root in his mind, remerging from his youth. The building they had camped in, what had once been an old library, had become a tomb. The floor was covered in motes of sand; books sat on rotting shelves, gathering cobwebs and dust. Barghast could feel the passing of years of this place, the death of an age before the hellscape. The shadows that remained untouched by their campfire, were thick. It was all too easy to imagine a malevolent spirit lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack. While Jack sat hunched over his hand of cards, fretting over his next move, Barghast risked a glance at the three horses. The three horses stood in a companionable group, sleeping while standing upright. Even they seemed tense. Barghast couldn't blame them. He knew from personal experience that the desert could be a very dangerous place.
Outside, the only sound that could be heard was the howling of the wind. He wished someone would say something to break the silence and the paranoid meanderings of his own thoughts. Unable to take the silence any longer he turned impatiently back to Jack. "Are you going to sit there all night or are you going to make your move?"
"I'm thinking," was all Jack said with a thoughtful frown. The shock of his white hair stood on end, shiny with oil.
Barghast resisted the urge to retort. Nothing he could say would make the man make his move any faster. He would end his turn when he was ready and not a moment sooner.The Okanavian turned to the third member of the Stray Dogs. "What do you say we play a round after this, Crow?"
The youngest and latest member of D Squad looked away from the ancient bookshelf he'd been searching through for the last hour. Half of his face was illuminated by the oil lamp he held in his hand, the other half bisected by shadow; the line touched the bridge of his long, hooked nose. In his black robes he managed to look at home in their dreary surroundings. He smirked at Barghast from underneath the bangs of his long black hair. His stormy blue eyes glinted with amusement. "You'd only win. I don't have a very good poker face."
"You just have to keep practicing. Before Jack and I met, he'd never played a card game in his life until I taught him. It took him a long time to learn but with time and patience he's become a worthy opponent...even if it does take him before the last star falls to end his turn."
Jack said something obscene under his breath but the Okanavian's attention was too focused on Crow to have heard it. Crow was carefully flipping through the dust-filled pages of an ancient tome. Motes of dust floated lazily through the air. His voice, though ponderous, never lost its calm intonation. "Do you have any idea how old these books are? They've sat here, untouched, for thousands of years. I'm surprised scavengers haven't taken them and sold them for money."
Barghast grunted, disinterested. "I would share your fascination, kid, but I was never taught to read. Dumb as a rock I am."
Jack bit his lip. Barghast took this as a hint that the game continued to remain in his favor. Finally, blowing a breath impatiently through his teeth, Jack muttered, "I'll just have to see how I fare." He laid down a card on top of the discard pile. A nine of claws.
Barghast let out a thunderous bray of laughter that went on until tears drained from his eyes. The knots in his stomach had begun to loosen. "I was hoping you would lay something like that down," he chortled. He laid down all the cards in his hand (a single Moon, two Eyes, three Nails, etc.) and watched the color rise in Jack's dumbfounded face.
"You cheated," Jack said
"I did not." Barghast glared back at him; the brief moment of triumph he'd been able to enjoy was ruined by Jack's accusation. Though it was not the first time the Okanavian had been confused of such a thing, the accusation still chafed.
"Yes you did."
"I did not!" said the Okananavian, offended.
"Did too!" Jack's shoulders bunched inward; he looked around as if expecting a patrol of Red Wraiths to be passing by.
He brought his voice down to a whisper. "We just played three games of Drop 'Em in a row and you won all three of them! How is that?" Jack threw his cards haphazardly on the floor.
"I'm just a better card player than you are," Barghast said smugly. "I can't read but I've always had Mazog's luck gambling."
Barghast glanced at Crow again. The young practitioner had moved over to sit by the fire. He sat cross legged, bent over the volume he'd selected from the bookshelf. He held a jalasa joint in his other hand, the tip smoldering in the murk. Ever half a minute or so he would bring the butt of the joint to his lips and puff, before slowly blowing out the smoke. The piney smell of jalasa was a welcome change from the moldy musk inside the building. If he noticed or cared that the Okanavian watched him, he showed no signs. He was lost in whatever passages had been written in the book. Hanging from around his neck was the thin, bare noticeable silver chain barely wider than a piece of thread. Barghast's gaze fastened on the torch-shaped crucifix dangling from the end of the chain.
Barghast could still not get used to the oddity of seeing a practitioner wearing Mercius' crucifix, symbol belonging to the Eurchurch. Most practitioners would not be caught dead wearing their symbol.
The rivalry between the Eurchurch and the practitioners, while not quite as long as the rivalry between the Eurchurch and the Scarlet Church, was just as bloody. For many years the Eurchurch had tried to enslave and indoctrinate the practitioners. It was by practitioner hands that the Tannhaus railroad had been built a hundred years ago. It was the greatest technological advance the hellscape had yet to see, but it had been built with the tears, sweat, and mana of practitioners. The subjugation of the practitioners had lasted for almost two hundred years until a rebel by the name of Loras Gyrell rose up in vengeance, bringing all the wrath and might an army of practitioners could wield. Just when it seemed the conflict would end, Then the Scarlet Church had reared their heads, starting war with the Eurchurch and a record number of possessions had spread across the hellscape. There had not been this much demonic activity since the second war with the Scarlet Church almost five centuries ago. Now the practitioners and the Eurchurch, seeing a common enemy, were in an uneasy alliance. That alliance was called the Inquisition. What would happen when the war was over, if there truly was an end, could not be said.
Crow had come out of nowhere it seemed, a random coin tossed into the bowl of the universe. Even after a year Barghast knew nothing of the young practitioner's past. All the questions Barghast had asked Crow out of friendly curiosity had been evaded with clear cut reproach. So Barghast stopped asking - he figured if Crow wanted to tell him anything about himself he would when he was ready.
Crow had come out of nowhere it seemed, a random coin tossed into the bowl of the universe. Even after a year Barghast knew nothing of the young practitioner's past. All the questions Barghast had asked Crow out of friendly curiosity had been evaded with clear cut reproach. So Barghast stopped asking - he figured if Crow wanted to tell him anything about himself he would when he was ready. As for his nature, he was full of contradictions. Quiet and thoughtful. Dedicated to religion but also open-minded. Several times he'd asked Barghast about the Okanavian way of life, even going so far as asking Barghast to teach him some of the prayers. And not once did he try to preach or show judgement. And yet, for all his reticence, Crow was not without a measure of steel. For the past year Barghast had witnessed the power, devastation, and control the young practitioner was capable of. Just the thought of it made Barghast feel giddy with a mixture of disquiet and awe.
Barghast felt a wave of sadness. He's so young, with so much life ahead of him. Why would he throw his life away for this war?
Then again, Barghast reminded himself, he'd only been fifteen when he'd gamely and foolishly told his father, Rhaederghast, he was leaving his tribe to venture out into the world. In doing so he had forsaken the life his mother and father had worked hard to build for him. He'd done so knowing he would never be able to return to his tribe - once an Okanavian leaves their tribe they can never return. Did he long for his old life? No, he didn't. Life in the desert had been hard. Barbaric. And while life could be just as hard and just as cruel in other parts of the hellscape, Barghast could at least say he'd chosen it for himself.
As for his current predicament he only had himself to blame.
"Nat tiasqula fi arl'sarr hyald sanaeath," he muttered gratingly under his breath in the Okanavi tongue.
"What'd you say?" Jack said.
"Nothing," Barghast said quickly, turning his head away from the practitioner. A red flush had risen on the Okanavian's dark skin. "Just thinking out loud."
Nat tiasqula fi arl'sarr hyald sanaeath was the Okanavic translation of You lay in the bed you made.