It is a land of blazing gold beneath a vast blue sky so near to hand that one feels as though one might accidentally fall into it at the slightest misstep (and indeed, some of the legends of the natives give precedent to this particular fear).  The natural reaction to the first sight of such a land by one of those bred from the proud stock of the Free Kingdoms across the ocean to the west, or from the ancient race of the Empire beyond the mountains that form this desert’s eastern border, is no doubt of wonder.  Such a visitor as this, as are perhaps you, my gentle reader, is struck speechless with awe at the savage, untamed natural beauty of this place; at the immensity of the silent, solemn emptiness, and at the idea that any son of man could, or would desire to, spend those few days of joy and sorrow that are granted mortals here, in this desert.  How could any peoples carve for themselves a life from this wild world? they ask.  And more puzzling: why would they bother?
            This is a land over which Sun and Wind reign unquestioned, where dunes, like mighty mountains, silently slide themselves across the realm, making a mockery of the cartographer’s art.  The desert hawk wheels about in the enormous bowl of sky; the desert lizard, scorched black and crispy, senses him and darts beneath a rock.  And as the mind’s eye wanders over these majestic dunes and desolate mud flats, it encounters a ravine, a deep, jagged scar on the landscape.  Nor is this wound of the Earth empty; nay, for within the canyon walls fester such colors as are not to be seen again for countless leagues in any direction.  Green there is; the green of palm and boloberry bush nurtured by the springs that have for centuries carved relentlessly at this terrain to form the canyon.  And more: a city of mud and clay rises from the verdant luxury, and palace spires, merchant houses, and walled streets alike are festooned with bright hangings of every color of the spectrum.  This is the lost city of Hila’al... lost, that is, to all but a brave and wise few who dare to venture across the forbidding wastelands.
            The generous reader will no doubt spare the chronicler of this tale with the oft-repeated question: “Why, if these few are so wise, are they going to Hila’al on purpose?”  for it is exactly one of these wanderers of whom this tale relates.  In lands alien to our own, when we are nigh overwhelmed by the strange sights, exotic sounds, and fascinating smells, it is a genuine pleasure and gratification to the heart to meet with a familiar face.  And so it is here, for nestled amongst the pungent spices and foreign speech we find just such a familiar face, attached to an old friend: Lord Taryl dar Alklawi.
            Little has changed since the last time we had the pleasure of his company.  The gorgeous long mane of chestnut hair is perhaps a bit longer, the handsome, fine-boned visage burnt a bit darker, the bright eye now slightly squinted in defiance of the sun’s merciless wrath.  His lofty carriage, as lofty as ever, is now swathed in the brown and white linens in fashion with the local custom, and the ancient long sword now hangs at it’s jaunty angle from a foreign belt tooled with what are no doubt heathen insignia.  And if our good gentleman’s cuffs are frayed, if his dusty robes are a touch threadbare in places, this is no doubt due to the recent exertions of a grueling journey.
               The last son of the House Alklawi stands now in the cluttered bowels of a merchant’s shop, deep in the heat of the Hila’al bazaar.  His mood is pensive, for he is contemplating the wisdom of undertaking a rich gamble: to part now with the last of his meager currency to gain inestimable fortune at a later (unspecified) date, or to depart from the shop immediately, and thus keep his coin for expenditure on food?
            As he stood amongst the piled carnage of rugs, pillows, books, and lady’s undergarments that composed the bulk of this merchant’s diverse inventory, the commotion of a stack of bronze plates succumbing to gravity behind him cut through his thoughts and interrupted the flow of praise for Taryl’s considered purchase from the wizened little merchant at his elbow.  From the depths of the wreckage, like the phoenix of yore, emerged Taryl’s lackey, the faithful Borin.  Eyes that have been described by uncaring critics as “piggish”, bulged above a formidable bristle of gray beard in surprise: while Borin’s stature was in height less than tall, his width was proudly unchallenged, and the narrow corridors winding through the piles of stock had not been created to accommodate a girth such as his.  Dressed as he was, as his master, in the local costume, he had performed a further service to Lord Taryl by frightening the local children half out of their wits by his appearance, thus eliminating the nuisance of having to constantly be kicking the little beggars away.
            Borin’s surprise at what he had caused did not last long, for his was a simple mind, and not prone to pondering “what ifs?”. He returned to his original task, which was accomplished by a rapid downward sweeping motion of the arm.  Something bright wobbled through the air, just barely missing Taryl’s chest, then bounced against the far wall and clattered to the floor.  Taryl bent to retrieve the object, which he scrutinized assiduously: it was a large, curved dagger with an ornate bronze handle and a wicked point.  “No, Borin,” quothe the good lord, “this one does not work either.  How many times must you try?  They are all curved as so, and lend themselves not well to flight.”
            Borin’s manner betrayed that sorely-tried lackey’s disappointment, no doubt sorrowful that this land offered him no tools for practicing a sport of which he was inordinately fond.  His master Taryl, to the end a kind and generous man who liked not to see his servants thus discomfited, sought to distract Borin from the latter’s woes.  “Come ye and gaze upon that for which I may relieve myself of all these pesky coins that weigh down my purse.”  As Borin drew up alongside his master’s unoccupied elbow (opposite the one claimed by the gnarled old merchant), Taryl further explained:  “It is a treasure map, Borin!  An authentic ancient map delineating the secret route to indescribable fortune, the last copy to survive through the centuries-- Careful with your thumb, idiot!  The ink is still wet, and you stand in danger of smudging this valuable artifact!”
            Borin mumbled his humble apologies and placed his hands behind his back during the remainder of his examination of the commodity.  Taryl, whose extensive studies as a youth had caused him to learn the Hilaic language in order to peruse the ancient texts of Hila’al, resumed bargaining for the item in the local tongue.  Though the educated type of reader these tales often attract is no doubt well versed in the dialects of the by-gone masters al- Samaka, al- Zamyl, and al- Kalb, we present the following discourse in a translated version for simplicity’s sake:
            “But I tell you, the price is too high for me.  I am certainly interested, but I have dropped the frog’s testicles,” said Taryl in Hilaic.  Hilaic is one of the most beautiful and expressive forms of speech on the earth; it is so expressive that it’s phrases very nearly outnumber the amount of various sounds and combinations of sounds possible for the human mouth and nasal passages.  Thus, without constant practice, the linguistic novice may find himself in difficulties if he were to, for example, take a short breath in lieu of a half breath between two vowels, and so change the entire meaning of his sentence... and it had been many years since Taryl had spoken Hilaic.  But the honest merchant was equal to these communication challenges, and rallied without a pause.
            “Too high?  When the return on such a meager investment far outnumbers the stars of heaven?  I have given you the best price, a family price, because your Hilaic is perfect, and you are like family to me now.  Think, sir, I beg you!”
            “But I have been offered another sole- surviving treasure map at a shop across the calloused starfish for half the price.”
            “Across the street?” the merchant translated loosely, “Ah, yes, I know that scoundrel.  He is a thief!  But go, go!  I am not stopping you.  Go and buy al- Zeppi’s map.  It will bring you nothing, I tell you.  This map...” here the wise elder paused to tap the tattered parchment in Taryl’s hands with a knotty, but reverent, finger; “This map will bring you fortunes beyond anything you could ever dream.”
            During this enthralling discussion, the faithful Borin had been suffering silently in the background.  The type of spleen inherent in those descended from his stock was not prepared to accept this desert clime, and he had since entering the valley been subject to fits of red, itchy eyes, coughing, and fluids running from his nose.  Such an attack now possessed the poor lackey, and in an effort to remedy his discomfort he allowed himself the churlish practices of sniffling, snorting, and “hawking” from the back of his throat.  The ancient merchant turned to face him at these sounds, and replied, “It is down that hall, the second door on your left,” in perfect Hilaic.  Then he added, after a glance that took in our good lackey from scalp to boot-tip: “And please light some incense after you’ve used it.”
            All of this, of course, went over the uneducated head of Borin, nor could Taryl have been persuaded to raise an interest.  That noble gentleman’s sole focus was the promise of inexhaustible wealth that he now held in his hands in the form of a rapidly decaying piece of parchment.  Yet a nagging thought was forming itself within his quick brain.  At last:  “Tell me, o unspecified species of bottom-feeding fish,” asked Taryl of the merchant, “If this punctured boot sole is so valuable, why haven’t you attempted to meditate while lying on one’s stomach it?”
            The merchant’s lined visage froze for a minute, possibly as a result of Taryl’s unique pronunciation of Hilaic.  He then answered smoothly our honest hero, “Because, o mighty warrior, the hoard is guarded by a malevolent djinn.  I am but an old man, and a merchant, who would stand no chance of emerging victorious from a conflict with even this most weakest of djinns.  Unlike your noble self, o sword of the desert,” he added with a gold-endowed smile.
            Perhaps it was the extreme warmth of the day, or the effect of the unfamiliar food, but Taryl could not find it in himself to share completely the old one’s confidence in his own abilities contra djinn.  To help order his thoughts, he translated this latest piece of intelligence to Borin.  “The merchant says there is a djinn at the treasure site, Borin.”
            Borin’s education as a young serf had not afforded him much study of heathen cultures, but he was a man who knew what he wanted.  “Djinn, master?” he confirmed happily, “Well, that will be refreshing after a voyage over the hot desert.  Especially with a sprig of mint, I understand.”
            Lord Taryl grinned hugely and deigned to grant Borin a hearty slap on the back (though being careful to avoid actually touching him).  “That’s the spirit I like to see, dear, brave, Borin!  No, a djinn can hold no terrors for the men of the Free Kingdoms: we are built of better stuff than that!  Certainly, we shall depart immediately,and be d----d the djinn,” he allowed in his exuberance.
            Without any further haggling, Taryl dropped the asked for amount of coins into the wizened claws of the merchant, collected his new purchase and his lackey, and stepped out into the sunbaked street.
            When beginning to recount this current episode in the career of the of the young lord we have been following so assiduously, the chronicler was faced with a dilemma, viz: where to begin his tale.  Had the story commenced from the point where we last left our hero, the gracious reader’s patience would have been sorely tried by the hum-drum of daily life; to recount every event from sunrise to sunset that the good Taryl experienced each minute marked by the clock would be asking more of an audience’s attention than mortal man should bear.  The historian, therefore, is tasked with the responsibility of recording only such passages of his subject’s life that may bring satisfaction, elucidation, and perhaps some small amusement to those generous persons who may peruse his works.  However, a danger lies in missing certain salient facts that occur or become evident during the periods of lesser activity.  Such a remission has now occurred, and the chronicler humbly begs his reader’s pardon while attempting to correct this flaw in explaining how our Lord Taryl had managed to reach the canyon of Hila’al. 

            That adventurous gentleman had found himself in the unfortunate company of a certain troupe of traveling entertainers, men of questionable virtue.  His tragedy doubled when, after injudiciously imbibing more of their proffered wine than perhaps was well, our curious hero decided that he wished to join their company on their journey East, with the innocent intention of seeing more of the world.  The good reader will not be bored with the retelling of the events of the fortnight- long voyage; suffice to say that as Taryl was transported and protected by the troupe during the day, so he repaid their generosity with wine and food each night in the various hostels they found themselves at, for our good nobleman had recently come into a bit of money.  But money, alas, does not propagate within one’s purse, and there are only a finite amount of coins.  One night, when stopping over in the ancient city of Hila’al, Taryl noted that his purse had grown noticeably flat.  The revelry was therefore cut shorter than usual, and Taryl lay a somewhat troubled head on his pillow that night.  The dawn brought Borin to wake him with the news that there was now no sign of the troupe; our dear but misguided heroes had been abandoned during the night to survive in Hila’al with only a few coins and the Hilaic garb given them for traveling.  The coins, as we have seen, had been deposited in the shop of the map- merchant, and Taryl was now left with a strong desire to set out on his quest immediately, Hila’al having exhausted its charms on him within the first few hours of arrival.  Departure was proving to be a difficulty, for while their trip across the desert had acquainted them with the proper use of that noble creature the camel, they had not been supplied with an actual camel itself, which is quite necessary if one wishes to demonstrate one’s camel-riding proficiency.  To Taryl’s mind, it was this deficiency that deserved to be remedied first.

            Happily, Taryl soon found what was known as a “caravanesi”, in which courtyard a number of those wonderful beasts were found lounging about on their bellies in a quite slothful manner.  Taryl decided to correct this behavior before it became an unfortunate habit, and set about to put a pair of them into employment.  For some bizarre reason, the camels seemed to have neatly tied themselves a rope from a ring in their nose to their corresponding ankle, which prevented them from rising.  The gentle nobleman would have none of that as an excuse, and set about with careful knife work to cut the rope and allow the pair he had chosen the liberty of unfolding their legs.
            An elder gentleman, in a very excited state and gesturing widely (almost truculently) with a heavy cudgel, came bounding out of a door, giving his views on the proceedings in a very loud voice.  Borin, ignorant of the local language and, if he has one flaw, always a bit impatient in accepting advice from others, stepped behind the elder gentleman and no doubt attempted to get his attention by a slight tap with his own walking stick.  Unfortunately, they do not build skulls in Hila’al as sturdy as they do in the Free Kingdoms, and the older gentleman now stretched himself out silently in the dust of the courtyard with a sigh, content with the world.  In all it was less than a full minute before Taryl and Borin changed their status from camel-less pedestrians to mounted camel-riders, and were making all possible speed through the streets of Hila’al.
            At the border of the city, before beginning the long, winding trek up the zig-zagged trail that would deliver them from the canyon, they met a shifty looking rascal completely behung with dripping goat skin pouches.  This questionable scoundrel hailed our erstwhile adventurers; “If you will be traveling across the desert, o friends, perhaps you would be interested in purchasing water. I can sell you five skins now for a mere two dirham.”
            “Water?” snorted Taryl derisively.  “You propose that we give you honest currency for water?”
            The rogue seemed taken aback.  “Why, yes.  That is the idea, good sir.”
            “Ha!” burst forth from Taryl.  And he meant it wholeheartedly.  “Next you will attempt to sell us sunshine, yes?  Or a bag of dry earth?  What pair of fools do you take us for, wasp pheromone?”
            “Sir?” the vicious confidence trickster seemed perplexed, most likely surprised that the sharp witted Taryl had seen through his ruse so quickly, and was now backing slowly away from the camels, palms displayed defensively.

            “My bread cake smells funny!” lectured Taryl, attempting to recreate a sharp retort he had once heard a Hilaic shopkeeper use to rebuke a young would-be thief, and recreating the sounds quite well, he thought.  The water selling rascal took to his heels, and Taryl turned his camel up the ascending path.  As they climbed, Taryl recounted for the non-Hilaic speaking Borin what had just occurred.  “Can you imagine the audacity of trying to sell Nature’s bounteous elements, Borin?”  But Borin remained pensive and silent.  Thoughtful, almost.
            They soon breached the canyon and commenced their journey across the desert, guided by Taryl’s recent purchase.  The map advocated a first leg from the canyon’s lip to a distinctive mesa on the horizon, but the sun was quickly westering and it was but two hours later that Taryl advocated a halt for the night.  They had reached a dry wash, which offered both protection from the wind and a scattering of scrub brush, and our perceptive lord felt that as a campsite, this place pleased him mightily.
            They dismounted, and Taryl ordered that brush be cut, that he may warm his hands for, their monetary circumstances being what they were, the pair had no provisions to stay a rumbling belly;  but one may at least enjoy the cheery crackle of Prometheus’ gift for free.  “And while on the subject of the basic elements, dear Borin, go find us some water.  I feel a desire to slake a growing thirst after our journey.”  The young lord then bent over to inspect his camel’s hoof just as Borin’s axe hissed through the recently unoccupied air.  Taryl sighed as he straightened, finding it once again necessary to clarify his request to the simple lackey;  “No, Borin, the brush.  I wish you to cut the brush, so that we may enjoy a fire.”

            “Your pardon, m’lord,” apologized Borin smoothly, “These old eyes are not what they once were, and I’m afraid I mistook you for a scrub.”  Taryl graciously forgave his aging servant’s infirmity, and the latter carried his hand axe over to a more suitable target.
            Borin’s attentions to the vegetation soon yielded results, and after the introduction of a spark to the piled efforts a merry blaze lit the landscape.  But the honest lackey humbly reported failure in response to the quest for water, and thus it was a disappointed and perplexed Lord Taryl who took himself to bed in the manner of the bedouin: rewrapping the folds of material that wreathed his frame and stretching himself out next to the fire.  He drifted to sleep comforting himself with the knowledge that treasures would soon be his; the map dictated a half-day’s journey east of the mesa (once achieved) to a series of caves in which lay the treasure, and Taryl thus felt that by this time tomorrow he would be wallowing in gold.  These contemplations led to a happy slumber not easily disturbed.
            As our honest pair slept, six pairs of eyes gleamed in the night, and the camels raised their heads...

            The next day dawned in the magnificent manner not uncommon in the desert, where the Sun felt no desire to linger a-bed beneath the horizon, but joyfully leapt into its place in the heavens to beam down on this its most favored landscape.  Our heroes were quick to follow its example, rising to rearrange their robes and shake sleep from their limbs.  To Borin’s inquiry concerning a morning meal, Taryl made the decision to delay breaking their fast until such time as they may possess food; a wise decision that the good lackey could find no fault with.  “Prepare the camels for the journey, honest Borin,” directed Taryl.  “I understand that there are some in this world who follow the shameful practice of traveling through the desert at night and taking their rest during the day.  The only explanation for such odd behavior must be that they are obliged to slink around during the night like common criminals in deference of some darker purpose, or that they are completely mad.  We, happily, are of neither category and will have no commerce with such; we shall ride proudly through the open sunshine with our heads held high.  Are the camels ready yet, man?”
            Borin had been scurrying about the lip of the wash during Taryl’s latest distribution of wisdom, and now returned with his eyes rolling frightfully.  “I cannot say, master.  Perhaps they are.”
            This cryptic reply truthfully astonished Taryl.  “You can’t say?  And why not, you imbecile?”
            “Because I cannot find them, m’lord.  Where ever they are, they may be prepared to be mounted this very moment, or they may not be.  But I will have to find them to either confirm or deny such a condition, sire.”
            Taryl nodded.  “Yes, I see the justice of it.  Knowing their location would no doubt facilitate riding them as well.  Didn’t you leave them yonder last night?” and he indicated a disturbed patch of ground but a few yards from the remains of their fire.
            “Aye, m’lord, and I had hobbled them as you directed.  But they are no longer there, sire.”
            “I see that, Borin, and I have deduced that their absence is the crux of our difficulties.”  Alklawi’s favorite son gave himself up to a few minutes of thought.  At last he announced: “Very well, we shall have to continue on foot.  I see no immediate answer to our dilemma, and I do not wish to waste any more time trying to solve the Mystery of the Disappearing Camels while my fortune beckons to be claimed.  Come, Borin, gather up our things and let us quit this place.”  And so saying, he strode off in the direction of the mesa.
            The pair strode over the desert terrain, cresting dunes and gliding over flats, as the morning sun wore on.  And it was not long till Taryl, his keen intellect being far from dulled through the rigors of the ordeal, began to notice an interesting point, vis: that the day was becoming more and more warmish.  This brought once more to mind the desire for a drink of water that he had mentioned the night before, and he reminded Borin of his unfulfilled commission.  The rising temperature of the day perhaps accounted for the rising temperature of our good hero’s temper, and he did not even turn to address his lackey when he observed, “Really, Borin, I have become so acquainted with your success in accomplishing most tasks that it strikes me with surprise to find that you are incapable of fulfilling this simple little request for a drink of water.  Why, any cretin wishing to sustain his own life should be equal to such a challenge!”
            There was a sharp crack, twang, and a hiss of air over Taryl’s shoulder.  The young lord turned to find Borin’s attention engaged by the crossbow he was feverishly attempting to reload, and Taryl found it necessary to recapture his lackey’s ear.  “Borin!  Do stop fiddling with your toys and attend me!  We are discussing water, and wondering why you have failed to bring me some when asked.”  He then returned his face to his original direction, to continue his journey up the flank of a particularly large dune, but stopped and stared.  “Borin, I don’t remember seeing that before, do you?  What do you think it is?”
            Taryl was pointing to a shaft of wood with feathers tied to the end as fletching that was protruding from the dune directly before him, at head height.  Borin shrugged and answered smoothly, “I couldn’t say, master.  Perhaps it is some species of marking?”
            Taryl snapped his fingers, his faith in his servant immediately restored.  “Of course!  A sign!”  He scrambled up the dune and bent to examine the communique, which looked very much like a crossbow quarrel.  “See how, on further inspection, it slants to the left?”  Borin, approaching from Taryl’s left, agreed.  “It no doubt advises us to circle the dune to the left, probably to avoid some disaster known only to the natives,” our sharp witted lord concluded.  “We shall follow its advice.”  And they did so.
            Rounding the flank of the dune, the duo found themselves in a natural depression between other mighty heaps of sand.  Taryl stood at the center of this depression to restore his bearings, while Borin sat upon the dune’s slope to masticate his beard and ponder whatever sad thoughts may creep across the minds of the lower class.  After a few minutes, his master’s voice rang out.  “Borin?”
            “Yes, master?”
            “That dune you rest upon... it seems to be growing.”
            Borin glanced about him.  “No master, I shouldn’t think so.  It seems sedentary enough from here.”
            Another pause, then;  “Borin, I do feel it is my duty to correct you.  Your dune, as are its companions, is steadily growing taller.”
            The honest Borin now took a closer look at his master, and realized what had been nagging at him.  His master’s feet had disappeared, leaving the young lord standing upon his knees.  The good lackey dared to point this fact out as salient, and perhaps bearing upon the subject of the dunes.
            Taryl, for his part, looked down to confirm this latest intelligence from Borin, and was cheered.  “Nay, simple fellow, I still retain my feet.  They have simply sunk beneath the sands for the nonce, permitting an illusion.  It is a part of what we call ‘optics’, Borin; an amusing parlor trick that may allow one the appearance of standing on their knees alone.  Or, in my case at this moment, on their hips.  Quite entertaining, yes no?”
            Light dawned behind Borin’s small eyes, and the mirth he now exhibited seemed far more than was warranted by the situation; but then,  such a breed are never complete masters of their hilarity, and have no concept of “degree”.  “Why, you’re sinking into the sand, master!” the lackey observed through a chortle.
            Taryl smiled patiently.  “Indeed I am, Borin; quite perceptive.  And I seem to have managed to get myself a bit stuck, so if...”
            Borin’s excitement was too much, and demonstrated itself as an interruption; “If I were to, say, fail to throw you a rope or my belt, just as I failed to find water... you would sink until you were buried, and lost to the ages!”
            Taryl’s patient smile faltered.  “It is poor manners to dwell on such an unfortunate event, Borin; but yes, the possibility exists.  Happily it will not be a consideration, if you will...”  but the last son of the house Alklawi found himself speaking to an unoccupied set of footprints in the sand, footprints which traced up the dune to mark the progress of the rapidly retreating lackey.  Faced with all the responsibilities inherent in this real-world crisis, Borin had no doubt cracked under the strain, and was now racing up the dune as fast as his stubby little legs could pump.  Taryl watched the diminishing figure as the sand about him shifted again and he was sunk further up to his chest.  “Alright, Borin.  Then you go find some help, there’s a good lackey,” he called after the shrinking silhouette; but in truth his heart was not buoyant with hope.  After all, the man couldn’t even find water.
            As Taryl watched, Borin’s dwarfish frame reached the crest of the dune, then unexpectedly froze, outlined against the cloudless, crystal blue.  There was some agitation about the figure, as may be evinced by one in the throes of indecision, then the young lord saw his servant turn and begin descending the hill at an even more rapid pace than he had ascended.  This boded all to the good, until the worthy lackey tripped, cartwheeled his arms a moment for effect, then executed a magnificent dive into the sand of the dune, and was carried rapidly back to his master by the loose sand and Mistress Gravity.
            In this fashion, his frame being structured in such a way as to seem formed for the purpose of sledding on, Borin soon traversed the full length of the slope and arrived at his master in a cloud of dust and sand.  The faithful lackey had been thoughtful enough to allow the top half of his body to slide into the depression that had acquired such a voracious appetite for young lords of Alklawi (but then, who hasn’t?), yet came to rest so that his legs remained resting on the relatively solid dune; the whole happily forming a bridge to safety, of which Taryl lost no time in availing himself.  Allowing himself a grunt of exertion or two, our hero pulled himself out of the sucking sands, across the Borin Bridge, and to safety.
            He was pulling in his manservant and congratulating him on having taken a course of action admittedly more sound than a quest for assistance, when his eye was drawn to the crest of the dune from which Borin had, like certain angels before him, tumbled.  There, emerging from betwixt the gold and azure that delineated the horizon line, were six dark riders.
            Taryl took the time to straighten and make more presentable his raiment before beginning the trek up the dune to meet the newcomers, Borin in tow.  When he had at last gained the crest he was afforded a closer inspection of the new arrivals.  They were typical examples of the noble sons of the desert, the proud and hardy race of nomads for whom the desert winds were the sweetest music, this barren sea of desolation was home, and the savage desert hawk a brother.  They were swathed in the simple linens of their people, twisted and folded in complicated fashions, and dusky, lined faces couched hard, flashing eyes.  Their mounts were camels, and two spare examples of the species brought up the rear... beasts that seemed oddly familiar to Taryl.  But now was not the time to belabor a point: for the nonce, though Taryl was jealous of the knowledge his treasure map afforded and wished no companions for whom a divide of the spoils courtesy may dictate, the issue of water was still a pressing concern for him.  His thought was to somehow enlist the aid of these savages in this regard, and thus he felt that establishing communication was a first priority.  Our good hero raised his hands in a placating gesture and greeted the group in Hilaic.  “Greetings, o noble side dish served at weddings,” he intoned to the lead rider, whom Taryl took to be a man in a position of authority.  “A blessing on yourself and your companions.”
            This greeting seemed to produce no reaction.  Taryl repeated himself to no effect, he was then struck by a thought.  “Borin!” he cried, “A thought now strikes me!”
            “Ah, that is well, master,” the faithful servant replied, his eyes never leaving the enormous scimitars and multitude of curved knives carried by their desert hosts.
            “Perhaps it is, Borin, perhaps it is,” Taryl mused, “However, let me tell you this thought before you pass any hasty judgments.”
            “I patiently await with upturned ear, m’lord.”
            “So you do, my dear man, I see you doing it.  This is the thought then: that these men do not actually speak Hilaic.”
            Borin seemed shocked by the suggestion.  “How, sire, not speak Hilaic?  They’re Hila’in, aren’t they?  Why then do they not understand their own mother tongue?”
            Taryl raised a finger during this short harangue to emphasize a point.  “Ah, now there you raise an interesting point.  They are not , in fact, Hila’in.”
            “Not Hila’in, master?”
            “No, Borin.  I suspect that these are samples of bedouin, the nomadic tribes who wander this lifeless wasteland, and whose dialect resembles no tongue spoken by civilized man.  See the proud gleam of their noble eye, Borin!  Eyes accustomed to sweeping with their gaze across uncounted miles of unbroken freedom, that hooked nose that has scented nothing but liberty, the browned frame beaten by the winds and sun of this earthly hell.  And if you look close enough at this visage before us, this visage that has been passed down throughout the centuries unchanged, one can glimpse the gleam of burgeoning brute intelligence that has been growing among this race of desert children in recent generations...”
            “Now that you mention it, master, I nearly think I can see such a gleam,” confirmed Borin, peering into the face of the leftmost rider.  Taryl’s desire for a drink of water was becoming more and more noticeable to his conscious mind, so our worthy lord resorted to the form of communication favored by travelers the world over: charades.  There in the lonely desert before an audience of grim bedouin, Taryl’s desperation drove him to caper about in the sand in an undignified attempt to indicate his thirst and request a drink of water.  Borin was delighted with the game: he clapped his hands and joined in the fun by calling out his guesses in a rich tenor.  “First word, six letters, sounds like... goose?... Sunflower?... Constipation... Cod piece!  Cod piece!”  And the happy lackey skipped about in his excitement.  Taryl glared; whatever sterling merits Borin may possess as a manservant, skill at charades did not number among them.  The sons of the desert did not seem to be doing much better, however: they had not made even one guess yet, and merely watched Taryl’s attempts in a noble silence.
            We can only speculate on how long this unfortunate situation would have continued had it not been for the arrival of a seventh noble savage.  This latest addition to the soiree interrupted the proceedings in this happy way: he addressed himself to Taryl in well-spoken, if accented, Hilaic.  “Greetings, lunatic Caucasian man.  What brings you to the desert, and how may I assist you?”
            Taryl was stopped in the middle of a complicated act meant to represent digging the correct type of clay from which one may form the vessel from which a drink of water may be taken, removed his elbow from his mouth and said with some surprise; “My good gentleman, I was not aware that any of your people spoke Hilaic as an exercise performed by women to assist in childbirth.”
            The newcomer had been a student of the language himself, and thus was not surprised by Taryl’s laissez-faire attitude towards pronunciation.  “Most of the nomads do not, but I have lived and studied for some years with the silk merchant caravans that cross this desert.  Are you a merchant?”
            Our hero drew himself to his considerable height, made his lofty carriage yet loftier, and flashed a bright eye at the nomad-- though the effect was somewhat washed out by the desert sunshine.  “I am no merchant, sir.  Among my people of the Free Kingdoms I am known as Lord Taryl dar Alklawi; I am the eldest son of that ancient House.  May I have the honor of your name, sir?”
            The desert born bowed in his saddle and replied, “I thank you for your name.  The custom of my peoples allows us a slightly longer name, but for short, my friends call me simply Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr.  These others are of my tribe; they were out... I suppose the word would be ‘hunting’... when they found you.  If you are not merchants, then may I ask why you are here, so far from the haunts of civilized men, and even further from the Free Kingdoms?”
            Taryl knew the question to be an innocent one, an indirect method of offering assistance as part of the hospitality so prized by these backward heathens, yet he could not bring himself to mention the map, nor breathe the word “treasure”.  “My manservant Borin and I are out for a stroll,” he answered Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr, who translated this to his six compatriots in their primal tongue.
            Borin at this point allowed a good portion of dust to enter his mouth and nose as he shook his beard out, and he spent a few minutes choking loudly, at the end of which Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr replied in a concerned voice; “I am very concerned to hear that, good Borin, but I should think it no more than four or five miles.”  This host of the wilderness then turned to Taryl, “Meanwhile, may I invite the pair of you to accept refreshment at our camp?  It is not far from here, and we happen to have two extra camels to speed the trip.”
            The pair accepted the generous offer as their due, and were soon mounted and riding over the trackless dunes in the dignified company of the proud sultans of the sands.  As they rode, these noble dukes of the dunes held converse with each other in their mother tongue (the only mode of speech they had been taught).  Taryl could nether speak nor understand this desert dialect, but if he had, he would not have been much interested in the topic: local politics.  Unbeknownst to our heroic pair, the region was a sandy home to four nomadic tribes who, for purposes of defense and sometimes expansion, had formed a coalition a few generations ago.  Every four years the four tribes sent representative champions to a trial by combat to decide which tribe would be honored as the chief tribe of this coalition for the next four years, and this cycle’s trials were to take place on the morrow from this present day.  The tribe to which Taryl and Borin’s new friends belonged had achieved and held this position twice consecutively, but wished to be released from the responsibilities and expenses that accompany the prestige of defending the region’s wells and borders, standing in judgment for every dispute between the tribes, and negotiating with the city dwellers and merchants.  Many a young man assigned to guard watch at a particular outpost would watch the carefree romping of their peers from the other tribes, as the latter raided wagons, burned any attempts at permanent buildings, and threw rocks at each others’ sheep without the burden of responsibility to stoop their shoulders in these tender, innocent years.  And the elder members were questioning why it was so necessary that they pay to equip and feed their sons as full-time warriors when the youngsters could be out earning their own meals.  Each person of the tribe had their own complaints growing over the past four years.  Yet the difficulty, currently being discussed by Taryl and Borin’s escort, was that the trial of arms to decide the position was fought to the death.  No one in the tribe could be convinced to step into the field with the intent of losing.
            Happily, none of these issues came to the understanding of Taryl or Borin, for neither liked to be bothered with the unclean machinations of government.  Instead, our noble young hero passed pleasant conversation with Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr, who was very curious about life in the Free Kingdoms, and who matched curiosity with curiosity and satisfied many of Taryl’s questions regarding the ways and customs of the bedouin.
            At last the group approached and entered a wadi, and within five minutes Taryl turned a corner to find the floor of the canyon before him littered with black tents and wandering livestock.  Said their Hilaic-speaking host: “Welcome, my Western friends, to the tribe called Bani Magoo.  Come, I shall present you to the sheik of the Bani Magoo, whose deputy I have the honor of being.”
            Taryl’s thoughts still dwelt primarily on water.  He had received a few gulps from the waterskin tied to the saddle of one of the bedouin, but he yearned for cool, fresh water in abundant supply, and felt that the sheik was the best hope for acquiring such a luxury.  That quick-witted nobleman therefore swung himself to the ground without further discussion, and with lackey in tow allowed himself to be led to a particular black wool tent indistinguishable from the twenty or so other black wool tents in the wadi.
            In truth, Taryl had not had the opportunity to visit the other tents of the Bani Magoo, so he had no real base for a comparison should such a study be called for, but he felt that they had just entered the richest of the tents; the evidence being that it was nigh impossible to get much richer.  From colorful and intricately woven carpets to lush and embroidered hangings, riches and ancient weapons gleamed in every corner, lit by the glow from golden braziers guttering softly in the perimeter.  Taryl marveled at what was no doubt the largest massing of stolen goods he had seen in one place before, the ill-gotten booty of land piracy, the sensuous opulence of a soulless robber-baron.  And rising from a pile of pillows was the robber-baron in question.  Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr introduced the one to the other:  “My chief, I present Lord Taryl dar Alklawi of the Free Kingdoms.  Lord Taryl, tremble before the magnificence of the Desert Wolf, the Sword of the True Faith, King, by God’s Grace, over all lands a camel can reach from the Magoo oasis in one full moon: Sheik Mohammed ibn Hassan.”
            Borin fulfilled Taryl’s obligation of trembling as Taryl, true to the pride known to those of the virtuous and noble blood of the Free Kingdoms,  bowed gallantly from the waist, western fashion.  The Desert Wolf approached and clasped Taryl to his breast, placing a kiss on either cheek, then stood back at arm’s length to get a better look a his guest.  “Ah, yes,” breathed Mohammed, a young man in permanent need of a shave with dark, unfocused eyes, “The Free Kingdoms.  Towering castles, knights in bright armor; the crash of lance against shield and the roar of the commons.  I have read much of your home, Lord Taryl.”
            Taryl, for whom the roar of commoners usually meant he had just done something he was about to regret, was impressed by this interpretation of his home, and began to warm to this prince of thieves.  “Can it compare, noble sheik, to the centuries of bright Hilaic civilization that has shone like a jewel from the sands?  When my forefathers still gnawed raw meat and dressed in uncured hide, your people were exploring the mysteries of the universe from observatories and alchemical chambers.”
            “But alas!  No more,” cried the sheik, placing a hand delicately to his forehead as if in preparation for a swoon.  “Our noble metropoli are crowded and clogged with putrid filth, our decadent peoples wallow in the undisciplined and lavish pleasures of the ignorant and weak, and the vultures of progress feast on the fetid, bloated carcass that is our society.  Only the Bani Magoo, the Banu Amani, the Bani Trivara, and the Bani Bunni, the roaming nomads of this desert, maintain the strength, the steely character, and virtues of honor and courage that were so prevalent among my people centuries ago.”
            Taryl was moved by this speech and by the fire evident in this man’s heart.  Here was a poet and a warrior, a man who saw life as Taryl did, who was not afraid to grab life by the throat and then become verbose about it; this man, a leader among savage cutthroats and primal nomads, this was a man who spoke Taryl’s language.  In a sudden fit of loyalty felt towards a kindred soul, Taryl bent knee before this greatness.  “My lord!” he breathed, “Consider me ever at your service.”
            The sheik was used to this, and accepted such as his due.  He laid a hand upon Taryl’s shoulder, and said with a sigh, “My honor and glory are thus increased ten fold.  Lamentably, in these banal times there is no challenge worthy of--”
            The Desert Wolf stopped short at a sharp cough from Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr.  “My dread chief,” began the lieutenant, “I believe I have a suggestion to make in that regard...”

            The trial of arms was to take place at Wadi Hamm, at a section of the valley where an almost perfectly (if anything in this world can reach perfection) flat sand floor was encircled by nearly vertical (if anything in this world can be truly vertical) red sandstone cliffs.  Each tribe had sent only a small representative contingent to accompany their chosen warrior to Wadi Hamm; there stood the red and white striped tent of the Bani Trivara, around which lounged five or six hawkish looking men; here lay the deep blue tent of the Bani Amani, guarded by four rigidly disciplined guards also dressed in blue; at the far end was the pale pink tent of the Bani Bunni, and while no member of that noble clan was in sight, much strenuous activity inside the tent could be heard.  Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr headed the contingent of Bani Magoo, which was accompanying that tribe’s champion: Lord Taryl dar Alklawi, nobleman of the Free Kingdoms and (very) recently adopted son of the Bani Magoo.
            Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr called for the black tent of the Bani Magoo to be erected directly across from the Bani Bunni, thereby forming what could be construed as a large square in the center of Wadi Hamm.  It was within this square patch of blazing white sand that four men would enter, but only one was destined to leave alive.  As the tent was being pitched, Taryl took this opportunity to study what was to be the killing field.  “Borin,” he addressed the trusty manservant, ever at his elbow, “How did I manage to get myself into this?”
            “I know not, master,” said Borin, with a dreamy look upon his ruddy and lined face.
            “All I wanted was to be rich beyond the wildest dreams of the gods themselves, Borin.  Is that so much to ask?  And here I am, fighting to the death for a tribe who only two days ago were complete strangers to me.  You do realize the seriousness of this situation, don’t you Borin?  It has occurred to you that I may meet my death?”
            Borin’s dreamy look was replaced by a broadening grin.  “Oh yes, master!”
            But as our dear, loyal readers have no doubt realized over the joyous years of following this young man’s career, the last son of the Alklawis was no poltroon.  Death held for him no fear, but perhaps regret: his one desire was to fulfill his search for the treasure promised him, and he found this delay, caused by a perhaps too- hastily given oath, to be irritating.  Nevertheless, honor must be satisfied.  Reminding himself of this, Taryl squared his shoulders and muttered both to himself and Borin, “Very well.  If death in these sands be my wyrd, so be it.  Otherwise I shall soon dispatch these savages and we shall resume our journey to the treasure.”  And he patted his breast, where the folded map lay under his tunic, next to his skin.
            “Ah... the treasure...” said Borin to himself, and a frown replaced the dreamy smile, lending the gentle lackey a facial expression that in any other creature would indicate that deep thinking was occurring.
            The savages requiring dispatch were now emerging from their tents, entering the open square warily, all eying each other.  Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr, who had been speaking with a small knot of men in the center of the square now approached Taryl with a bright smile.  “Well,” quothe that Right Hand of the Desert Wolf, “are you prepared, m’lord?  The day will only grow hotter, and we see no reason to delay this honorable trial any longer.  What say ye?”
            Taryl eyed the three champions spaced out around the field, all three large, hard bitten, bearded fellows clad only in loincloths and sandals, the bedouin eschewing armor as the vestments of a coward.  Taryl had been feasted and praised by the Bani Magoo throughout most of last night, stumbling to the corner of some tent or other to steal an hour of sleep before beginning this journey to Wadi Hamm.  His head was therefore not at it’s clearest; he looked to his other option, realized that one had not yet appeared, then nodded to Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr.  The latter’s grin broadened, an event Taryl would hardly have believed possible a mere two minutes ago, and he slapped Taryl on the shoulder in an unseeingly familiar fashion.  “My heart swells with pride at your enthusiasm!  The contest will begin with shield and saber; in three minutes time, as measured by the glass of Abu- Sadiqui, the weaponry will be changed to a footman’s lance for another three minutes, at which time...”
            Taryl held up a hand, bringing this fascinating speech to a premature end.  “Hold, friend.  I have my jaunty long sword: it is long, and it is jaunty, and it is all that I require to settle affairs of honor.  You may keep your exotic arms, the use of which I am in any respects unfamiliar.”
            A sad smile stole across Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr’s acorn-flavored features.  “I’m afraid that is impossible.  The Code is very clear on this matter: only weapons agreed upon by consensus of the tribes may be used in their respective time frames.  In fact, I must ask you to leave behind this jaunty long sword when you enter the list.  But fear not: we have brought with us an arsenal, and can provide you with the necessary arms.”
            Taryl found, unfortunately, small comfort in this fact, but Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr had slipped into the tent of the Bani Magoo to chatter loudly at his compatriots in their gruesome tongue.  Reluctantly our hero stripped himself of his sword belt, handing the family heirloom to the faithful manservant, then limbering up with strenuous calisthenics.  He studiously kept his back to the open square and the other contestants, facing the Bani Magoo tent until Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr reemerged with the first set of arms: a small round shield after the Hilaic fashion, and a heavy, curved cleaver which Taryl assumed was a substitution for the expected saber.  A gathering tension was palpable in the air as Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr helped to strap the shield to Taryl’s left arm, and our young lord familiarized himself with the heft and balance of the borrowed blade.  When there tasks were accomplished, Taryl turned and walked to the center of the square, where the three other champions stood surrounding the most ancient specimen of humanity Taryl had yet encountered.  This geriatric miracle babbled rapidly through toothless gums in the incomprehensible bedouin’s cant.  Taryl looked back to Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr for translation, but the latter just waved and grinned hugely.  “No matter,” thought Taryl, “I am no stranger to the expectations of the blade.”  The ancient’s inane chattering came to an end at last, he (or she) shuffled to the perimeter of the square, and then barked out a Word.
            This Word must have been a particularly virulent one, for it produced an effect the likes of which Taryl had witnessed from very few words in his own vocabulary.  Two of the contestants spun to face each other, and proceeded to bash at each other’s shields with their sabers, and the third champion tried to relieve Taryl of his head.  Luckily our young lord was still possessed of his cobra-like reactions, and was able to duck to avoid his opponent’s swing.  In nearly the same instant Taryl returned the compliment, sweeping his own “saber” down in a tight arc aimed at the snarling, bearded head before him.  His blade was intercepted in its voyage by the wood and leather shield of Taryl’s opponent, and with a flash and a ringing noise the upper half of the saber’s blade went spinning into space, to come to rest where Taryl knew not.  The brave young lord was so preoccupied with studying the snapped off end of his weapon that he nearly missed the opportunity to demonstrate another ducking maneuver to avoid the hissing arc of his opponent’s sword which had, fortunately or unfortunately depending on one’s perspective, remained intact.  Taryl took a step back, anxious to hold conference with Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr at the perimeter, to open a line of inquiry into the current condition of the Bani Magoo armory, but the bedouin champion was not willing to sever the relationship just yet.  Off balance, Taryl found he had no other option to avoid a vicious backswing than to use his shield.  Placing the round wood and leather into the anticipated path of the bedouin’s saber, our hero was unpleasantly surprised to watch his opponent’s blade carry away half his shield in a shower of splinters without even slowing its momentum.  Only a fortunate misstep had sent Taryl sprawling on his back in lieu of disembowelment.
            The bedouin pressed the tempo of the engagement, swinging his saber straight down.  Taryl lifted his half-shield, but, not trusting this piece to be much stronger than it’s brother, supplemented his defensive tactics by rolling to the left.  A goodly portion of splintered wood was sent spinning off into the distance, the bedouin’s saber sank nearly to the hilt in the sand where Taryl had lay just an instant ago, and the young lord was on his feet and sprinting towards the black tent.
            “Borin, attend me!” our good gentleman addressed his manservant as he neared the perimeter.
            “With open ears and bated breath, o master,” affirmed Borin.
            Taryl had now achieved Borin’s position beside the Bani Magoo tent, and held up the half-blade and the tatters of wood and leather still hanging from his arm for Borin’s inspection.  “Borin, I find that my preference for craftsmen does not, regrettably, lie with those of the Bani Magoo.  Hand me my own long sword.”
            Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr had materialized at Borin’s shoulder before that worthy lackey had the chance for performance of either word or deed.  “I am sorry, good Taryl, but the Code unambiguously forbids that.  The result of this combat lies in God’s hands.  Watch out.”  And that son of the desert dove left as Taryl dove to the right, each leaving Borin to accept a slash on the nose as the saber of Taryl’s opponent hissed its way into the conversation.

            Taryl stepped forward to test the remains of his saber against the bedouin’s unmarked shield, and came away from the exchange with a wooden hilt from which protruded a cleanly snapped off tang.  This seemed to be exactly the motivation his opponent had yearned for lo these many years, and Taryl found himself obliged to demonstrate his fleet foot and cat-like grace all around the perimeter of the field, for a period of time that felt to be measured in centuries.
            Whether measured in centuries or seconds, this period’s end was at last marked by another word barked out by the hourglass- wielding great-great-great-great-grandsire.  The effect of this word was much more welcome to Taryl than the last one, for his worthy opponent, a man for whom muscular development had hitherto been focused above the waist, stumbled gasping for air to his tribe’s deep-blue colored tent.  The other two warriors, whose shields and sabers had remained happily intact, ceased smacking at each other and wandered to their respective tents.  Taryl took this opportunity to resume the conversation with Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr.
            At the Bani Magoo tent, the Sword of the Faith’s second in command seemed reluctant to conform to Taryl’s opinions of Bani Magoo quality of craftsmanship.  “You have very little time, brave Taryl.  My advise is to drink water and quickly familiarize yourself with the next weapon: the footman’s lance.”

            “But the saber... the shield...” gasped a breathless Taryl.
            “It must have been God’s will.  Now, turn around.”  This last piece of advice preceded another yelped word from the gnarled elder.  Taryl spun about, now holding a ten foot long pole tipped with a broad iron blade.  He was just in time to see his old friend of the Banu Amani advancing to resume their relationship.  In the background, the two other champions had already begun a thrusting, leaping dance, each trying to shish kebob the other with a vigor and vim that did one’s heart good to see.
            Taryl’s confidence in Bani Magoo workmanship had sunk to such a level that he was afforded not an ounce of surprise when, as his first thrust was parried, the iron head fell off and into the sand with a depressing thump.  Taryl shifted his grip on the wood pole just in time to perform another parry, and felt a morbid sense of satisfaction when he heard the cracking sound of fractured wood.  A second thrust from the bedouin, a second parry by Taryl, and our hero was left holding two five foot long poles.  A lightening fast exchange transformed a five foot long pole to a three foot long pole, then a foot long piece, then Taryl commenced an encore performance of his run, duck, and roll routine all around the perimeter of the square field.
            Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr had mentioned the will of God in his explanation of the bizarre behavior of Taryl’s borrowed weaponry.  Borin, who had been standing to the side of the Bani Magoo tent, was privileged enough to witness an act of God’s will that was not meant for public consumption.  This worthy lackey had been watching the contest with concern, the chewing of his beard having replaced the dreamy smile he had exhibited when Taryl had mentioned the possibility of being killed; he now muttered to himself every now and then, the only words comprehensible being “treasure”, “map”, “...don’t speak Hilaic...”, and “...still need him...”.  It was about a minute into the second round of combat, that is, at about the time that Taryl had flung the remaining stick at his opponent’s head and turned on his heel, that Borin happened to glance into the Bani Magoo tent through an unfastened flap at the side.  There he witnessed Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr engaged in an act of assisting God’s will.  Using a steel blade so fine it seemed to be merely a silken thread glinting in the shafts of sunshine lancing through the black tent, Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr was sawing into the shaft of the next weapon to be used: a dual- bit war axe.  As Borin watched, the oblivious desert robber sawed only half way into the shaft just below the steel head, carefully backed the saw blade out, and began to saw into the wood at another region of the shaft.  His work was done in moments, and Isa emerged back into the sunlight again holding an axe whose shaft was mutilated by three invisible cuts.
            But Borin decided that as lowly as he was in caste, he too could be an agent of God’s will.  Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr heard the lackey mutter in his Western speech, “When the time comes, I’ve earned the right to do it; not you, and not now”; the Desert Wolf’s advisor had just enough time to see the flash of an iron mace swinging heavily through the sunlight, and then the pirate of the dunes knew no more.
            Taryl, even in the throes of bursting lungs and jellied legs, noticed the pandemonium that had erupted at the tent of the Bani Magoo.  Isa bin Ami ibn Nasser ibn Naguib ibn Fairouz ibn Khaldun ibn Battuta ibn Ali ibn Uthman ibn Aomar ibn Abu Bakr had stretched himself out on the sand and allowed blood to run from his ears, a crowd of bedouin were stampeding towards Borin, and that dutiful lackey was shouting, “Treachery, sire!  Foul play!  Your sword!”  And the Alklawi heirloom, still in its sheath, was sent spinning through the air towards its master.
            A step, a turn, a dive, and Taryl rose from the sand triumphantly holding the long sword over his head, his heart bursting with joy.  “Now the blood shall run!” crowed a righteously angered young lord, and the sword was unsheathed from its leather scabbard to find a new sheath in the chest of the bedouin warrior who for the past few minutes had made himself such a nuisance to our hero.  The other two champions were absorbed in their own work; Taryl found that his built up frustration and anger did not allow him pause to offer a challenge, and one warrior fell run through the kidneys in surprise.  The remaining warrior found the shift from fighting a lance-weilding fellow bedouin to fighting a furious sword-weilding foreigner disorienting, and paid for his confusion with his life.
            Wadi Hamm was silent.  Not a bird chirped, not a breeze whispered, not a man dared take a breath.  Surrounded by carnage stood Taryl, splattered liberally in crimson, of which only a small amount was his own, and every man in the valley stared at him.  Even the bedouin who had employed themselves to the task of repeatedly kicking the curled up ball in the sand that was Borin froze in mid-kick, waiting to see what would happen.  The victor of the duel shook himself free of his trance, walked over to secure two horses from behind the Banu Amani tent (and was not stopped by anyone), then walked the beasts across the field to collect his lackey.  Wordlessly, Borin unfurled like an ugly little flower meeting the sun, stood and mounted the proffered animal.  The shock of what had happened lasted long enough for the two Westerners to leave Wadi Hamm leagues behind them before anger burst among the bedouin, then accusations flew, courses of action debated with heat, feelings were hurt, but none of the desert children actually managed to effect a pursuit of our protagonists.
            Neither Taryl or Borin could know the confusion among the bedouin that secured their own safety; for all they knew, half the population of the Eastern Desert was riding in pursuit.  This philosophy they maintained for hours, more out of precaution than true belief, but as the sun began to western they slowed their steeds to a walk.  The ride had given Taryl time to think, and his plan was clear: the treasure remained his sole objective.  He may not know exactly where he was now, but he could return to Hila’al, begin the journey all over again, and this time avoid any distractions.  Comforting himself with dreams of certain success, he drew the folded parchment from his tunic. 
            It had been a hot day, the sun fierce, and Taryl’s exertion great; he had thus sweated profusely.  This was normally not a pressing concern for a bachelor in the wilderness, but the parchment had been next to his skin... All that remained was an indecipherable blob of ink on soaked paper.
            Borin’s howl could be heard even in Wadi Hamm, sending a chill down spines unused to fear.

--FIN--