Der Nogard [Nogard - The Twin Sorcerers

Dost awoke to find that he sat in the palm of a giant hand. This hand drew near a face, pulling Dost closer to it. It was the bearded face of his father. This face was lined with cracks of wisdom about the eyes, the brow covered by the bottoms of the turban folds. There is no joy, said Father. No joy.

Dost glanced at his father and his eyes were like planets, orbiting in a sad and unfamiliar way. The child knew that one day these orbs would cast no more light, just as suns must die, ending the sustenance of all that rely upon the suns shadow.

Father brought his hand low down to the ground and Dost climbed down the fingers to reach the ragged earth. This was an arid land, and the soil was thin like the soup of peasants. But the persimmon trees sprouted fruit, and in the spring the wadi was flooded with water, creating a plain upon which the horses might gaze.

But there was no joy.

Father removed the kujala from the heavy chain about his neck and placed the curved weapon upon the needy grass. The single feather that hung from his turban blew in the wind. Once I was a child, said Father, and I saw the world through new eyes. But you shall never see the world through new eyes.

Father turned way and asked a deputy to bring a horse. The horse was black and had a hungry look, like it was ready to lead its master to war. Its coat was brilliant and blinding, and the horse neighed like a crack of thunder. Dost ran toward the horse, knowing that his father was to go away, but he was too small: his little legs seemed to draw him farther away rather than bring him nearer. Father mounted his horse and took the whip that was handed to him. Yah! he cried and he whipped the horse to spur it on. Dost ran toward the man that drew away from him. But little boy that he was, he stumbled and crashed on the ground.

There was the familiar cry of thunder and he awoke. He felt the moisture as it formed a line down the cleft of his chest, but it did not come from sweat. There was a hole in the roof of the tent and the rain had been coming in all night.

A man clanged two blades together to announce that he was entering the tent. Azag-al-Walaq, said the man, and he bowed. I came to bring you drink, and the turbaned man approached the couch upon which the warrior had been resting. The warrior threw his legs over the side and heaved a deep sigh. As the new arrival reached out a hand, the warrior smacked it away, sending the flask flying to the other end of the tent.

I will not drink, said the man. There is a hole in this tent. I might have died of cold if I had slept the night through.

Forgive me, my lord, said the guard.

Is Shaibani awake?

Yes, my lord.

The warrior awoke and threw a fur-lined robe over his shoulders. Take me to him, he said.

You are leaving, arent you, Waqas Shaibani said as the warlord entered.

I must make my own way, said the warlord. A man must eventually go off on his own, mustnt he?

You have always been going off on your own, Shaibani said. Besides, that is not why you are leaving.

The older man indicated with a hand that the younger warrior should have a seat on a couch adjacent to his bed. As you know, it was always my intention that you would marry my daughter, Darejan. You might marry her today before you leave. I should like her to remain with me for a few years as she is the comfort of my old age, but after two or three years you may return and take her wherever you will.

That is not my wish.

But it is mine.

The young warlord sighed. I have already told you that I mean to go. I do not understand you at all.

But I understand you very well.

The warlord stood and cast a hard look at his elder. You imagine that you do, said the young man with the long black hair, smiling finally. You think you do, but you do not.

The elder man stood up and approached the younger. He found no joy in the young mans eyes, seeing instead only a deep, irrepressible anger. You seek your fortune somewhere else, said the elder man, suddenly afraid. He would watch as the young warlord set free the long locks of his youth, casting the hair to the ground and burning. He watched as he cast aside his black armor, giving this piece to this man and this to the other. It was with some confusion that he saw the young man remove even the characteristic mail from his horse. This would be melted down to make a new suit of mail for one of the recruits that constantly flocked to this rebel army that terrorized the land.

The elder warlord saw the many veiled woman that had come to him as gifts from frightened lords from all around the steppe. Their cloistered lives perhaps were freer here, living on this grassland that must always cast a libertine wind. He watched the women and knew that it had all been worth it. Though he had clawed for life from the days of his youth, though he had lived as the scorpion in the desert, he had known joy.