"The Swallow nest" by Ana Maria Salinas Norbakk

The sun was sinking over the desert, mirages danced between the dunes, moving as if they were a caravan heading west. And among the mirages was a real caravan. Covered in white clothings to repeal the rays of the sun and moving in a small cloud of soft singing. The nomads were moving once more.

The nomads were a peace loving people, wandering the desert and living of what the Goddess sent their way. Birds, lizards, desert antelopes, those were the prey that their arrows usually flew after. They knew about secret springs in the middle of the sea of sand and rubble, where water was just as precious as any diamond and worth its own weight in gold. The Ahrk’Esashu, the sand people, lived as if they were one with the moving dunes. Never using anything else than their own feet to move from place to place, walking like white ghosts in the burning sunlight, appearing like mirages by the few cities that bordered the great desert.

The desert people led a simple existence, devoid of quarrels and wars. Their lives were devoted to their families and to the worship of their Goddess. They were a pious people that seldom or never rised arms against their enemies.

In the cities lived the Ahrk’Tessera, the stone people, unlike their brothers from the desert they didn’t wander from place to place but stayed in one spot. They worshiped not the Goddess, who’s followers spoke of love and simple pleasures, but a malign and bile sputtering God. In his honour they had rised giant statues and built magnificent cities, all of stone.

They were a greedy and war loving people, their weapons of preference the scimitar and the spear. Long time ago they had managed to capture and tame one of the kinds of wild antelopes, the DakÉsht, and use it as riding beast. The DakÉsht was different from the other kind of antelope. They were not slender and agile bests, but big and bulky, created in that way so they could run a great distance without tiring. It had a pair of short yet very sharp horns that pointed forwards. The Arhk’Tessera had tamed these beast for one sole purpose, to be more swift and deadly when in war. A swift and well-trained DakÉsht was worth more gold than the most beautiful woman.

The Arhk’Esashu and the Arhk’Tessera had, up till then, never been at war against eachother. The stone people tolerated the wandering of the sand people because they had no goods that they could actually take from them. The sand people pitied the stone people for their hardness of heart and their blindness towards the small miracles that happened each day. Thus a way of truce existed between the two people; one ignored the other as much as they could, avoiding mixing in the affairs of eachother.

But came the day when a noble Arhk’Tessera, whose name was Ebehal, decided to ride into the desert. He was vain and greedy, but by force of sword and spear he had won the respect of his people. He mowed down any resistance against him with the shining blade of his scimitar and the sharp horns of his DakÉsht. He had a harem of women brought from all around the world. Females with fiery red locks and milk white skin from the kingdom of Rekate. Ebony skinned women from the lands of Aehrike. Golden haired and blue eyed maidens from the icy coasts of Gehenta. There were even a few of the emerald haired and green skinned girls from the forest covered continent of Barrenta. All of them bounties of war, all of them brought to his palace against their will. Prisoners in a cage of gold.

As Ebehal rode into the sandy dunes he watched the desert with contempt, almost with hate. If this land had not been so dry he would have achieved more riches. The small plantations that he and his fellow kinsmen had were but small patches of green surrounding the stone buildings. Barely giving them enough food to survive. Had it not been for the iron.

Oh yes, the sands of the Arhketame continent was rusty red, saturated with iron particles. The Arhk’Tessera had learned trough the times to wrench the iron from the sand and work it into the shining steel that had given the merchants wealth. The weapons of the Arhk’Tessera were renowned in all of the six continents, running for high prices. The gold of the Gehenians, the silver of the Rekats, the pearls of the Aehkins, the lumber of the Barrents and the coal of the Duhans, was the pay the Arhk’Tessera recived for their swords.

Yet Ebehal saw nothing of beauty in the moving dunes. Most of them were not rust red, but ivory white, meaning that the iron had already been used, drawn out of the sand and leaving only the pale and useless grains left. From time to time a small hill of stone and rubble broke the monotonous sand, but no patches of green gave colour to the desert.

He reined in his DakÉsht as he caught the sound of singing. That could only mean one thing, An Arhk’Esashu caravan was close by. His lips drew back in a smirk. Those wandering paupers. If they only had something of value he could take from them he would gladly ride down the dune and slay them all, let the dunes once more be covered with rust red spots.

But no, all that the nomads possessed was of no value to him.

He reined his DakÉsht to turn back to the city when his ears caught the singing of a female voice. It was like the sweet sound of running water. Beckoning and entrancing with its sinuous rhythms and trills. He couldn’t do anything else than spur his DakÉsht and make it run toward the sound, completely bewitched by it.

As he approached the caravan he caught sight of the one who was singing. Her hair was ebony black, floating in the light desert breeze, making a contrast against her pristine white robe.

As the DakÉsht snorted against the rough treatment it was receiving from its rider the woman started, her song shattering as she stared at him. She then recovered and bowed at him as was the custom.

- Greetings Brother. Welcome among us. -

He decided to try to be civil and slowly returned the bow. His eyes moved over the small caravan. It seemed to be little more than two families. Children, old women and men, and a middle-aged couple looked back at him. Their eyes filled with respect for their mounted brother, hands folded in a silent prayer. Their pious ways irritated him and he turned back to look at the woman who had sung with such an entrancing voice.

- Would you sing for me Sister? That same song you was singing but a moment ago?"

The woman slowly shook her head. The people of the caravan imitating her. -

- No, Brother. That song was a hymn for the Goddess. We can but sing it for her. -

Ebehal grew impatient and asked once more, his voice hard as rock against rock. He received the same negative answer. Enraged by their negative he drew his scimitar and roared at the woman for a third time.

- You WILL sing to me. -

She backed away, her eyes wide with fear. Yet her head slowly moved from side to side. She would not sing.

Blinded by anger Ebehal made his DakÉsht rear up as he charged the people of the caravan. Steel encountered flesh, slicing trough it and tainting the ivory white sand with crimson blood. None was spared, no women nor child. Only the woman that had been singing did not taste the edge of the sword. She stood in silence, open-mouthed and stared at the carnage that was happening around her. Her mind not managing to grasp this senseless butchery that was occurring. Warm blood splattered over her face, yet she didn’t stir, her eyes wide open, as if she was incapable of closing them.

Ebehal didn’t sheet his scimitar before everyone in the caravan, except the woman, was dead, lying slain on the ground. Only then did his eye recover a certain level of sanity. He reined his DakÉsht and turned it to face the woman, his voice was grim as he spoke to her once more.

- Now Sister. Will you sing for me? -

The woman didn’t answer, her eyes still wide. But there was no light in them. As if the close encounter with death had struck her dumb and robbed her of all intelligence. She simply stared at Ebehal, as if she couldn’t understand what he was doing in front of her.

Ebehal jumped off his DakÉsht and walked over to the woman, grasping her face by the chin. Still she didn’t react, she acted as if he was not there, as if she couldn’t feel his touch. This made the man tremble in rage. He lifted his hand and let it fall trough the air, slapping her across the face with all his might, as if trying to get some kind of response from her, even if it was only a wince from pain. Yet she didn’t even let out the slightest of moans. She simply fell to the ground where she remained staring up at the heavens.

Ebehal felt his blood boil with rage as she didn’t even grant him the smallest of gazes. He kneeled down beside the fallen figure and with brutal movements he ripped her clothes open, destroying her white clothing, shredding the plain white tunic as he uncovered her whole body. She didn’t utter a sound.

With brutality, and consumed more by rage than by desire, Ebehal placed his heavy body over hers, forcing himself inside her. He could feel that she was a virgin as warm blood washed down over his thighs and dripped to the rust spotted ground. With an almost animal grunt he emptied himself inside her, befouling her body with his seed.

He slowly stood up and accommodated his clothes once more. His eyes remained fixed on her face to see if she even reacted to what he had just done to her. But there was not a change in her unmoving features. Her eyes still fixed on the heavens, as if seeking for answers among the clouds.

His eyes still covered with the veil of rage, Ebehal got into the saddle of his DakÉsht and unfastened his spear from its bindings. Letting the wooden shaft rest in his hand as she gazed down at the motionless figure of the woman he had just dishonoured in the cruellest way. She had not even told him her name. She meant nothing for him. She was one more of a race of vagabonds and beggars.

Without a single remorse he lifted his arm and let the spear fly, digging itself deeply into the chest of the maid, piercing trough her heart and stealing her life from her.

Ebehal rode over and wrenched his spear free of the dead body, splattering blood over her copper coloured skin. Without a single thought of remorse he spurred his DakÉsht and headed back toward the city. Leaving the body of the maid and the rest of the caravan where they were. They eyes open and their mouths frozen in silent screams.