Desert Chronicles_01

Forty days. Forty days of unbearable heat sweeping in from the desert, with no form of shelter at all really from the burning rays of the Amorainian sun, which in it’s infinite cruelty would often beat down upon them for days at a time. 1

More than half of their captives had died already, and every morning a team was sent to pile the new carcasses (often already covered with all manner of insects and grubs feeding from the rotting flesh) up and drag them to the top of a nearby dune to be devoured by any and all predators so vile as to find this scorching wasteland a suitable home. 2

This saved them the burden of lugging dead bodies across the desert, and kept the beasts from seeking out live prey in the valleys below. It was enough to make even the strongest stomach turn. And often enough it was the pretty ones, the pampered ones, who died, which was just a damn shame when you thought about it, because what else was there for entertainment out here? 3

None of them were men of course. Aside from the utter revulsion that any true Moranean should feel at the thought of laying with another man, men were just too wild and consumed far too much food to be taken across such vast distances. And of course, with men the rebellions were unavoidable. This was not only due to their strength, but it also seemed that having their husbands nearby gave the women the courage to rebel as well, which was stupid really, because what could any woman do against and armed guard. 4

No, the men had been slaughtered and burned in the town, along with all the babes and the elderly who could not make the trip, and now they were dragging all the women and children attractive enough to make a decent profit at the market behind them on their journey.5

The journey itself was proving to be more slow going than any of them had anticipated, and this morning their Commander had finally announced that it would be at least three more weeks until they even reached the outskirts of the city. Three weeks was a hell of a long time when you were 15 and horny, and Lascif was both. 6

So, it was only natural that he grab one of the slave girls and take her back to his tent. This one had been taken recently, you could tell by the dark finger-shaped bruised on her hips, and as unpleasant as that could be, it was better than the screaming when you picked a virgin. It wasn’t like it happened every night, but he was hardly the first one on this trip, or even in this week, to relieve himself this way, and although most Commanders seemed to turn a blessed blind eye, he was still careful to not make much noise. 7

In fact, he was so focused on being quite, and on keeping the slave, who was now weeping openly, quiet as well, that he didn’t even hear anyone approaching. It wasn’t until the shine of light reflected from the fading sun off the silver boot tip blinded him, that he realized he wasn’t alone. He blushed red as he turned to face his commander, for only the commanders had silver boot tips, then gasped as blinding pain shot through his groin. 8

He looked down to see black slick fluid pouring from what had been, in his opinion, a rather well proportioned phallus only moments ago. The blood-curdling scream he let out woke every man in camp, and the echo of it through the valley was the last sound he heard before his chest stilled and his eyes closed.9

Commander Ljut stared at the pale face of the boy lying at his boots, twisted with the agony of his final moments. He let out a disgusted sigh and ordered three of the of troops, whose eyes were now wide open and looking on in horror, to take the body up to the dunes with the others, before the scent of blood lured dark beasts too close for comfort.10