Brand of the Desert

Merciless Sandstorm

The harsh heat of the desert surrounding me is so stifling it’s hard to breathe. My back still throbs from the beating I took last night. With every breath, pain pounds up from deep inside me. The rough, scratchy scraps of my torn clothes scrape across my open wounds, and with even the smallest movement, a sharp pain like flesh being ripped spreads through my whole body. The heavy iron shackles binding my wrists and ankles roll over the dirt floor and jangle mockingly. The sharp crack of a whip from far away, along with the searing desert wind, is a sound that keeps reminding me exactly where I stand in this world.

I was born a slave to a cruel, merciless desert tribe. Our duty? To live only by crawling under their feet for our whole lives until our backs break, existing for no other purpose than to serve those nobles.

By day, I’m driven through forced labor under the scorching sun until my vision blurs; by night, I have to sleep exposed on the sand dunes under the cold moonlight. Above my head is nothing but the open sky. The only time we’re allowed into proper shelter is when a sandstorm hits. To keep us from escaping in the confusion of the blinding storm, they cram us tightly into the central holding building. Just like today.

Each floor of the huge, battered wooden barracks is packed with hundreds of slaves, and the air is stale, heavy, and hot from trapped breath. Our shackles are locked fast to heavy wooden posts sunk deep into the dirt floor, and all we have to lie on is a single pile of dry straw.

I’ve learned this routine over years. At first, it was to survive. But now, it’s to find a way out.

Outside, the wind starts howling like a beast, and while the guards are distracted by their shift change, I begin to move.

I reach down beside my own post, under the loosely warped floorboards. I rake through the dirt with my fingers until I find the small metal piece I discovered weeks ago and carefully turned into a makeshift lockpick. Keeping my body completely low so no one in the main corridor can see what I’m doing, I find the narrow keyhole in the wrist cuff and slide it in.

With absolute, careful pressure, I twist.

Click

The heavy chain drops with a thud onto the dirt floor. I let out a silent, trembling breath of relief, and quickly work on the rest of the chain, freeing my ankles until the cold iron rings come loose completely.

Using the pitch-black darkness and the howling wind as cover, I slip out the side door, leaving the suffocating barracks behind.

The stinging sand wind tears mercilessly at my exposed wounds, and the force of the gale threatens to drive me to my knees with every step. The desert is like a blind wall of yellow dust, but I don’t want to give up. I have to escape. I have to find help. So I push blindly through the huge, randomly surging dunes, determined to find a place to go even if I have to crawl.

I keep going for what feels like hours, until the howling gale finally dies down and the suffocating wall of sand gradually settles back onto the land. In the wake of the fierce sandstorm, a heavy, eerie silence falls over the vast expanse of dunes.

My vision clears just enough to barely catch the sharp flash of the morning sun reflecting off a sheet of metal.

Just below the ridge stands a massive warhorse, framed against the bleak desert landscape. Its heavy hooves are planted firmly in the shifting sand. Seated high in the saddle is a huge, commanding figure in dark, imposing military armor. A heavy cloak drapes over the horse’s flank, and his long hair sways gently in the remaining breeze. I have no idea who he is, what tribe he commands, or whether he’s friend or foe. All I can see is the absolute power radiating from his silhouette.

The last of my strength drains away completely. My legs give out beneath my boots, and my body slides down beside the steep ridge, landing heavily on the damp sand directly in front of the giant horse’s path.

I stare upward, blinded, from the dirt floor. My hand reaching for the stirrup trembles violently, and the raw, torn sleeve slips back, fully exposing my wounded wrist. The stranger tracks my movement. His sharp, intense gaze fixes my face from above, staring with an unblinking look that completely dominates the space between us.

"Please..." My voice comes out hoarse and cracked from the desert dust. I use up my last strength to beg my mysterious knight for help. "Please help me..."