Night Of The Nomad

Sunlight beat down mercilessly on his naked back. The heat burned with unfettered savagery but Thane did not care. He staggered barefoot and bloodstained across the empty gulf of desert. His sword still gripped in his sweating hand, the drooping point carving a line through the dazzling sand. It was black and crusted with the spilled life force of his enemies.

The battle had been a massacre.

The day before he had stood with two hundred warriors, his lover Iodan by his side defending the southern frontier against the wild hordes of the Leopard Men.

The fighting had been ferocious, Thane with beautiful raven-haired Iodan by his side, had cut down over a hundred of the foul beasts. But the enemy had been relentless and eventually despite their valiant efforts Thane and his men were routed.

Thane had watched helpless as Iodan was run through, his wide sapphire blue eyes staring in disbelief at the big warrior. After that Thane had gone mad. He hacked through the fiends blind with rage and grief not caring if he lived or died.

Those last blood soaked hours had been a wild blur of steel and death. Somehow his comrade Largo had dragged him from the enemy and they both fled over the border into the gaping wastes of the Darkesh Desert.

Largo lay dead now five miles back giving up to exhaustion and his wounds.

Thane had cradled him gently, kissing his forehead. Then the warrior laid him down and strode off deeper into the desert, resolved to share his fate.

Something caught Thane's eye. He peered through the strands of his long blonde hair now matted with sweat at the small black dot on the horizon. A strange compulsion flowed through him moving his tired feet toward it. The warrior shrugged, it was as good a place to die as anywhere else.

The dot, which at first had seemed like leagues away, was suddenly only a few feet from him when Thane again regained his muddled senses. He saw now it was a large nomad tent of rich black silk. The glossy material fluttered in a none existent wind and Thane's whole body ached for the cool respite it offered.

A figure stepped to the tent's opening. “Greetings warrior.” a sweet honey smoked voice purred.

Thane stared blankly at the speaker. It took him several moments before he could focus clearly. The figure was a youth, barely nineteen, clad in a flowing robe of light blue silk and matching pantaloons. The robe was open enough to reveal a smooth toned chest the deep rich hue of mocha. A boyish beardless face smiled at him with enticing full lips and sparkling black eyes. Lustrous black hair cascaded over the boy's strong shoulders and an elegant kiss curl hung down across his forehead. Bare toes peeped from golden sandals.

The warrior leaned heavily on his sword. “Who . . . who are you?” he croaked.

“My name is Mali, and I will tend your wounds.”

Thane let the words sink in. “You are a nomad magician.”

“Indeed, I saw the battle in my scrying pool. You fought bravely, you deserve an ample reward for your service.”

“Leave me!” growled Thane. “The battle was lost! I deserve death!”

Mali laughed, and it was like the tinkle of a forest brook. “No warrior, you held the enemy off long enough for reinforcements to arrive. They were too late to save your army but