Prologue (Cont.)

No reply would be given, because by the time the regart opened his mouth, the sandstorm, a wall of black sand that no man would be able to later give an origin to, had hit. The tower door rattled as the sound of a titanic hammer made of a million small studs pounded. Walcott watched the sand throw the regart into the air, never to be seen again, save his helmet, which tumbled down the ladder rungs. “SHUT THE DOOR!” Walcott screamed as the roar suddenly reached their ears. As Starl and the weasel raced to the tower’s ground level door, bolting it in place, Walcott climbed the rungs hastily, muttering a prayer. He reached the top and reached for the roof hatch, the black sand cutting at his face and denting his helmet with but a grain. He stopped his action for a moment, to see the tower guard, his chubby face filled with terror, his arms cut to shreds by the sand, clinging to the tower wall as the winds seemed to be sucking him from the tower. The guard screamed something unable to be heard over the raging sand and Walcott, unwilling to risk his life, sealed the roof hatch, clambering back down.

“What the hell is it?” Starl eyed Walcott, a gesture indicating that Walcott was now the leader.

“I have no idea. The sand is jet black and the wind is blowing in the opposite direction the sand is blowing.” Their current thoughts were stopped by the sound of the ground door beginning to buckle from pressure, the top hinge snapping.

“Nothing can do that, can it?!” The weasel man remarked, heading towards the winnings now lying on the floor. The middle hinge broke, sending a screw ricocheting through the tower. The weasel man began to gather up the abandoned fortune. “We’ve got to get out of here!” The final hinge burst from the door, sending it sailing into the tower room and catching the weasel man behind it. It crashed against the wall with a resounding crack, but not before the weasel hit the wall. The door splintered and crumbled into a pile of firewood, burying the pulverised body of the guard.

Walcott looked back at the door, black sand whipping in only in tiny amounts, though a wall of it seemed to be situated against the doorframe. A shadow began to emerge from the spiralling, screaming wall. Walcott reached for his blade, only to pull back a ravaged hand, a ring of sand spiralling around the hilt of the blade.

“What the hell is goin on!?” Starl screamed to be heard over the roar, his eyes fixated on the shadow now entering the room, the sand running off the figure as if he was stepping through a waterfall. The figure wore a long black robe with gold trim, a ruby amulet hanging around its neck. No face could be seen within the shadow of the hood still pulled over the figure.

“Who…” Walcott whimpered at the figure before he noticed the roar dying away and the figure, despite the fact that no eyes could be seen, seemed to stare directly at him.

“Where is the key?” The figure spoke with a deep and gravelly voice, though it seemed to Walcott that the figure had not so much spoke, as was heard.

“Key? What key?” Starl, though swift at switching cards, was never swift with social situations. Walcott stared at Starl, wide-eyed at the bold comment.

The figure turned towards Starl, then waved his shrouded hand and the roof door burst in, burying Starl in black sand, a trickle of blood running out from the sand pile and a muted scream heard for a moment. The figure turned back to Walcott and stared harder now, Walcott’s mind suddenly spiralling, as if no longer in his head. “Ah. I must find it myself then.” The figure’s voice once more was heard, and then, as quickly as he had entered, the figure stepped back into the swirling sand.

A moment later, the tower collapsed in on itself, burying Walcott and making the gate to Azurat city buckle, collapsing in as well. The hooded figure stood upon the rubble, the black sand slowly settling into the cracks and crevices in the rocky ground. The figure stood for a moment observing the city, and then disappeared into a nearby alley, torches fizzling out for blocks around his path.

Outside the city, high upon a canyon wall, a thousand horsemen sat, waiting. In front of them, a armor-clad figure knelt and watched the scene, his blue eyes observing the figure. “We wait.” Much like the mysterious figure, the warrior’s words seemed not to be spoken but heard.

The horsemen pulled upon the reins of their horses and began to move out, circling the city nestled in the canyon and waiting……

And time wears on……

*Imidir and Regart are both ranks within the Azurat army.