These Violent Desires

[Bergenheim]

December 5th, 1956, Deep Hinterland

It was a beautiful, if cold, starry night in the Deep Hinterland. In the far south of Tizona, where the ground was hard and arid, stony soil that was desert for all practical purposes, but wasn't quite sand, like the True Kalahari to the west and south. It was Scrubland at best. It was wild ground, where goat herds eked out a miserable living. For thousands of years its predominantly Uroduah inhabitants had lived much the same live as they always had, close cousins to the Desert Nomads, but not truly part of that kinship. They called themselves the Alnnas min Alhafa, or the People of the Edge. Sometimes shortened to the Alhafim. They were all devout Muslims, now, though some occasionally drifted away from their clan and kin, and sought the charity of the Catholic life in the townships.

Sometimes they even came back. And sometimes they would share a hookah in their meagre tents, and laugh about pretending to be converts for a few weeks, to get some soup when the goats were colicking or the grass was weak. They were simple but hardy people. They did not care who claimed their land, they were who they were and the rest of the world could come and go as it pleased.

But things were changing. Changing, even, for these simple people.

Abed awoke that night, early in the morning, though he wasn't sure why. He felt something in himself stirring. His goats? Yes. His goats were uneasy. He hushed his wife, who slept close to him, and moved carefully, wearing little but a simple white shift, to go check on his herd. Perhaps the cold made them uneasy, or maybe they sensed a jackal. Such things were still common, despite the frequent Hunts mounted by the spoilt aristocratic Tizonans of the coastal Cities to the North. There had been Lion in these parts too, once, but they were all extinct now. His grandfather had told him about Leopard as well, and his grandfather had spoken sometimes even of the occasional Elephant herd. All gone. The Tizonans were always hungry, too hungry, to spill blood to prove their honour, their manhood, and their faith.

Abed took a heavy, sharp stick from the side of the tent, taking care not to awaken his children, as he went out to the herd. The stars shone brightly, a beautiful curtain, though it sapped the warmth from his bones. It was winter in the desert, and although Abed had never heard of snow, there was frost, which was hard around the creaking wood that made up his crude paddock. He considered himself a blessed man, to have use of paddocks to keep his herd together in winter. Some did not, and had to bed down, or lose herd each night to the cold or to the predators.

"Ey, ey, Maeiz, Maeiz, La Yazal.." He murmured in soft tones, trying to calm his startled flock. What had spooked them, and at such a late hour? he peered out into the wide wastes around him, his eyes searching for the devil's eyes, the eyes of the Jackal, or the eyes of hungry wolves.

There was a whinny from the darkness. A horse?

"Ey?" He called out into the darkness, his stick held firm. "Faras?"

There were more whinnies, from the darkness. And the sound of hooves, hitting the hard soil. His mouth was dry. What...?

Emerging from the black night, were a group of mounted men, dressed from head to toe in Khaki. They rode hardy Hidalgos, desertbred horses. On their heads were plumed hats, and around their backs were light cavalry carbines, and at their hips, fast firing semi-automatic pistols from another age. They wore no army patches or insignia, but that wasn't unusual. Tizonans and their Police and their Army were hard to tell apart, for all wore the khaki or the brown, and all had roughly the same guns. Pistols, rifles, carbines, shotguns. It was like the whole nation had bought whatever had been in fashion in the 1900s and hadn't changed since.

The whole nation except, of course, for its many Uroduah natives.

"Looks like we got a fucking marrón and his cubs." said one of the men, as their horses began to canter towards Abed. The goats bleated and rustled. The horses circled the paddock, the men grinning at him. As they approached, he noticed there was something wrong with their faces. They had metal around their eyes, something bulky and strange. Goggles? No, too big...

"These Nighties are a real treat. I saw him from a mile away." Another boasted.

"Who...are you? What want?" he said, in broken Andaluzian, confused, frightened.

"It Talks! It talks!" there was much laughter. As they got closer, Abed could smell a familiar but alien scent. Alcohol. These men had been drinking.

"Please. I am trying to sleep. I have papers." He explained carefully, uncertain.

"We don't want nah fuckin' papers." One of them said, kicking his horse to a trot, riding at Abed, making him jump out of the way, to much laughter.

"I think we're gonna have a bit of sport..." One of the man unsheathed a large, curved knife from his pouch.

There was a cry from the tent. Abed spun, alarmed.

"Aisha! Stay in the Tent! I'll handle this!" he yelled. His young daughter must have awoken, and seen the strange men.

"Oh! This marron has girls!"

"Shut it, Diego. That's bestiality. You know the law."

"Well, out here, whose gonna know?"

Abed didn't understand what the men were saying. He only knew a few words, a few phrases. But they weren't acting like the Armed Police.

"Are you lost?" He tried desperately. "Please go, or I call Police!"

This caused them all to burst into laughter. "Alright, go ahead. Call the Police."

Abed stared, uncomprehending.

"Don't worry, we'll wait."

"I-"

"Did somebody want the Police?" one of the men then spoke up, to more laughter. "What seems to be the trouble?" He cantered closer to the tent, his hand resting on his pistol.

"Sir- I...I am scared...I have done nothing!"

The "police"man chuckled. "Mmm, we can't have that. Tell you what. We'll let your family go, if you do something for us..."

Abed gaped, suddenly aware he was surrounded by mounted men with guns and knives. This couldn't be happening. He was just a Goatherder. This was a Nightmare...

"What...do you want me to do?"

"Run."

He stared. What?

"I said Run, you fucking Marron. You got a minute's head start. Stay ahead of us and we won't rough up your family...too much."

"But-"

"RUN."

He Ran.

The Men in Khaki Followed.

 

[Bergenheim]

December 8th, 1956
Burj Mukhtar, Tizonan-Himyari Border, Southwestern Corner

It was three days before news reached the Burj. Three days the bodies were left, headless, to be pecked at by the vultures in the desert. Another goat-herder was the first to find them. Thr man hadn't stopped shaking since. A man, his wife, his daughter and his son. All left staked out, headless, naked, in the desert, like some Hunter's fresh kills.

The Alhafim were slow to anger, but for years upon years now, they had been pushed deeper and deeper into the deserts. The Townships grew, and the Tizonan Ranchers took ever more land and water for themselves. Yet something about this horrific discovery shocked the community. The story passed like wildfire, from ear to ear in the market-place.

Haytham bin Ahmed ibn Muktar was the only son of the recently departed Sheik, and he was busy fighting with his Uncles and Cousins for control of his father's inheritance. He and his supporters were sitting at the Bazaar cafe, their well-kept rifles and carbines by their sides. Unlike most Alhafim, the Mukhtars flouted the "gun control" laws imposed by the Tizonans on their muslim citizens. Haytham, like his name-sake, enjoyed a life of cross-border banditry, and did not consider himself particularly devout. He enjoyed skimming the fat from the slow and wealthy "Crusaders", his dismissive name for anyone pale or christian who carted their riches around.

He was drinking a shot of Tizonan Firewater- disguised as coffee- when the news reached him about the murdered family of Abed. The story had only grown in the telling, and if you believed the current scuttle-butt, half a village had been butchered and eaten by monstrous Tizonan Hunters. The story, like so many others, might have passed him by, and he would have continued his life of banditry and inter-tribal rivalry, had the person telling the story not let slip a certain detail.

"Wait, wait. Dressed like Armed Police?" He said, holding up a scrawny hand bedecked with many rings, stolen from all over Himyar. "How could anyone possibly know this? They found the bodies, not the Hunters."

"Its true, Sadiq. I heard it myself from my brother Farad! He saw some men riding away from the area, with saddlebags bulging most unusually! Surely filled with the heads of the murdered family." The tale-teller was eager to please, and be granted some of the bandit-prince's favour.

Haytham took a ring from his finger, some gold wedding band, and tossed it to the man, who scrambled for it eagerly. Haytham considered this news. The Armed Police? Actively hunting and murdering their "fellow Tizonans"? Unlike his father, Haytham had at least learned to read, and sometimes read the magazines and other trivia carried by those he robbed. He had a vague understanding of how the wider world thought about things like this.

"Men, how bored are you all feeling?" He asked, a strange idea creeping into his mind. "You ever see that one movie, what was it, about a man dressed as a Fox..."
"We don't go to the cinema, sir. All in Andaluzian anyway."

"Bah, you're boring. There's great things in books, in movies. Great ideas. I think its time we showed the Armed Police they don't own the Desert..." He smiled. Yes. They'd called his father the "Desert Hound". Perhaps he would become the Desert Fox...

 

[Bergenheim]

OOC: And now the moment you've all been waiting for...

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IC:

December 11th, 1956
Punjato River Basin, Southern Tizona

The great Punjato River goes by many names as it winds its way through Ashkelon, Tizona and Southwestern Himyar before emptying into the great Lake at the heart of the western part of this continent. In addition to bearing a great many riverine vessels for trade and commerce, it will also soon become bi-sected by the great Tizonan Dam, a hydro-electric project several years in the making, and scheduled- after many delays- to begin operation in March, 1957.

Its failure to be operating already had lead to many tensions in the Hinterland. Townships of Tizonan ranchers and their comrades were picking the Deep Hinterland bare for fuel to keep warm in the winter. Candles were in short supply. Work-hours were cut short due to lack of electricity to keep working into the longer and longer hours of darkness.

The Dam's operations disrupted the livelihoods of the Uroduah and Nethians too. Thousands of pliable Himyari Nethians were hired or conscripted to work on the Dam, and a great railway had been built across many pastures, to ship up supplies and ship back spoil from the construction site. When complete, hundreds of square miles would be flooded, forcing tens of thousands of Alhafim to relocate, their grazing land submerged under a hundred feet of river water.

Haytham Mokhtar thought this a great injustice. And so he had decided to do something about it. It had taken him a number of days to ride from Burj Mokhtar, and in that time he had made sure all his men were ready. They wore their Shemagh tightly around their faces, leaving only their eyes exposed. He had taken the creative liberty of painting black "fox ears" either side of his turban, and made up a white cloth banner, with the Arabic characters for "Fox" daubed on it.

"Today, a Legend will be born." He said, grinning to himself. This was going to be much more fun than robbing fat tourists.

"Ghara, Hurum! Adhab!" he began yelling. Coming down from a high crest, fifty of his best men, spurring their hardy desert ponies to a charge, waving revolvers and carbines as they came at the lightly guarded work camp.

Nethians scattered in fear, while the Armed Police contingent who had been tasked with watching over things looked on in shock. They reached for their guns and were shot down with merciless accuracy, the wild, ululating cry of the Alhafim at war filling the air.

"Allahu Akbar! Iilaa Thealab!" They shouted, their horses kicking up dust as they broke through the flimsy picket-fence meant to demarcate the camp. The air was filled with shouts and gun-shots. Haytham drew his father's yataghan, a twice-folded blade from Jurzan. He saw one fat Overseer gaping uncomprehendingly. With a sharp swing, he took the man's head off at a gallop.

The scene was nothing but bloody carnage in moments. They ignored the Nethians and few Uroduah workers, and focused their rage on the whites. Tizonans, Germanians, Pelasgians, it didn't matter. All Kaffir would die.

"For Abed! For The Desert Hound! For Justice!" he shouted in Andaluzian, to make sure their purpose was understood. He had even taken care to mail a carefully written statement to some Township newspapers- one of several. No one would be in any doubt what had taken place this day.

The workers began fleeing towards the main construction site, where thousands were gathering. Someone somewhere began sounding a klaxon alarm, an old windup air raid siren intended to warn of Dust storms, not some kind of attack. And yet here they were.

The Company security and Armed Police began to rally, and Haytham knew their moment was ebbing away. He charged after one fleeing Company man, trampling him under his iron-shod hooves, and dropping one more written statement by his body.

"Blood for Blood!" it read. "For the murder of Abed, his family, and the mourners of Mokhtar!"

He looked up as he turned, and saw one man aiming a rifle at him. For a moment his heart froze. Not like this...

The rifle clicked, misfiring, perhaps ill maintained. It likely had not needed to be used till now.

But still, Haytham sent a prayer to God. He wasn't much of a believer but that...

He quickly turned, and galloped away.

"God is truly Great." he thought. I set my will in motion, and now I am the Desert Fox. Father, this is a far better legacy than some goats.

 

[Bergenheim]

Cathedral of the Sacred Heart,
Sagrado, Tizona, December 14th, 1956

Two thousand people stood in the vast church hall, the solemn emptiness filled with voice as they sang Carols. Gaudete echoed against ancient stone arches. The Cathedral had been first begun by the Crusaders, but then turned into a Mosque, before being reconverted to the baroque and wondrous space it was today. From the rafters hung great banners, proclaiming the time of Jesus and his saints. Wintry light shone through huge tinted glass windows, depicting the Holy Mary and her child, surrounded by Angels. To her Right stood Saint Santiago, the Great Crusader who first brought the Banner of Christ to this desolate land, and to her left knelt Saint George, the Dragon-Slayer, who banished the Serpent of Islam with his glistening sword.

It was in such space that the people of Tizona- its true masters and citizens- had their faith renewed. Cardinal Sebastian Espinoza watched approvingly as the Archbishop conducted the ceremony. In seven days time, the Feast of Christmas would begin, and this would be the last Mass given before that most holy of weeks began. The Cardinal crossed himself, but his eyes were not on the proceedings, or on the sacred altar that was behind him. Nor were his thoughts concerned solely with this display of faith, and profession of love for God and his Church. Rather, the Cardinal's eyes sought out the great and good, who made obeisance. He could not help but smile wolfishly to himself. Though they knelt before God, it was he who stood before them. And it was he who held much of the power in this blighted land.

The First Minister, his wife, The Crown Prince, The Lord Minister of Defence...arguably the three most powerful people in Tizona, all sat and stood together. And although it was not from his hand that their communion wafers came, nor the cup of Christ's blood, it was by his will that the Archbishop performed these holy sacraments. In Tizona, he was the Mother Church. By his words did the great and good know their souls were saved.

Perhaps such thoughts were an excess of pride, but he would not be the first. And, as the Lord knew well, no man was truly perfect in such trying times.

As the ceremony came to a close, and the hall began to buzz with the murmur of chatter, the Cardinal descended from his lofty perch, and approached the Lord Minister of Defence. The fat general stiffened in his tan uniform, his medals jingling as he turned to face the red-robed Cardinal.

"A pleasure to see you again, Monsignor. It was a wonderful ceremony was it not?" He began, his voice cool and calm, his eyes snake-like and unblinking.

The Lord Minister scratched his thick neck uncomfortably. "Yes, indeed. Truly, Mother Church outdoes herself with such wonderful ceremonies-"
The Cardinal cut him off with a wave. "Ah, nothing would be possible were it not for the grace of God and the works of man. In fact, it was on such a matter I wished to speak with you about..."

Helpless, the Lord Minister found himself taken into the Cardinal's private chambers deep in the Cathedral, his wife busy gossiping with the other wives anyway. He found himself drawn in, and guided to an ornate, black wooden seat. It was not difficult to imagine the Crusaders of old sitting in such a chair, in such a place, and recieving like instructions from the Clergy.

"I am told that the Dam project has been delayed, perhaps permanently, by this recent raid." He hissed sibilantly.
"I assure you, your Holiness-"
"Please. That is not my title. Call me "Your Eminence."
"Your Eminence-" The fat Minister began to sweat. "These bandit raids happen sometimes. We will find them and make an example of them. Everything will go according to plan-"
"No. I no longer trust the Armed Police. I am contacting my...friends in Pelasgia. Though a den of misguided heretics, the Empire does still wield tremendous power. I am sure their investors and security firms will be happy to take charge of this project. There have been enough delays as it is."
"Please, I promise you, there is no need to bring in the Pelasgians-"
"Save it." He said dismissively. "We have wasted enough time as it is. The Dam must be completed, and soon. The power and wealth it will generate is crucial to my shareholdings. It will also continue the next phase of our plan to irrigate and transform the Deep Hinterland. An arid shit-hole for goatherding pagans it will be no longer. The Church and our friends will not be denied this plan, do you understand?"
The Lord Minister sweated considerably, dabbing at his brow with a hankerchief. "Of course. Absolutely, Your Eminence. What would you like me to do?"
The Cardinal sighed, weary from having to deal all the time with such self-important idiots.
"Is it not perfectly obvious? No more bandits. No more interruptions. Take a regiment of your best Cavalry and scour that fucking shithole clean. Get rid of them all, am I clear?"
The Lord Minister paled. "You want me to-"

"I do not want you to do anything, Lord Minister. I merely act as an instrument of Mother Church. Now do your fucking job."

The Lord Minister left, bowing and scraping, while the Cardinal sat in his chair, sighing. Once he was sure he was alone, he took off his too-tight skull-cap, and began massaging his temples. Finally, he opened his desk-draw, where a bottle of Warreic Whiskey could be found. Fifteen years old. He poured himself a measure. Not the only Fifteen year olds he would enjoy today, he thought. The Choir had performed excellently at the ceremony. Perhaps it was time to see how well those Songbirds really sang...

 

[Pelasgia]

December 15th, 1956
Punjato River Basin, Southern Tizona

The oppressive sun of the Tizonan South was too much to bear, even for a Pelasgian like Agis. Then again, he was from the much more temperate Northeast of Pelasgia, from a village in the lush lands of Melingia, whose inhabitants were once Perioikoi of Leuktron, their militarism and Laconic nature being as apparent as ever. Some in his party, mainly Aethiopians and Philistines (of the province that is, not the nation, at least not all of them) were much more accustomed to the weather. To be fair, they were much more accustomed to this sort of work, too.

He had only left the Mounter Raider Corps, one of the Imperial military's most elite units, just recently, and he had decided to join a Pelasgian Security Contractor. Unlike some other countries, were Private Security Contractors were considered mercenaries and were social outcasts, in Pelasgia, especially his part of Melingia, there was no such bias; Pelasgian Security Contractors usually protected merchant ships and their crews from pirates, when the Navy and Coast Guard did not have the authority or the resources to go, or they kept Pelasgian infrastructure, resources, and construction contractors abroad safe. The families of those they routinely saved appreciated their work, and the government was rather content at the prospect of not having to push bills for regular troops to protect Pelasgian shipping and business abroad through the Koinovoulio. The fact that these contractors stuck to actual security work and practically never took part in wars, civil wars, and the like, helped their reputation quite a lot.

Thus, while Agis was now wearing white clothes with khaki gear over it, instead of the standard all-khaki, olive drab, or camouflaged uniforms of the Imperial Land Army, along with the emblem of the "Aspis A.E." (named after the Pelasgian word for "shield", in a careful yet important avoidance of offensive or mercenary-like terminology), he felt as proud as ever in his line or work. That being said, he would slightly more content if he did not have to stand in the scorching sun in the middle of nowhere all day. Suddenly, his attention shifted to two of the local workers, who dropped a sandbag that was meant for the fortifications the Pelasgians were setting up around the dam. He went there and gave the two men a hand; while saying that Pelasgians and Tizonans despised each other would be a very mild statement at best, they were both united in their desire to not get ambushed and killed by some lunatic riding a horse. He waved the two men away, having placed the sandbag on the wall, and whistled at the Aethiopian Pelasgian who was supposed to place his machinegun on it.

"It's a big dam, this," the tall, black man said.

"Aye, it is," Agis replied; "You think we're safe?"

The Aethiopian looked to his front; a line of sandbag walls and barbed wire fences, placed in such a way as to form at least three successive checkpoints for each of the dozens of levels of inclines one had to climb to get to the construction site. Granted, most could only be manned by a couple of men at a time, and not all of them were manned with machineguns or other automatic weapons, but if it came to it, they could repulse any large attack long enough for all the guards to wake up and drive back the attackers; the principle was the same used by Prytanis I in his famous last stand with his bodyguard of 300 men: negate the enemy's numerical advantage and hold them back with your own superior quality of troops. The greater compound was now surrounded by barbed wire fences, with its own series of small trenches-like holes, surrounded by sandbags, with machineguns in them, scattered here and there, around the perimeter. These acted as improvised bunkers, that could mow down any cavalry charge or infantry assault from the open desert to the construction site. Two large observation towers had been erected, while large lights had been installed to fill the surrounding area with light in the night.

"To be honest, I wonder how these heretical fools managed to get attacked in this place," he said, scratching his head.

"All this costs money," Agis replied, "some Bishop is paying fancy for this dam to be constructed, and the construction contractor, Nikolakos A.E. or whatever its called, is paying us fancy to keep it safe. Plus, from what I hear, their guards weren't even awake when the attack happened."

In the meantime, the commander of the Pelasgian Security Contractors in the area, Hippolytos Venetos, was reporting to the Project Manager that had been appointed by the board of the Nikolakopoulos A.E., the Pelasgian Construction Contractor that had been commissioned to complete the dam's construction, to preside over all works in the location. The Project Manager, Gregorios Arkas and the commander were inside an industrial produced office-room, one of the main container-like structures that had been brought to the dam by the Pelasgians to house their staff.

"I assume your men have finished the security perimeter," Arkas said.

"Of course," Venetos replied, "they're ready for anything, though some are a bit eager to fight."

"Then let's hope that their eagerness is not satisfied," Arkas pointed out; "Work is proceeding under budget and ahead of schedule, now that our men have taken over from these amateurs; it would be a shame to lose that."

 

[Bergenheim]

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December 21st, 1956
Burj Mukhtar, Tizonan-Himyari Border, Southwestern Corner

The First day of winter came, and with it, the entire el Moktar clan, returning to the town they claimed as their ancestral seat, and headquarters for their various interrelated family businesses- be it banditry, trade, or farming. The air carried with it an unusually bitter chill, coming from the distant Himyari Mountains. Those who were oldest remembered a time in 1903 when it had snowed, even here in the Deep Hinterland. The air held the promise of a very cold winter indeed. Those who were not part of the clan but simply lived in the town watched the powerful el Moktars, wrapping themselves tighter against the coming winter.

Uncle Bayhas bin Ali ibn Moktar saw himself as the true heir of the murdered Sheik. He had the backing of most of the clan, and all the elders were in agreement. Unlike the upstart and wastrel son, who had ridden off god knows where on foolish pursuits, Bayhas was here to formally claim the title of Sheik for himself. It was as had been promised him, he thought. He had worked with the old Desert Hound for many years, and it was time at last to claim his reward. That some unnamed "rival bandits" had expedited his claim to the title by fortuitously murdering the Sheik...well, that was between Bayhas, God, and the jackals of the desert.

Shutters were being barred closed as Bayhas dismounted from his own fine horse, a stable-boy running up to take the reins from him. He ruffled the young boy's hair, and gave him a half-silver peso in thanks. He could be generous with his wealth. Today it was important that he be generous, to smooth his transition to power, and reassure all those involved that despite some unfortunate tumult, the el Moktars were still rulers of this corner of the Hinterland, and had firm control over the banditry trade.

Bayhas chuckled at the idiocy of his only real rival, the missing young man Haytham. Haytham thought banditry meant riding around, actually stealing goods from people. Such old fashioned naivete greatly limited your potential revenue, Bayhas knew. Rather than lower himself to actual thievery, he was head of a sprawling protection racket, and had control over the smuggling routes that brought lucrative drugs and goods from the wilds of Western Himyar into Tizona, and, from there, to the ports and harbours of the Kalahari Sea. He took a sizeable cut of the trade that was even now spreading its tendrils throughout the world, reaching into Pelasgia, Mendiak and beyond.

Being Sheik of the el Moktars, Bayhas knew, did not simply mean being arbiter of a tribe's affairs. It meant being the Godfather of a growing criminal empire. Haytham had turned his back on the potential for all of this, and he would suffer for it. Once he was confirmed, perhaps those "rivals" might find that arrogant brat and remove any lingering...complications that would threaten his own branch of the family's secure control over the whole operation.

The Caravanserai of Burj Mukhtar was a large and impressive building, with a large yard filled now with horses and camels, boys and even some girls running around. At least a hundred and fifty of the extended el Moktar clan had come here, and the place was filling up with the loud clamour of voices, as the staff struggled to meet demand. The air was musky with the smell of hashish and cigarette smoke, and Bayhas knew that more than a few of those gathered here were drinking Tizonan Firewater from their "water" canteens, or diluted in their soda bottles.

As he was led into the main hall, where plates loaded with simple wrap Donner Kebabs and piles of Falafel were being brought in, a hearty feast being laid out for the masters of the area. The local Imam was already sat waiting for Bayhas. The aspiring Sheik smiled, knowing he would have to win this man's blessing. It would not be hard, he knew. The local Ulema knew how generous he could be. A New Madrasa was surely to be built by his hand, and in return the clerics would see favour in his appointment. Sometimes tribal politics could be refreshingly straightforward.

He sat himself cross-legged, his own considerable bulk apparent even under his fine robes. He took a proffered glass of coffee with his right hand, inclining his head respectively. All around him were the men of the el Moktar clan, his most loyal personal retainers sitting closest, their daggers and pistols lazily tucked in to the folds of their desert dress. A few women, chastely garbed in the Niqab to hide all but their eyes, came to take the desert-wear from the men, allowing them to relax more in the warmer confines of the Caravanserai's hall. Those who were hungry took food from the plates, or glasses of coffee and stronger stuff, and began to take their ease.

There was no expectation of trouble. Bayhas had spent much of the last few weeks making sure of that, sending messages and even telephone calls- to those who had telephones- to make sure that this meeting was essentially a formality. He regretted the violence at the funeral of his older brother, the murdered Sheik, of course, but saw it as more the affair of the fools and the Christians. Let the Christians have the coasts and play at being master, he knew. Whether they were ruled by Tiburans, Christians or an Emirate, the el Moktars had always plied their murderous trade here, in the Deep Hinterland, and there was no reason for that to ever change.

Word about the massacre at the Dam-site had spread like wild-fire, even to this corner of the desert, but he had paid little attention to that. The gossip of the market-place, he thought, and the Christians would surely focus their attentions on the Punjato River Basin, and chase the scoundrels who did it. Colorados, perhaps, he thought. There were many fools who thought the future of Tizona's people- Uroduah and Andaluzian both- lay with the Red Creeds of Atheism that had become so prominent in some parts of this world. Bayhas felt it pure foolishness. Bayhas had no time for such grand visions of politics, only the reality he knew and understood. He was a wealthy and powerful man, and would continue to be such, and unlike his brother, he would secure that for his own dynasty.

The chatter among the gathered el Moktars continued into the early evening, as coffee and kebabs gave way more openly to shots of Firewater and the hash pipe. All were in a good mood as Bayhas readied himself to make his speech, and sway the gathered elders to making him Sheik. There was a distant rumble, and Bayhas felt a vibration even in his old bones, and the carved wooden furnishings. A storm, perhaps? A fierce winter indeed. A good thing they would be staying here in the town for the time being. He had no desire to ride out into such a bleak wilderness, and feel the frost and biting wind. The chatter died away as he stood up, the oil lamps being lit by the women, casting an orange glow over the proceedings. A few gas lights also came on, a sign of the Caravanserai's relative wealth.

"My Brothers." He began, looking out on those gathered here. "My Brothers, you have travelled far indeed. I bid you all welcome, and thank you most graciously for coming in this dark time, to settle a matter of most importance to our fine clan." There were murmurs of approval. Bayhas knew there was a certain amount of ritual to proceedings like this, and he fully intended to give due deference to such ritual, beginning by thanking personally each and every important personage who had come here.

"I would like to start by extending my gratitude, to my cousin by my first marriage, Elder Abbas, the first but by no means the least in my family to answer this call, and whose influence ensured our own fine Sheik, may god rest his soul, was buried properly despite complications."

There were more murmurs and nods. Bayhas knew he had their approval, and Abbas smiled appreciatively. It had indeed been difficult, the man had been forced to spend much capital to bribe the Armed Police and local authorities, and ensure the man was buried properly. But such gestures played well with the locals, and with tradition. Again the rumble, and the lights flickered a little. Bayhas blinked, but proceeded onwards, uncaring of such minor blips.

"My Brothers, we are a proud people, and a proud family. Where would be today, without the hard work of Gamal, Firas, Hilmi, Iqbal-" he began to name each of the Elders, embellishing their accomplishments and ensuring their gratitude. To be named and thanked was an important ritual. The rumble was constant now. Not thunder. Automobiles? Who would bring vehicles this far out? Bayhas grew annoyed now. But he would not give whoever was so rudely driving in his town any attention. He had a speech to finish. Thankfully, the rumbling stopped.

"Truly it is unfortunate, that this day, the son of our beloved and cruelly murdered Sheik, should not be present-"

There was loud chatter from outside, raised voices, shouts. Bayhas was truly furious now. How dare anyone interrupt his speech-

Gunfire. The loud bark of pistols, and then, the devilish chitter-chitter of machine-guns. The shutters were broken with small thwock-thwock sounds, as bullets began to strike into the gathered crowd of the el Moktars. Then, a grenade was thrown.

In an instant, the calm, collected, drowsy clan was thrown into total uproar. They scrambled for safety, for weapons, to get clear. The explosion destroyed furnishings, and injured many of those gathered. Bayhas's survival instinct kicked in, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, drawing his own ornately handled revolver, calling for his retainers. An attack! here! At this time! Who would DARE?

"I will murder the daughters and sons of whoever has dared-" he snarled, but then the blood drained from his face. Through the shattered shutters, he could see clearly. Armoured cars, in the khaki colours of the Tizonan Army. The Christians? But...why? He was on good terms with the Armed Police, with the local authorities. He had never troubled the Townships...

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The Caravanserai was surrounded. As the last rays of daylight began to slip beneath the horizon, dozens of khaki-uniformed men in Eiffelandian-pattern Stahlhelm began unloading from trucks and armoured cars, carrying submachine-guns and carbine rifles. They were the men of the 19th Motorised Infantry, and they were under strict orders from the highest source to proceed to this town and kill all the men gathered here. They did not know who these men were, nor care. They were grimly prepared to do their duty, however bloody. Besides, these people were simply Uroduah. As far as the almost entirely Tizonan regiment was concerned, these people were practically enemies half the time anyway.

"Break! Break! Take cover!" barked the sargeants, and the soldiers quickly fanned out, positioning themselves carefully behind walls, barrels, or throwing themselves to the hard, dusty ground. The Armoured Cars began to rake the Caravanserai in earnest, their light machine-guns hosing the gathered tribesmen. Women and children began to scream and wail, and the men howled with fury. Return fire began to be made, sporadically but soon with more intensity, rifles and pistols firing wildly at the attackers, pinging harmlessly off of the armoured cars and shredding the thick cloth covering the trucks. The soldiers affixed rifle-grenades, and began firing them indiscriminately at the building, blowing holes in the adobe walls.

"This is Strike Leader to Horizon Breaker, mark my position at eight zero zero one nine, over. Fire for effect." The radio-man began directing fire from the regiment's light artillery section, deployed in a secure wadi about five miles from their current location. Soon the sky was broken by the whistling sound of heavy mortars, and the roof of the Caravanserai was shattered, as 51mm shells began shrieking and exploding with devestating effect. The infantry backed away, forming a ring of fire. A few stray shots downed their men, but they were carried away with practiced discpline, and none of them broke their concerntration.

"Horizon breaker, adjust fire-" The instructions continued. The shriek of civilians became louder, as those in the town around the Caravanserai cowered in fear, the loud explosions and the crump of mortars making them fear for their own lives. Soldiers began to check the nearest homes, covering each other as they dragged gabbling, terrified men out into the hazy evening, to have their papers inspected, lights shone in their faces, and photographs taken. This was to be a total sweep operation. No el Moktars would be permitted to escape.

=======================================================================


Bayhas crawled on his belly, his face spattered with blood and clay-dust. He coughed, trying to reload with fumbling fingers his revolver. Dozens lay dead around him. "We need to make a break-out. Where are the horses?" he yelled. Another mortar-blast broke through to the ground floor, and sent body-parts and debris flying even as he spoke. His ears rang. "What? What?" one of his retainers said uselessly. He began to realise escape might not be possible. He cursed bitter fate. He was to be Sheik! This wasn't fair! What had brought the soldiers to his home, to this place?

Somehow, he knew it must be Haytham's fault. That damned brat! He cursed his name, and damned him to Shai'tan and the place of fire. Was he going to die here? He prayed not. With his revolver loaded, he crawled over to a group of surviving men, cowering in cover. He signalled to them to gather with him. As if by miracle, the deafening hail of gun-fire and murderous barrage of mortars stopped. The soldiers were barking to one another outside.

He sensed an opportunity. "We go! No time for plans! Follow me!" he yelled, and about a dozen or so of the surviving men followed him as he made a break for the back-exit, to where the horses were whinnying and snarling, desperate to escape the terrible noises, terrified out of their wits. Their only hope was to get mounted, and ride for the wastelands.

They made it to the back-door, and peeked out through a shattered hole in the wall at the mostly empty courtyard. The horses were there, mostly unharmed. He looked at the terrified, blood-streaked, dazed men who were gathered with him. Possibly the last of the el Moktars. They clutched their pistols and rifles tightly. "When we get outside, and you get to the horses..." He began. "Never mind. Let's go. God is great!" he yelled, and they broke from cover, running with mad desperation to the horses.

Rising from their positions, the Tizonan Army aimed their rifles and carbines.