But here is a quick snippet of a tale (I'm still polishing) from my forthcoming The Mad Song and other tales of Sword & Sorcery...
Stygian Black
Miles into
the trackless wastes of the Arabian Desert and just as the horned moon rose
above the dunes in a darkening azure sky, the raiders fell upon the unholy
caravan as wolves upon tainted sheep. Half of the hired swords fled when they guessed
the identity of the laughing bandit chieftain and even the vexing fear of their
master, the mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, could not grant them sand enough to face
the Lion of Palestine, Avi Ben-Kenaz.
The
city-born sell-swords and cowardly veterans of decadent civilization were no
match for the hard-bitten nomads, and with but a few strokes of steel all of Alhazred’s
men fell before the raiders. These Judean raiders lived by their blades edge
alone—not just the prospect and bravado of danger. Out here in the desolate wilderness,
if you did not shed blood freely, your own would soon bleach upon the sands.
Alhazred
dusted himself off after having been tossed from his seat by one of the
raiders. He was lucky not to have been beheaded like so many others, but had
been recognized as the caravan master early on and therefore perhaps worthy of
sparing and of course, ransom.
One of the
raiders shouted to his chieftain, “The wagons are empty!”
“All of
them?”
The raider
nodded to Avi and shoved Alhazred to the ground once again.
Avi, a
pantherish man with a face of red-brown stubble and a reckless smile asked, “Who
are you and what did you formerly carry within these wagons that needed such
pathetic protection?”
“I am
Abdul Alhazred, seeker of eldritch knowledge. I know of you Avi, and would ask
that we make a sacred pact.”
Avi
scrutinized the thin bearded man who was almost engulfed by both his dark
turban and cloak. Alhazred’s sallow face, shrunken cheeks and baggy eyes belied
a man who knew little sleep and even less toil.
“Speak
Magi.”