See, that�s the beginning� that�s the prettiness and wonder I see. Not the slave caravan that the Desert Boy ruled, not his chain of girls� but a rather bedraggled caravan, the guards tired and hired cheaply from a second-rate oasis. The caravan�s merchants aren�t doing so well� and the son of one of the merchants, gotten from a cantina whore and kept only because he was another pair of hands, was half-asleep on the camel he rode. His hair was in his face, his dusty orange and brown robe torn slightly, his hands curled around the saddle and his eyes closed. He didn�t see the approaching cloud of dust until after the lazy scout had finally spotted them and called the alarm. He didn�t wake up until the raiders were almost on the caravan.

He didn�t really understand his plight until a flash of deep brown eyes met his sleepy gray ones and he was yanked out of the saddle only to be thrown over the back of a horse dressed in bright, gaudy tack. The rider shouted something, waving toward the two main wagons� both were cut out of the caravan and drawn off behind four more horses. A few more people, most of them the youngest members of the caravan, were dragged along as well� one of them refused, struggling, and was kicked off his feet and bound to the saddle of a surly mare� within three steps her hoof met his flesh, and by the time they bothered to cut him loose there wasn�t enough left to stain the sand.

You see why I am having a hard time finding words for this yet? Ah, no� you don�t. You can�t. Let me continue a ways, we�ll see if this makes sense.

The merchant�s son was shocked. Thirsty. Tired. Hungry. His world had changed, and the startlement of it was enough (when combined with a rather violent blow to the head) to leave him unconscious. He woke in a cave, bound hand and foot, a leash leading from a band of leather around his throat to the heavy stake driven into the ground beside him. A few fleeces beneath him and a light blanket over him were the only things he was wearing, although his robe lay beside him, neatly folded.

In the doorway of the cave, framed against the light, against the thin curtains that guarded the entryway, stood a dark figure� sword in one hand, a pitcher in the other� and an astonishing grin matching the amused sparkle in his dark eyes.

--- to be continued? ---