The Sea of Dust and Tears

[Chanak]

Yes, I have committed the sin of George Lucas....no, Gwally, I am *not* referring to marketing my stories in order to sell more McDonalds Happy Meals

I've written out of chronological sequence. Since the groundwork for The Sea of Dust and Tears was sketched out in my mind quite some time ago as I wrote The Hill of the Skull, it's no big deal to jump into the sand here so to speak, and take off with it. This assumes an even greater import in light of my recent discovery: the major Publisher I am eyeballing wants to see the first three chapters of my manuscript, along with a summary of the overall book. The summary is no problem, I could that before I go to work tomorrow. The first three chapters, though...

Looks like I need to get it in gear. I'll test the waters here, just like I'm doing with The Midnight Sea. Comments and criticism are welcome.

[Chanak]

Prologue

Lightning streaked across the starless sky above the Sea of Dust and Tears, cleaving through the oppressive gloom of darkness with a flash of brilliant light. Briefly illuminated by the wrath of the coming storm, the line of slaves below toiled onward into the night, oblivious to the approaching Tharan'tiir in their misery and suffering. The rumbling of thunder was accentuated by cries as yet another of their hapless number succumbed to the cold embrace of death, falling lifeless upon the crimson sands of the desolate Sea as the light of the storm was swallowed whole by the darkness.

With one voice the slaves lamented their brother's unfortunate demise, crying out to the Mother to spare his soul the agony of death upon the Sea. 'Twas not Death himself that the slaves feared...no, for each faced the Eternal Foe every waking moment of their lives, fighting against sun, sand, and enemy just to carve a meager existence from the trackless desert that was the Waste.
Rather, it was the Sea itself that the slaves feared, a place that the living forsook, and only the Dead wandered. Here, the the power of the grave whispered in the carrion-winds, carrying with it the ravenous hunger of Those Who Walked Under the Stars.

In the darkness that returned once more, foul voices hurled dark curses as hooked and barbed whips cracked sharply in the air, biting deeply into flesh. As the life's blood of the slaves flowed freely from scarred backs and legs scabbed with countless wounds, not a sigh, nor a moan, was to be heard in the night. The slaves were a proud people, possessors of a heritage that spanned the millenia of knowledge. Not death, nor the scourgings inflicted upon them by their vile tormentors could extinguish the flame which burned so fervently within their breasts. The slaves were Thykiri, the dark-haired People of the Waste. Their silence was a symbol of their undying defiance...to the very end the People would stand. To the last man, woman, and child, courage and honor - not blood - bound them all together.

Lightning flashed again, a sign of the rapidly growing power of the developing sand storm. In the flickering light the masters of the Thykiri slaves stood revealed: tall, gaunt figures garbed in flowing robes of the blackest pitch. The thunder betrayed the malignant evil of their presence, an ancient power forgotten in the mists of the distant past. With their whips of burning pain they drove the Thykiri slaves ever on, the cruel spiked manacles about their wrists and ankles making rest near impossible to bear. A length of iron-wrought chain linked their charges together as they bore a massive object across the choking sands of the Sea of Dust and Tears.

The light of the storm gleamed briefly upon the smooth, hard surface of the slaves' looming burden. A tremendous stone of hewn red marble it was, some two men high, and wide. A great trench in the sand marked its grim passage in the night, along with the emaciated and broken bodies of the dead, their corpses cruelly liberated of hands and feet. Nothing must impede the rebuilding of the Temple, for the glory of ancient Thuul would rise again from the desolation of the Sea...and once more, the world would truly know fear.

In the darkness of their bondage, the People cried out to distant Arathor in his halls beyond the winds, as they had done so very, very long ago. Though the memories of their infancy had all but faded from their minds, existing as mere legends and myths shared about the cookfires, the Lord of the Heavens had not forgotten.

The storm was quiet for a time, the silence of the night interrupted only by the occasional cracking of the whip, the clinking of manacles, and the trudging of bare, bloody feet upon the sand. Mayhap the inpenetrable gloom would serve as the sole witness of the People's misery, were it not for the Watcher in the night.

Upon a distant dune he stood, his eyes aglow with greenish fire. To these eyes all was seen clearly in the darkness, and in their radiant depths fury raged like a caged inferno.

[Scayde]

Very visual.......You have done a wonderful job in depicting the setting.