Christel had a friend who owned a shop on the outskirts of the Oasis Town, but the shop had closed by the time he arrived, late at night. The windows were boarded up and the door bolted shut, no doubt on account of the storms, but Christel banged on the door and called out until the man let him in. They spared little time for pleasantries and greetings. “I don’t need a place to stay,” Christel explained, “but I do need a camel, and some goggles, and perhaps a sturdier cloak if you have one.”
The shop keeper frowned and scratched his frizzy beard. “Good heavens, you’re setting off tonight, aren’t you?” He went about collecting the items Christel requested while rambling on about the thunderstorms outside. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but you just be careful. You’re one of my favourite customers, you know?”
It was three o’clock when Christel raced along the eastern road towards the desolate city of Al’Obeiid. The storm had cursed him with a starless night and forced him to follow the caravan road instead of taking the shorter route across the open desert. It didn’t matter, though. Germaine Underbridge was slowed by his wagons and supplies, while Christel was just one rider; he’d catch them soon enough. He pushed his mount hard through the night, and only slowed his pace during daylight. After one and a half days he reached the rocky overpass where the Green Road snaked off towards the Eldar Forest. There he scaled the rocky cliffs and at the precipice obtained a few of the dusty northern road ahead.
He saw the caravan from afar throwing spirals of dust into the air, to be swept away north by the growing winds. These winds tore and lashed at Christel’s cloak. His heart raced at the thought of seeing Hazel again as he descended from the overpass and returned to his mount. By the time he was moving again the dry winds howled ferociously and currents of loose sand glided over the road ahead of him. He noticed riders of the caravan’s rear guard drumming hastily back to the safety of the wagons, though he was sure they hadn’t seen him. He knew that Germaine would soon turn away from the road in search of a cave that lay nearby, no doubt it would shelter his men from the worst of the coming storm.
Within an hour the wind was almost unbearable. The sand that glided across the desert earlier now attacked Christel ravenously, biting at the exposed skin on his wrists and near his eyes, and forcing him to bow his head. He put on his goggles and faced south. The sand rolled towards him in a colossal wave, swallowing the landscape as it went, enveloping the horizon. It formed a wall fifty feet high, arching over the sky until it blocked out the sun. Christel trembled in its shadow. He knew he had to reach the caravan or risk being eaten by the storm.
The full force of the sand storm collided with Germaine’s caravan on the doorstep of the cave. With the sand blasting away at them, Germaine ordered most of his men to run ahead while an unfortunate few were left struggling with the wagons. One poor soul was crushed when a wagon uplifted and toppled onto its side. Germaine ordered them not to recover it. “Just get these inside before we lose another one!”
Christel dismounted and used his camel as a shield as he approached the abandoned wagon. Pieces of wreckage carried by the storm now flew overhead; to be hit by just one of these projectiles would probably kill him. He abandoned his mount and followed the caravan into the cave, and using the lingering dust as cover he quietly slipped past the men, who were coughing and heaving.
The cave was large enough for the thirty men to set up their tents and unpack the wagons. They would remain here now until the storm passed over, which would probably be another few days. Christel skulked about until he found a dark crevice on one of the far walls where he waited for the activities to slow down. After nearly five hours the camp became still, the men huddled around their fires, still coughing and rubbing their sore eyes, and to Christel’s absolute dismay he realised that Hazel was not there. His hope shattered and the void that remained filled up with anger. Don’t do anything rash, he told himself. You can’t help her if you’re dead. Calm down. Think.
Christel had been watching Germaine closely to ascertain the location of Merida’s Key; it stayed in the inside of his jacket pocket. Seven hours had passed, most of the men had retired, only one sentry had been posted, and Christel hopped from his hiding place. He was sweating for he still wore his keffiyeh and goggles to counteract the dust. He entered the tent. Germaine was standing with his back to him at a wooden table on the far side, and Christel stepped forward to place a knife against the throat.
Germaine stopped and did not move. “Would you like a drink?” he said.
Christel had no time for games. “Turn around.” He slipped his hand into Germaine’s pocket and took the golden pocket watch. Its power returned to him immediately and he gasped as his mind flashed through the cracks of time, as if he were experiencing the past, present and future all at once. He was able to comprehend distant disturbing things, but his mind distorted them into horrid visions. He was unable to staunch the echo of a scream or the pungent smell of blood dripping down his skin. He saw Hazel falling, and then, as if from a terrible dream, he woke up, and was once again staring Germaine in the eyes.
“That magic watch of yours is broken,” Germaine remarked. “For the life of me I couldn’t get it work. I was curious as to how my future would play out.”
Christel was still recovering from his vision. “Hazel,” he murmured.
“She’s not here, as you may have noticed. I’m ashamed to say she escaped, but you won’t get to her in time and even if you did my sister and Master Josiah will soon return from their ventures and when they do you will be helpless to stop them.” He observed Christel carefully. “God, the anguish in your eyes is compelling. I can see why she loves you so much.”
Christel ignored him. He had the key and he knew where Hazel was. She would have gone north to the Surian Border. He lowered his weapon. “You’re not going to try and stop me?”
“My official orders were to leave you be. You can stay here if you like. Or you can brave that sandstorm out there, we won’t be pursuing you. Either way your fate remains the same.”
Christel didn’t like this, but what choice did he have? He was forced to take Germaine at his word. “Fate can be changed,” he said.
Germaine picked up his pipe from the desk and lit a match. He stared blankly at the smoke and whispered, “We will see.”
ns 172.70.131.94da2