Editor's Note: This story, which won the Ancient Anguish story contest in 2002, has been ported to FFnet with the permission of the original author, Brandon Brooks (couldn't talk him into signing up himself). He retains full copyright of this story. The story is completed, I just need a while to port the entire thing over here.

Ancient Anguish is a text-based fantasy game, much like a vast interactive novel, and the areas and factions described here all exist in it. The game has been around since 1992 and is still going strong. If you wish to try it out, there is a link on the profile page - it is player-owned and free to play. Give me a holler if you come by!

Duel in the Desert, by Bleys

Ah, Drakhiya. City of stone walls and sand floors, where abound such exotic delicacies as a pomegranate tart or a jug of that bitter licorice alcohol, arak. There was also rat-on-a-stick, for more orcish tastes. Wandering around the city's streets by day to take in the marvelous architecture and statuary would be sure to lead to sweaty undergarments and dusty, dirty skin. This would only make for good reason to then delight in the unparalleled ecstasy of the famous Drakhiya baths, where the hot steamy water seems to have an enchanting ability to wash one clean of even the foulest stink and grime. (Although a certain unfortunate dwarf was unable to remove the stench of the infamous resident bog monster, even after repeated scrubbings, and futilely demanded his coins back.)

It was Festival time, the Feast of the Prophet, in the grand city of Drakhiya, jewel in the eye of Drakh the All-Knowing, an occasion that occurred once every year in the month of Waterhaze. The Festival lasted a fortnight and was an unusual time in this usually elf-intolerant city, when members of all races and classes and guilds were allowed into the city's walls to partake in the events. The Caliphs had always been praised for their seeming benevolence at tolerating all humanoids and guilds at this special time. The harsh reality of it all was that they appreciated the profits and attention the Festival brought to their beloved city, and not a few of the city's rulers had been able to refuse the sweet tastes of fine elvish baking.

The night-time air above the city was once again rife with noise and excitement from the celebrations below, as well as hazy grey and black smoke from the pyrotechnic displays put on by commissioned mages of the conjuration school. This year the theme of the fiery displays in the sky seemed to be one of wonder, as most of the images portrayed in the night sky were of mystical dragons and fierce ogres, and the occasional beast that nobody seemed to recognize. Ishtaq the famous juggler was conspicuously absent, given his nefarious history with the current Caliph, yet many other street performers could be seen at one busy corner of the city, performing their legerdemain with all-new twists, never failing to enliven the crowd with their mastery. A group of runty dwarven ex-Knights performed impromptu skits full of slapstick and bawdy comedy to the delight of many in the crowd, especially the Scythers present.

The normally wide and spacious avenues of Drakhiya were now thronged with humans and humanoids from all reaches of the land, and larger-than-life constructs of paper and glue depicting grinning visages and figures from mythical lore either adorned the backs of Festival-goers or dotted the streets and corners at regular intervals. Trailing some of the adventurers were beasts of burden of many shapes and sizes, from shifty-eyed ravens perched on shoulders to intelligent wolves with huge maws to lumbering, vacant-eyed undead that added a haunting presence to the otherwise cheerful gathering. Outside of the city walls one would expect so many of those pressed closely together here to be locked in combat. Yet a curious atmosphere of tolerance seemed to drape the masses like a curtain, made no less impenetrable by the numerous swarthy orcish cityguards and serpentari militiamen dotting the streets and parapets.

One particular traveler who made his way through the masses filling the streets had less-than-tolerable notions in mind. In fact, he was not here at all for the Feast. This was merely a convenient milieu in which he could work his dark tasks. Purses for cutting and jewelry for nicking were there by the dozen to be had, and thieve he did with thoughtless ease in this carefree crowd. But such aspects of roguishness did not give Nattick the same thrill they once did, and they were not his primary reason for being in Drakhiya at Festival time.

Comely wenches tried in vain to attract the thin rogue's attentions as he slowly strolled by the inns and taverns they frequented. Nattick was a handsome human, thin and wiry of stature, normally with a full head of hair that sprouted long dark locks, some of which hung over his face, shielding his eyes at times. For traveling incognito, however, his hair was pressed close to his scalp under a close-cropped blonde wig. He was shorter than most human males, at a hand under four cubits tall, and he possessed a quickness that even some elves would envy. He had a thin, aquiline nose and his high cheekbones and the slight upward curve to his dark eyes gave his face a constant look of intensity and alertness.

Nattick was disguised in the finest nobleman's garb, as he was here in Drakhiya posing as an ambassador from Tantallon, and this was another reason the harlots were eager for him to look their way. He had donned a hooded light grey cloak, the hood currently flipped back, over a handsomely polished leather breastplate. A golden chain around his waist served as a belt and where it buckled in the front it bore the insignia of the Town Council of Tantallon. High black leather boots that softened his step (and augmented his quickness, due to their enchantments) adorned his feet, the left one concealing a wickedly sharp knife that Nattick used in combat. A sheathed bastard sword hung at his side, and he bore several 'official' rings of command on his fingers. He could scarcely wait to shed his disguise and get down to business, but he knew that would have to wait until tomorrow.

As he toyed with a ring bearing a green gem set into an intricately worked band, his eyes idly surveying the curves of the tawdry women lining the street, he mulled over events from the past few days in his mind and coldly considered his objectives in the city of Drakhiya...

'I'll get right to it, Nattick. We admire your work,' Balfor had said, the cunning Scyther sprawling out across from the rogue in their booth. It was one of the few times Nattick had seen him relax his guard, indicating that the Scythe leader trusted him implicitly.

The two Scythers were in a back corner of the bar in Hobbitat, well away from prying eyes and unwanted personages, secure in one of its many private booths.

Peering through the drawn curtain of the booth, Balfor silently motioned for the hobbit waitress, a cutely smiling female with curly brown hair, to bring them another round of imported Raveli rum.

'Thank you, bloodbrother,' Nattick replied simply in turn, nodding briefly to his superior. 'What is it you would have me do this time?'

Balfor grinned slightly and stared at Nattick for a moment, admiring his always-intense gaze and somewhat fearing him. Nattick was a true find, one he was glad to have on his side, and he hoped his loyalties to the Scythe would never sway. He quickly sat forward, thrusting his face across the table at the rogue. 'Halforc and the others have spoken. The elf bastard must be brought down. He is getting brazen in his actions against us and we can no longer afford to let him live. There is some sort of connection between Duender and that strange tower in the desert.' Balfor paused for effect. 'We think a war is brewing.' He sat back, gazing expectantly at the Scythe's prized assassin.

Votishal. He had to be talking about the elven ambassador from Duender that was recently organizing some sort of movement against the Scythe clan. The elf and human inhabitants of this despicable city to the west were now focusing their efforts on curbing his own guild's power. The creation of the Elven Defense Force was probably but the beginning of the reprisal from Duender and its resident guild, the Eldar, and this Votishal was somehow at the center of it. Eliminating Votishal would do much to hinder their designs, and nothing could please Nattick more than to drive his knife into the back of some grove-tending elf. This would also make him shine in the eyes of his leaders, most notably Halforc.

The Crystal Monolith, now that was something else entirely. He had heard of no one who had been able to penetrate its mysteries since it first appeared in the deserts far to the south, near Drakhiya, about 3 months ago. Nattick had heard shades of rumors from travelers of far lands that similar towers had appeared mysteriously there, always right before something terrible happened. But how exactly was Votishal involved? He knew Balfor was being cagey again, and that trying to get any more information out of him than given would be no easier than getting the Bard of Nepeth to sing. Perhaps Balfor did not know, either...

Nattick narrowed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully back at Balfor. Just then the curtain parted and the beaming waitress appeared with their rum, as well as another rack of roast rabbit, which she placed before them and vanished, silver coins pressed into her tiny hand by the rogue. Nattick grabbed the pewter mug of rum and took a swig of it, buying himself some time to think. Balfor simply grinned back at him and hungrily tore into a leg of rabbit, waiting patiently for Nattick's consent, confident he would have it.

Nattick had seen this Votishal a time or two in the past. He had been a fighter of some renown and was said to be deadly in combat, and he carried the prized two-handed sword, Elvenheart. This would be no easy mark, but Nattick was not about taking the easy way out, and he relished the chance to gain favor with his leaders. The fact that Votishal was an elf made the offer all but impossible to refuse.

'So you are finally going to give me the chance to silence this sniveling elf. I accept. Only tell me where and when this needs to be done.' Nattick's eyes had a cold intensity in them now, causing Balfor to blink before speaking.

'The Feast of the Prophet is taking place in Drakhiya in a few days, as you well know. The chaos that normally reigns in that city during this time will be the perfect setting for you. Votishal will be there, no doubt with some of his company in tow, for the trade conference. So be ready for that. But we know he is really going there for something more. See that he meets a brutal end, and investigate the tower and his connections to it. I'll begin getting the guild ready for any surprises on this end.' Balfor looked thoughtful for a moment. 'You have never disappointed us, Nattick, and the way you carry out your job always makes for good stories. You know Boki is looking forward to hearing about this one. He always gets a good laugh out of your killing.' Balfor smirked back at the rogue, his mouth now full of rabbit.

Nattick laughed. The gigantic ogre that was their mascot did take a liking to him, and seemed to hang on his every word as he recounted how he had taken down his last mark. More than a few times, Nattick would have to stop in the middle of the story to explain certain words to the ogre, and he had to wonder if even his entire brain was made of muscle, too.

'I'll leave before dawn and head south, then. I want to be sure I know this city well before the Feast starts. You'll have your proof in a fortnight.' The rogue now grinned darkly back at Balfor, who half-stood and lurched over the tabletop to give him an enthusiastic headbutt. The drinks spilled and the entire booth shook, but the Scythers just laughed.