Disclaimer-i don't own Storm Hawks, Deltora Quest, or any other copyrighted materials.

Age Clarification-

Fearon-18 (a month has passed since Of bounty hunters and Empires.)

Somra-16

Lehvahk-15

Takar-21

Brendon-17

scout-10

CHAPTER 6

DESERT SPIRITS

Fearon's curse rang out through the night. He kicked at the sand in frustration as the attempted spell failed-again.

He'd been tying to master the elusive Fire and Lightning enhancement for some time. Upon embarking on this journey, the urge to perfect it had reared it's head anew. Driven by that and his innate, near constant companion of pain, Fearon had opted to lose himself in training.

He had been hoping to both succeed in the spell and think of just were their elusive target could be. Instead, Fearon found himself becoming more and more frustrated by the minute. Fire and Lightning was like a wild horse, rearing and fighting, the sheer output of power required making it near impossible to control.

Fearon grit his teeth as he paused for breath. Grunting, he sucked in another breath, preparing to try again.

The varon teen shook his head and tried the enhancement spell for the umpteenth time. The result was disparagingly the same-he came close, only to feel the cast fade away in a unmanageable burst.

Maybe he needed to focus better. Almost instantly, Fearon's frenzied mind rejected the idea involuntarily. There were just too many things to worry about, from his own problems to the other's problems, to the criminal they were tracking, to the desert itself.

The frustrations just kept piling up. With a guttural, animal noise of anger Fearon drove both swords into the sand and kneeled, bracing his forehead on the palm of his hand.

How was he ever going to do this...

"Didn't fancy finding you out here."

The grumpy voice pulled Fearon out of his cluttered head quickly. Slanting his gaze upward and standing, the swordsman beheld the last person he wanted to see. Takar met his gaze with a taunting smile, lips curled in a derisive grin.

"What the hell's your deal?" Fearon spat. "I can be out here if I want."

It wasn't like Takar had any right to monitor him, though it was to be expected he would notice the leader being outside. Fearon was well aware that Takar wasn't much of a sleeper. He was a self proclaimed insomniac, whether by choice or not, the leader didn't care.

What he mainly wanted was for Takar to get out of his face.

Takar scoffed inwardly at Fearon's anger. It was funny, really, especially given that the bastard idiot was intruding on his private time.

The night was his time to just be alone. Takar's hands tightened on the deck rail. He couldn't help not being able to sleep. All the bastards likely thought otherwise.

Screw them. No one understood him. Ever.

Fearon was still staring at him with a narrow reptilian gaze. Abruptly he yanked the swords back into his hands and started performing several slashes and imaginary parries. Takar wrinkled his nose in a snort, leaning against the Strikeflier's strong bridge windows. He crossed his arms and stared down at Fearon some more, wondering if it was worth it to dig for info about where Fearon had been before the team.

Ah, what the Seven Hells. Takar was bored, and wanted to distract himself from his own troubles. He decided to go for it. Absentmindedly he grasped his shoulder, feeling the first of the whip scars across his back. Takar started talking, carefully watching Fearon's expression.

Crossing his arms across his chest, Takar began asking. "So what's suddenly inspired you, oh leader?"

Fearon froze in position before assuming another one. "Necessity."

It was a unsatisfying answer. "That or just that you don't want to fail at something?" Takar allowed a taunting edge to creep into his sentence. "Would it be too much of a blow to your pride?"

Takar was certain he heard Fearon growling. When the varon spoke, though, the tone was carefully under control. "Striving for something is a good distraction."

"From what?"

"Just from things."

"What things, though?"

Fearon's shoulders tensed. "Godsdammit, Takar! It isn't your firckin problem!"

Takar bared his teeth. "I'm no idiot, bastard. I've seen the obvious pain in you. Studying medical stuff tends to give you that. And I'd have to be blind to miss that you're mentally scarred, too!"

"No different from you!" Fearon snarled back. "Grumpy, jackass insomniac!"

"Frickin killing machine," Takar snapped back.

Fearon hissed. Then he turned away with a angry sigh. "Whatever."

Takar's mouth twisted into a grimace. And he had thought he was the grumpy one.

The rest of the night was spent in awkward silence. Takar eventually settled for lying on the deck, slowly intaking a wine bottle. The Sky Knight continued to practice, unperturbed, at least outwardly.

All in all, Takar had never wished more that he could comfortably fall asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The second time they chose to land, it was mainly Fearon's fault. He had thought he'd seen the same shadow he had viewed on the wall in Rithmere, and in a burst of recklessness had demanded that the group land and search for several feet around the Strikeflier.

He felt suitably foolish when they regrouped by the small airship carrier, having found nothing.

"Nice. I bet you're finally going mad, sword swinging fool," Takar's scornful comment was infected with a faint sense of humor. Fearon growled, ready to retaliate, and glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye.

Fearon whipped around to face it, swords out and baring his teeth in a silent snarl. He was done with this. Whatever the shadow was, it was about to become bloody strips.

When his gaze landed on nothing but red sand-again-Fearon let out a frustrated sigh.

"Maybe he is going mad..."

"Shut up," Fearon retorted, sending Lehvahk a searing look of rebuke. Lehvahk took a step back and offered a wide smile of apology. Fearon sighed again. Sheathing one sword and still holding the other, the swordsman ran his free hand through his hair. "I'm not going crazy. At least, I hope I'm not."

The instant he'd let the words out, Fearon wished he could take them back. Takar's mouth was curved into a smirk of victory, while Somra and Brendon shared worried glances. Scout cocked his head to once side and whined mournfully.

Lehvahk shook his head in mock sadness. "Never thought I'd hear you say that."

The leader slumped his shoulders in exasperation. "Look, I'm not going crazy. Disregard anything I said before, okay?"

"We've been out here for a few days at least, four total," Brendon spoke up tentatively. "Maybe, you should, um..."

"Sleep," Somra harshly interjected. "You've been up from dusk till dawn practically every night for the whole course of this chase. It's no wonder you're seeing things."

"N-" Fearon abruptly stopped himself from blurting out another drab excuse. He knew damn well that they were all correct-he hadn't slept three of the four nights the team had been out on the desert, and the one night he had slept had been fragmented by nightmares. The regular occurrence couldn't have found a worse time to rear it's head, as Fearon had spent the rest of the night on the observation deck, with a bottle of whiskey.

He'd hoped to sleep. Instead all he got was a headache, sore muscles, and a throbbing paranoia that the shadow he'd seen in the alley was stalking him.

Fearon grit his teeth. The shadow had been a trick of the light, or just the mind. It had to be. He'd left it behind in the dusty streets of Rithmere. It wasn't fricking here.

All attempts to restructure his calm state were shattered when the shadow flitted across Fearon's vision again.

He snapped. Letting his blood seeking criminal instincts take over, Fearon lunged at it with a bestial roar and clenched fists-and then was bodily tossed into the air, with the cries of his friends resounding through a rush of sediment.

Sand. Multiple obscenities ran through Fearon's brain when it became apparent that the Shifting Sands next and most deadly threat had revealed itself.

The sand itself wasn't deadly-it was the disorientation. The sand buffeted Fearon from every direction. Early on he had curled into a ball, but the world was still spinning far too much-and he had to close his eyes to block out the sand or risk being blinded.

When the motions finally stopped and Fearon made heavy contact with the ground, he found himself staring up into a plain blue sky. The blaring sun caused his vision to speck of white patches, and Fearon squinted and rolled over, shading his face with an arm.

He lay in place for a few more moments, every sense alert, letting his breathing level out. Despite the aching pains and bruises, Fearon slowly eased into a combat crouch and peered at his surroundings.

"Shit."

The quiet curse carried all the venom of a cobra's poisonous teeth. The Strikeflier was nowhere in sight, and the desolate situation was made even worse by the lack of anyone-friend, enemy, or neutral-anywhere in the vicinity. With a sick lurch, Fearon recalled the sickening event earlier. It had effectively made him lose all sense of direction, and now...

he could wander out here for years and never get back. Of course, Fearon knew with grim certainty that he likely wouldn't live nearly that long without water.

The heat would dry him out eventually. Terredons could go without water for a week at the most-but it weakened them near the end, and without eventually finding a source of liquid, they'd still die.

Fearon let every curse he knew as he turned a full circle in place, his feet sending up puffs of red sand. The desert looked the same everywhere-the Shifting Sands cruel masters had gotten him well and truly lost.

The swordsman stopped and stood stock still, trying to regain his focus. He let out a slow exhalation, going over his limited to non existent options.

He didn't have long to sink into despair. A low hum began to grow on the edge of his hearing. The more Fearon thought about it, the more the buzz intensified.

He'd heard the stories talk about that ever persistent hum. It was said to be the Hive's black spire, radiating signals all across the Shifting Sands blood red sweeps. Fearon toyed with the idea of following it. If the renegade they wanted was there, it meant water. And Fearon would rather fight for a chance to live than wander. On the other hand, it could be complete suicide to charge into the Hive.

He didn't get the immediate chance to make the decision. More than that, he didn't have much of a choice then but to fall to one knee. His strength was flagging-the sleepless nights were catching up with him.

On top of that, he stiffened as a voice made it's way to him.

"Now, now. Fearon, don't give up now."

Bristling, Fearon lept to his feet again. He had a sword drawn and at the throat of the being that had-somehow and inexplicably-snuck up on him despite the swordsman's highly attuned senses.

It could always have been possible using the absorbency of the sand when it came to impact, but Fearon should have been able to still sense his presence. The wind had been coming from behind him-the varon teen should have at least scented the bastard.

Yet here he was. Completely unfettered by the sword, not even flinching at the initial drawing and positioning of the blade. The pale blue eyes of the intruder seemed to strip Fearon down layer by layer, and he shivered at the sense that, literally, the guy was peering into his mind. He bared his teeth in a snarl. "What the hell? Who're you, and why sneak up on me?"

The human man shook his head sadly, braided hair swinging. "How sad. You always liked to 'train,' with me when you were small, you know. I always saw such untapped talent in you..." he ran a hand along the edge of Syraphe, fingers a hair's breath away from being cut on the razor sharp edge. "And now you have the twin legends."

Fearon drew his next words out slowly on furious puffs on breath. "What..do..you...want?"

"To test you. Dear old Ream wants to make sure you are ready to face the Hive. To have any chance at completing your goal-and getting out of the depths of the Hive alive-you'll need to master Lightning and Fire. I believe you are close." Ream gave Fearon a wolfsih smile.

Taken aback by a flash of memory, Fearon blinked and took a startled birdstep back. Ream took a much calmer stride forward, taking advantage of the fact that Syraphe was now aimed at the sand below.

Ream. The name had made it to Fearon's subconscious, bringing with it the flashes of him, a seven year old, having play fights with this same man. He wasn't wearing the horned helm in those memories, but every other feature of the human man as the same as the one standing before him.

But by all rights, Ream should have been dead-killed in the ill-fated mission to assist the Atmosians in overthrowing their own tyrannical enemy, in hopes of winning their help to defeat Deltora's own enemy. The Red Wolves swordsman should not be before him.

"You-" Fearon had not felt so flustered in a long time. "But you were dead. Are dead."

Ream's smile held. "oh, I'm not alive. I've been allowed to let my spirit materialize on this plane, to see how you've grown. And as I've said, prepare for the Hive. The king and is companions only glimpsed the barest of it to retrieve the Lapiz lazuli-the true threats lie far below that pyramid of bones and gems. Like I said..."

"I'll need to master that spell," Fearon grated. "Yeah, so you've said. But I'm currently lost, out in the middle of the desert, and to live I need to find my friends and the Strikeflier."

The minute the words were out, Fearon felt his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword. He desperately wanted to do that-leave this vision behind, and find the people that he actually needed right now.

The spirit didn't seem to have heard anything but a few words. His gaze was far away. "The Strikeflier, yes. How's that old bird doing?"

The younger teen narrowed his eyes and felt tempted to growl in frustration. He didn't remember whether Ream had been this scatter-minded in life, but at the moment that mattered less than escaping this crazy illusion. "Whatever. I'm leaving."

Still gripping Syraphe in a death grip, Fearon whipped away from Ream and started to walk. He was only brought up short again when the spirit appeared before him again.

The swordsman took a startled step back and drew both blades. "Move already!"

"No. Fight me. I've momentarily given myself physical form and a pretense of pain." Ream's wolflike grin flashed again. "As per the rule of challenge after Adin's Unification of this nation, if one doesn't get up for three seconds, they lose. Then, I can aid you in returning to your friends."

The offer gave Fearon pause. One part of his mind was stubbornly insisting that this wasn't real, but the hard reality was that Ream wasn't likely to leave unless the varon teen fought. And even if he passed and let the spirit haunt him on the wanderings through the desert, if he had any chance of getting back to the Strikeflier…

He had no real choice. Why not go out fighting? If he won, Fearon could find the airship again and have a chance at living. With no knowledge of stars, his initial assessment of time left to live was starkly correct.

"Fine." The word left a bitter taste behind. "You get what you want, Ream."

"A battle?" the man whopped. "Oh, yes. This'll be fun. Don't deny it-every Deltoran loves to fight."

Ream was annoyingly correct. The archaic excitement of looming battle had already filled Fearon's mind and instincts, flooding his senses with hot exhilaration.

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