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The sun blazed down upon the Aegyptian desert, shimmering reflections distorted all features on the rolling dunes. Many of these images were pure mirage but not the largest with its blue waters,bright pastel flags, and squat rectangular buildings made of hardened mud and stone; the town of Babrezza was very real. A young Otterman rested on his elbows atop the town’s outermost Watchtower and gazed out at the endless rolling sea of sand. The desert, with its vast reaches, was a great ally, protecting the subjects of the Sultan from the Elves. This desert was also the curse of Aegypt; it took forever to traverse. How young Habib longed to travel and to defend his homeland at the same time but not as the Janissaries did, trudging for days, but to fly and arrive in hours. It was this dream that had led the short whiskered Habib to the Watchtower. From this vantage point he could see for miles, for the approach of the flying warriors that had long fascinated him. He could see them nearing the town, descending from the sky to a point where the folds of their magnificent enchanted carpets were mere feet from the ground. In a burst of speed they flashed above him, looking straight ahead. They sat with legs crossed and arms folded or stood armed with bow and spear, going on to land at their mustering point in one of the town squares. Habib yelped in delight and rushed to the Tower’s stairs. He was decided; his grandfather’s carpet that had carried the ancient Otter in the service of the mighty Sultan Sulieman would now be employed against the invaders. The young Habib was going to ask his mother for permission to learn to fly! Running fast the youth dodged in and out of the thronging crowds, that grew steadily thicker as Habib left the poor outermost district of the town, with its small houses, and entered the grand centre of Babrezza. The buildings here were made of stone, smooth and placed in high walls of perfect blocks. He ran on past the Minaret that stood imposingly on the corner before his house.
The stately dome of the Mosque laid a large shadow from its blue and white surface, giving Habib some shade as he flitted under the archway that marked the entrance to his home. He hoped that his mother would grant him his wish. Arms folded across the mass of her chest and holding her youngest pup tightly to her, Habib’s mother finally nodded her head in agreement. It had taken hours and many tears for her to agree to allow her favourite son to join the war. The responsibility was hers alone as the boy’s father had been away with Habib’s brothers for many seasons hunting the Elves.
Habib thanked her and ran from their airy hallway where they had stood since his arrival. Later, after proving his respected ancestry to the commander of the Storm Riders, he had been told to bring himself and his Grandfather’s enchanted carpet and report for training the next day before the Unit left to join the rest of the Sultan’s Army. On his return Habib found that his family had gathered to celebrate his chance for glory. The dancing and games lasted long into the night leaving little time for preparation for his departure. In fact the young warrior slept long in the morning and was only awakened by the amplified mews of mid morning prayer from the bustling mosques. Panicking, Habib threw on his robes and rushed to the room where his grandfather’s carpet lay rolled, ready to be taken. Almost knocking one of the household servants to the floor he left the room and the house and made his way to the mustering ground and his teaching for war. Many young Otters had gathered to watch the Storm Riders form up and depart with its new additions. Many were envious that they were not among the chosen few that would continue the struggle against the invaders. As the carpet carrying youths pushed to the front they were ushered into a low marquee to meet Zerima-dum the leader of the Storm Riders. Greeting the recruits he waved his arm and bade them sit cross-legged on the ground. Zerima-dum settled himself and looked directly at Habib and slowly twisted his long whiskers. ‘You have been chosen to join the Storm Riders and beat the Elves from our land. The carpets that you will use are enchanted and deserve respect from you and others.’ ‘Hear me: there will be no misunderstanding. Your task will be long and hard in the undertaking but you shall be victorious. Your training is to begin with a flight to join the rest of the Grand Army’ With that statement Zerima-dum uncoiled himself and rose straight. He strode out into the sun making signs for the rest to follow. Pointing to the wide-open square where the rest of the Othari were already upon their carpets and rising lazily to float a few feet from the paved surface of the square. ‘Climb aboard and join with your brothers in the air.’ The flyers looked on expectantly as the young Otters unrolled their own carpets and sat upon them in the proper positions. Zerima-dum smiled thinly so that they would not notice. He was proud that these young warriors already seemed versed in the basics of flight. It would not take long for then to begin dispatching the hated Elves. Once all were ready Zerima-dum spoke the command to soar upwards and one by one the learners joined the seasoned fighters above the surrounding crowd. All but one of the carpets had risen from the ground. Habib began to panic as he tried to repeat the command to rise over and over again. His carpet could not even manage a stirring. The crowd began to laugh as it became plain that Habib was not going to be able to lift from the ground. The laughs became louder as the commander landed and walked to him, placing his hand on the almost sobbing boy he shook his head. ‘Perhaps you are not ready to join us.’ Zerima-dum was about to usher the youth from his place on the carpet when a large woman brushed a section of the near hysterical crowd aside and rushed to Habib’s side. The crowd pointed and jeered at Habib’s mother but she ignored them. ‘A woman is not allowed to be here, remove yourself from this place’, roared Zerima-dum drawing himself to his full height, fur bristling with anger. He made to remove Habib’s mother. As he attempted to place his hands on the woman she, with little effort, threw him onto his back and walked on to stop by her son’s side. ‘Mother what are you doing here?’ Habib stared in disbelief through tear filled eyes; it was all over. He would never live this moment down. ‘You are a silly boy, my son’. ‘You left in such a hurry this morning I never got a chance to say farewell’. He blinked and wondered how to tell her that not only had her actions ruined the Commander’s opinion of him, but that he obviously had no talent for flight and would have to return to his home in shame. As if reading his mind Habib’s mother turned on Zerima-dum as he rose flustered from the paving. ‘You will let my boy join you and do not think otherwise!’ Before the Commander could argue she continued. ‘Do not think that he has no skill with his Grandfathers carpet, he is better than all here. What happened just now was not his fault’. ‘But he cannot even raise himself from the ground. He will never make one who soars’. ‘Do not be so dim-witted’. Habib’s mother retorted. She reached into the vast folds of her robes and produced a tightly rolled carpet. Flipping Habib from where he sat she rolled his carpet up and made it vanish into her robes. ‘This is your grandfather’s enchanted carpet. You left with his bedside rug this morning.’ The enchanted carpet unrolled and Habib perched upon it. Then floating easily, Habib asked the commander if it was possible for him to still join with the others. Before Zerima-dum could object he was fixed with the cold gaze and the intimidating stance of a woman not used to being over ruled. ‘Of course you can join, with a mother like that I dare not refuse’. Shortly afterwards the Storm Riders and their new recruits reared skyward as one. The rapidly vanishing figure of a proud mother behind them. The Elves would regret coming to Aegypt. Their blood would flow. Webmaster's Notes The above story was first published in the Winter 2002 edition of Alternative Armies' miniatures newsletter, Rank and Style. |
