FROM CHAPTER THREE: BONES OF THE DESERT

And out of the black dust came the white figures in rusted mail, wielding rusty swords, the inferior dogs who had sliced me to ribbons once, and had killed a strong horse. I pressed eagerly into the fray and found my place, chopping skulls from their necks. And this thing startled me, now that I could see them more clearly-- for from these long dead bones blood poured and horrific screams came.

Now I flung myself into the fray like a mad beast, hacking and smashing old bones, splattering the sands with eerie blood that could not be. I only dimly retained any surprise, for my joy in shedding blood welled great and I broke their lines to charge deep into the darkness of the sandstorm to rend and hew. I found them in the dark, howling void with uncanny accuracy, for I had become drawn to them, drawn to the chance to strike deeply into their forces. Several apes and pigmies whooped in joy and followed me into the storm. We spoiled their rusted blades and toppled their unholy bodies. Now, for the first time in many, long days, I was poured with sweat, and stung from the sand in my eyes. And there came crude cuts to me from desperate enemies. Now it was different, for I was not lost, and I knew there was shelter behind me, and a remedy for every injury but death itself.

Still the press came not so easy as to disappoint me. My enemies still walked invisible in the depth of the storm, and I soon learned that the skeletons that had been destroyed had the uncanny power to reassemble themselves and live again!

So I understood that we would never completely eradicate our enemies and that our task would ever be to hold them off for as long as the storm continued to bring unholy life to their forms. Indeed, I saw one of my brothers die, while unwary of a foe who had resurrected behind him. There was no telling when one of the fiends might get the upper hand, and so I danced the dance of peril, as I stood my ground there. And the battle pressed on for a long time, in such a queer way that I felt uncertain weather it would ever end. Would there come a day when the storm would not abate, and the enemy attack until they had finished us? Had that time come now? My only answer came by looking at my brothers, falling back where the sands blew quietly enough for me to see them. Glancing at their hard expressions assured me that this was nothing they had not done already, countless times before. And so I pressed on, alive with the satisfaction of knowing toil and weariness again. Fatigue crept into my body. I stayed further back from the storm now, so I would not get carelessly thrown off guard and killed by accident. I beheld my companions were all caked with blood, both their own and the mysterious vampire blood of the bones of the desert, all of it thick with sand. I beheld one of the troglodytes, with his exposed ribs gleaming white, as he bashed skeletons with a hammer. Here and there I saw the forms of my brothers, collapsed and unable to fight any longer, or perhaps even dead. The strength of our enemies lie in their persistence, and I saw now that this would eventually be a deadly advantage, and that in spite of our great eagerness for the sport of war, they were a real threat to our garden of plenty.

The skulls of our enemies now seemed to glower with an unbound hatred and a sinister confidence. I felt the chill of horror as I looked at them, not for my personal safety, but for something else. For I felt certain that one day the evil ones would win, and no defeat could ever be so bitter as this; my beautiful May, my books, my pool of lilies, my wine and laughter, my garden... all of it. I could not escape the feeling that the evil, black eye sockets held grim satisfaction, knowing they would one day win.