Seeing the skirmish drag into a costly stalemate, Malik ibn Zayd al-Hamdani cursed under his breath.
He was a merchant by trade, a man of coin rather than blood, hauling exotic slaves and goods from Alexandria to Jerusalem. When his caravan first stumbled upon the two strangers, he had thought himself blessed by fortune.
Two foreign infidels mean profit. Under law and faith alike, such men could be taken, bound, and sold. And these two were not the usual half-starved captives dragged from Nubia or the hills. No, these ones were tall, broad-shouldered, and most importantly, humr, and armed with weapons and armor unlike anything he had ever seen.
To Malik's greedy eyes, they were not men. They were walking, breathing treasure troves.
Malik did not regret ordering the attack. He regretted his lack of preparation. Six of his best men were down, not dead, but broken, their hands clutching faces or necks, screaming in pain. That bloody infidel's whip targeted only the soft, exposed flesh.
His gorge rose. He spurred his horse forward a few paces, his voice tearing across the sand like ripped silk.
"You cowardly infidel!" he roared at Aurelian. "Fight like men! Where is your honor? Where is your bravery, using such a weapon? You insult the very nature of battle! Next time, I shall have archers, and we will drown you and your metal in arrows!"
Gabriel was engaged with three men at once, not paying the fat merchant any heed. His performance was already very hindered; his gear wasn't suited to such an environment. He was losing his footing in the sand, and the sun was burning him inside his armor.
While Aurelian was locked in, not allowing himself to be distracted, he was busy keeping anyone from flanking Gabriel and also looking for an opening to latch his whip on someone.
The merchant's men were already disheartened, and their nerves were taut. Not only were they forced to fight while listening to the screams of their companions, but the whip kept flying through the air. The second they stopped moving, they would share their companions' fate.
Seeing their hesitation, Aurelian changed his rhythm. No longer content to just hold the line, he cracked his whip again and again, the sound sharp as thunder, the barbs lashing at sand and flesh alike. The enemy stumbled back, shielding their faces, which gave Gabriel the opening he needed to cut the men besieging him down.
But that moment of fear turned to desperation. Cornered and furious, the remaining guards let out a hoarse cry and charged, not at Gabriel, but at Aurelian, who stood exposed, his whip stretched behind them.
Aurelian seeing this, pulled hard on the whip, snapping back with a wet hiss, tearing into the backs of the enemies in the back; he let it fall to the sand. With a smooth motion, he drew his short sword.
Then he sprinted. This was the desert, and he was wearing the lightest armor among them. Why in God's name would he stand and fight thirteen men head-on? Confidence in his armor was one thing, but testing it against all of them with good steel swords was another. He wasn't that stupid.
"YOU COWARD! SON OF A DOG! FIGHT LIKE A MAN!" The fat merchant's voice cracked through the heat, enraged that the infidel chose to run rather than die properly!.
Gabriel stood there, panting, too tired to even think of helping. His armor felt like a forge, his lungs were burning, and his sword was heavy in his hands.
Aurelian ran in wide circles, sand kicking up behind him, eight men in pursuit. He ran until he reached the spot where he had dropped his whip. When he snatched it up and cracked it once through the air, the sound split the silence like thunder. The men chasing him broke instantly, panic on their faces as they turned and fled.
Watching them scatter, Aurelian and Gabriel exchanged a glance. Then, without a word, they turned toward their real prize: the merchant. And a merchant, by definition, meant money!.
Malik watched his men scatter, men he had known for years, and felt his heart drop into the abyss. His caravan, his goods, his slaves, how was he supposed to protect any of it now?
He saw the way the two strangers were looking at him and made his decision. Goods could be replaced. Life could not. With a curse, he spurred his horse and fled, sand spraying beneath the hooves.
Aurelian and Gabriel didn't bother chasing him. They had no interest in the merchant himself, only in what he left behind. The desert had one mercy: it was open, flat, and honest. You could see everything from miles away.
The caravan wasn't hard to find. Dozens of camels, tethered and restless, their bells clinking faintly in the heat. The slaves, seeing the armored figures approach, shrank back in fear, some tugging uselessly at their chains. The animals, unlike their masters, couldn't care less. They simply chewed and waited.
They ignored the terrified slaves and the restless camels, heading straight for the wagons stacked with goods and iron-bound chests.
Standing before the first chest, Aurelian and Gabriel exchanged a long look, one that said everything without words.
Then they opened them.
Silver coins spilled out like water. Silver jewelry gleamed in the harsh sun, and one chest, bigger and heavier than the rest, was filled to the brim with gold.
For a moment, there was only silence. The wind, the sand, the distant groan of a camel.
Then the desert exploded with sound.
"AHHHHHHHHH, WE DID IT! WE STRUCK GOLD!"
"WE JUST SPAWNED, AND WE ALREADY STRUCK GOLD! LET'S GO!"
"Quick, convert it to credits so we can get the hell out of here!"
A faint tone echoed.
[Error: Currency conversion is only allowed in neutral cities.]
"Fuuuuuuuuuck!"
NOTES AND FUN FACTS:
"Humer" is the plural for "ahmer," which literally means "red" in Arabic. In the context of complexion, it referred to a "ruddy" or "pale/pinkish" skin tone, which was distinct from the typical olive or darker complexions prevalent among the native Arab populations of the Arabian Peninsula.