Pt 01 Sabriyah 01 Inspection

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Sabriyah is the first part of the Sahvorin series, which I intend to be an anthology surrounding the outland warlord, Garin Sahvorin (pronounced like "sovereign"). I started writing these stories several years ago and finally hope to get them all to completion as soon as possible. All sexually engaged characters are at least 18 years old.

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Chapter 1

Inspection

The group of riders was not a large one; fifteen individuals on horseback clad in dark, layered-silk robes that shielded them from the harsh desert sun. They rode single file; their destination, a high-walled and expansive keep within the barony of Khaffir, one of few fortresses found scattered throughout the kingdom. Though it had borne a few names throughout the dozens of years since its completion, it currently shared its name with the migrant warlord whose forces had occupied it for the past nine lunar cycles: Sahvorin.

He was little known to the nine Sradi tribes beyond a swift friendship with the pan-tribal Caliph, Salekh-Thul, which had garnered him the title of Baron within a matter of weeks. Many attributed this quick acension to the execution of Baron Shahzra, a less than favored glutton found to be in conspiracy with the Phaeccian prince during the previous year, and the necessity of an increased military strength to countermand the threat that such a devious alliance had produced. None questioned Salekh-Thul's wisdom nor motivation. It was no small feat to impress that now legendary figure whom had brought harmony to these ancient rival factions, and whose wisdom had maintained a general peace in the region for nearing two decades. There was no one that commanded more respect among the nine tribes than he. Aside from Shahzra's betrayal, none had opposed his rule during the entirety of his reign thus far.

Thus, was it all the more troubling that he and six of the seven barons of Srad had simultaneously disappeared weeks ago. The Shaath-Geti Oasis, once a bustling encampment of dozens of tents and wooden market stalls, was abandoned. More than one hundred souls vanished without apparent struggle. Only Lord Sahvorin remained, a fact which naturally sewed incredible suspicion amongst the tribes as they soon took notice of the prolonged absence of Salekh-Thul and their respective barons. Old rivalries manifested anew, and new ones began to fester from the growing number of unresolved disagreements.

So it was that this troop had made their journey across this barren land, more than a day's ride from the environs they normally tread. Fifteen horses were brought to a halt one by one upon cresting the rocky bluff, until all had finally laid eyes upon the dark stone towers, protruding as though fingers erupting from the earth. Sahvorin Keep loomed roughly half a league ahead. The forward-most rider studied the walls, approach and barren surroundings for several moments before nudging the white stallion into motion again, two other horsemen followed close behind while the remainder of the caravan dismounted and prepared camp.

None of the three had witnessed its like before now, and all were increasingly impressed, as much as distressed, by its size as they approached. As they neared a massive wooden gate, at least three times as tall as each sat upon their steed and probably room for six or so horses abreast, they estimated the height of the crenellated palisades to be somewhere on the magnitude of at least eight mounted horsemen. Even Ragali, their guide, had never seen the keep so intimidating in the past.

Two figures stepped out of a wooden enclosure aside the gate when they finally neared the imposing structure. Despite the heat, they were cocooned in plated red metal, and though there were hints of engravings, much of them were obscured by loosely wrapped dusty white fabric as defense against the torturous sun. They stood abreast, clutching halberds. The soldier on the left raised a hand to halt the trio.

The two darker horses in the rear paused immediately while the white stallion was slowed and eased to a sidelong stop before the pair of men.

"You stand before the gates of Sahvorin Keep," the guard on the left announced to the saddled figure after dropping his black-gloved hand. "State your name and manner of business here."

A flicker in peripheral vision drew the rider's gaze above the gate. There was a small slot in the wall there, no more than a quarter of a man's height. Several slots, in fact. Behind each of them, a soldier stood with a drawn bow. The rider's eyes lingered upon the murder holes, but answered confidently, despite being in such a compromised position. "My name is Sabriyah vint-Zidanan, daughter of Zidanan Fas'ud, elder of the noble tribe, Yalaya. I have come by request of my father as diplomatic envoy, to speak with your sovereign of current events and matters of allegiance." Her voice was husky and dry. Had she not expressly stated her gender, it would have been hard to determine the fact by her voice alone.

"You are expected, Lady Zidanan," the guard responded, erroneously. "You are required to dismount and remove any weapons you may carry, then you, alone, will be escorted to Lord Sahvorin in the audience hall."

"That is not acceptable," one of the accompanying riders interjected. The second grunted agreement, but they grudgingly fell silent when her flat right hand swept twice at the air above her shoulder. While it was not customary to be without escort, she felt confident that the Baron's current status of distrust among the nine tribes would ensure the safety of their diplomats. Her father had informed her that such a requirement may be a likelihood, given current tensions, but he had been well-assured of her safety. If naught else, should ill actually befall her here, the Baron would serve only to cultivate the wrath of the tribes into a unified aggression.

Sabriyah dismounted the beast with graceful ease, unclasped her sword belt and a second, laden with several small knives, and slung both over the horn of her saddle. When she stepped forward the guardsman nodded approval and jammed the butt of his halberd onto the hard-packed sand.

"Follow me, and do not stray," he said. With a practiced grace of his own, he spun on a heel. The left-hand half of the gate popped and groaned as it began to swing forward with a mild creak, its giant rolling hinge mechanism only apparent as the portal widened. Four more guards waited just inside, one of which strode to cover the vacated position.

Sabriyah's robes swirled in the seared breeze as she fell in step behind him, the heavier fabrics scraping the hardpan with each stride. As she passed through the open portal and was surrounded by her four new escorts, she briefly worried of the accuracy of her assessment. The dreadful thought was shoved away, however. Having performed these very duties over the past few years had honed her instincts and perception to a point where she was rarely off mark. She was not about to second-guess herself now.

The gate creaked again when it reversed direction while the five of them strode along a lengthy, inclined cobbled path toward the central--and largest, by far--structure within the fortification. Between the gate and this structure, several variously sized buildings lined the road, which, itself, branched at several points in perpendicular directions. They strode past a fence with a few large and strange white and brown birds with red hats and beards pecking aimlessly at the ground, entirely unconcerned with the passersby, while emitting ceaseless grunting noises.

Though there were several soldiers posted or milling about atop the walls, where awnings were plentiful shelters from exposure; however, few were seen around the buildings she traversed. Nearly everyone she saw was armored. Most carried swords, though some more personalized weaponry. There were no women, nor children to be found; slaves or otherwise. She wondered if there were none, or if they had been stashed away in case of attack. Surely, some of these men had families, but if so, they were not in the open.

It took longer than she imagined to finally reach the large, heavy wooden doors of the Baron's estate. It was shaded by a crimson-colored awning that matched the armor of the soldiers. The building was more rounded than it had appeared from a distance, with large, multi-colored windows offering no glimpse of what lie within. The entourage had breathed no word the entire trek, which remained the case as the leading guard shoved through the door on the right and two of those behind her broke off to take up position on either side of the entrance beneath the awning.

When she stepped into the foyer, Sabriyah was struck by what her eyes beheld. The chamber was large, with a vaulted ceiling where hung a chandelier of gold bearing dozens of candles that supplied most of the light, since the four ground-level, and two high-stationed, windows were multi-colored murals that stifled much of the daylight. She could not begin to imagine the difficulty in replacing the candles. Two hulking stone staircases hugged the room from either side, curling inward to converge on the second-floor landing, and framed by carved wooden banisters that merged to point at a pair of carved oak doors where stood a single guard. Tapestries were hung at regular intervals--some intact and some charred or slashed. One of these was barely more than a single word: "Sahv-Ribhor." She did not recognize the script and wondered absently what it meant. A few non-native leafy plants were scattered, thriving, despite the harsh environs, which provided a subtle mix of pleasant fragrances. The furniture was of exquisite quality, appearing to be local fare, with vibrant fabrics and lush to the point of exceeding comfort. The diplomat had encountered similar pieces on only a couple of occasions, during visits to Shaath-Geti. Everything in this room, besides the tapestries had been well-maintained and provided a welcoming vibe.

She had slowed, awed by the spectacle, and had not noticed the escort had not stalled in the least. She was jarred by a nudge forward from the remaining guard behind her. The creak of an opening door opposite her directed her attention from the disapproving gaze of the chaperone.

"My apologies," she said, though without actual remorse. She resumed her prior pace toward the doors where he and the remaining soldier were taking up positions to either side. Just above that door, similar script to the tapestry spelled out 'Sahvorin.'

Sabriyah stepped into an expansive empty chamber beyond, the whole of which rested upon a plain stone floor with a dais elevated by a quartet of steep stone steps at its terminus. A heavy, ornately carved, whitewood throne highlighted by crimson cloth sat upon it, and upon that throne sat the single largest man upon whom she had ever laid eyes. Even at this distance, his unusual stature was apparent as he easily dwarfed the room's only other occupant, standing just in front and to the right of him. The short-haired brunette wearing leather breeches and boots (and naught else) was the only female the diplomat had observed since her arrival. She was soaked in sweat, her face cast at her lord's feet, and her modestly-sized breasts with oblong puffy nipples heaved from some prior exertion.

She, having only verbally encountered the name as yet, assumed the man associated with the name "Sovereign" to be a weaselly, pompous figurehead of a lord. Instead, the man on the throne was a thick mass of chiseled muscle. Like the female, he was gripped by leather from the waist down, his chest bare and primed with a similar sheen of sweat that plastered the moderate circle of thick body hair to his pectoral muscles. As Sabriyah approached, she could identify a number of harsh scars scattered across his visible skin, but the almost boyish face beneath the thick black hair would have been pristine if not for a single thin, horizontal scar across his left cheek. The glow of sweat hung upon him, though his breathing was not labored as was that of the female. His posture was lazy within the confines of the chair that seemed nearly small for his frame, and the expression he wore was blank, as if bored, with his head propped as it was on a fist.

With his unoccupied hand, Lord Sahvorin waved a dismissal to the half-naked woman before him. There was a hum of words Sabriyah could discern that accompanied the gesture, and the woman thumped a fist to her chest and exclaimed, "my lord," before exiting through a small door behind the throne. Upon the floor where she had stood, a discarded shirt and chainmail had been abandoned.

Considering she had only seen soldiers since her arrival, Sabriyah had paid the attractive woman more than a passing attention. She found the final exchange to be markedly odd. The initial guess was that of slave, based on similar scenarios witnessed hundreds of times throughout her life. However, she now pondered why a slave would have dressed and responded as a soldier. Was the warlord bolstering his troops with--or providing the appearance of a larger force, by disguising--slaves? In either case, considering Salekh-Thul's disappearance, that would be, perhaps, a laudable deceit to dissuade the ever-hungry eye of the neighboring Principalities... or more current domestic threats.

As the visiting dignitary closed the final few steps, the Baron righted himself upon the throne. His lips drew tight, his tongue looped between them, and a sharp, short whistle pierced the chamber. Sabriyah was momentarily startled, and then again, when the doors she had entered sealed with a minor boom behind her. She found herself alone with this enormous stranger, with the weight of his piercing sky-blue stare upon her. She hid her discomfort well, though, determined not to faulter, and the baron leaned forward against his knees, fingers entwined while statuesque musculature rippled in a mesmerizing wave beneath his tanned skin.

She stepped forward to the edge of the dais and applied a short, respectful bow. "Lord Sahvorin, I am Sabriyah vint-Zidanan, daughter of Zidanan Fas'ud, elder of the ancient noble tribe Yalaya. I believe you have received word of my arrival." She stood tall again, her gaze upon his face, overcoming a small desire to be diverted to the architecture of his body on display.

"I have," he stated evenly. His voice was not as boyish as his appearance. It was not overly deep, but evoked the nobility he was accredited. "And I am eager to hear what you have to discuss. But first," a single finger rose amongst the entwined, "there have been two attempts on my life within the past lunar cycle since the disappearance of Salekh-Thul, so I must insist upon seeing to whom I speak, and make assurances you hide no weaponry. I'm sure you can understand my caution."

"Of course." She would not have thought one of the tribes would make a move so soon. Though, the intended assassins could also have been Phaeccian. This revelation could serve to clear up fireside rumors. "Who was it that attacked you?"

"I cannot be sure. They did not survive long enough to identify themselves." He nodded toward her and steepled thick fingers. "Please, disrobe."

She nodded, unfazed by the request. "I understand the need to eschew a custom or two under the circumstances."

Since the complex wrap of covering robes usually involved two attendants, the removal of the garment was slow and haphazard. As the dignitary progressed, her slimmer frame became evident. A shirt of chainmail for protection was left atop one of purple linen, while black silk shrouded her legs and leather sandals left her small feet almost entirely exposed. A moment's hesitation followed, but she voluntarily unwrapped the layers upon her head. Black silken hair teased the shirt upon her shoulders and framed an olive-skinned beauty with a delicate nose and bold brown eyes while the remainder of her face maintained its mystery somewhat behind a translucent purple veil. The heap of fabric was draped carefully over an arm. "Does this more ease your concerns, my lord?"

His silence endured until she had finished, his gaze transfixed on her dark eyes. A brow arched in response to her question. "My apologies, I will need to see more."

For a split second she was at a loss. "More, Lord Sahvorin? My coverings have been removed as requested."

Perhaps

, she thought,

the veil is a custom this foreigner may find rooted in deception

. She smiled behind the veil, relaying it through her eyes; attempting both, to disarm, and reassure herself that the alternative nightmare she now envisioned was a completely unwarranted concern.

"Mm." The baron nodded knowingly, and he straightened on the throne. "My apologies, Ambassador, you could not know context not yet provided to you," he spoke casually. "In my homeland, the term 'disrobe' is understood to include all clothing. As I stated, I must ensure you carry no weaponry of any sort, including poisonous darts or small knives." There was no suggestion of lust in his demeanor, nor revelry in the struggle through which she yet maintained composure. "So, please. Disrobe."

"Ah, I see. Yes, I misunderstood." Surely, he knew she would not comply with such a request. Perhaps he was not truly interested in negotiating after all or refused to negotiate with a female and this was all a means to protect his position. She had dealt with such prideful males before in the few years she had attended these duties. It was often sufficient to deflect improper requests with an appropriate replacement to be subsequently sent in her stead. This particular scenario, however, had never been encountered since she was usually accompanied at least by a personal detachment of guards. Sabriyah was now acutely aware of the necessity of that measure, and would refuse to forego it in the future. She bowed again, just as respectfully as before, her words measured. "You have my sincere apologies for wasting your time, my lord. I will return to my tribe and suggest a male return in my place with haste. And a slave, perhaps, if you so desire."

"That will not be necessary." The brow had dropped, and his even stare remained. The baron leaned forward again even as the ambassador straightened, his expression still passive. "Time is limited. You are here. We will speak, but first you will undress." The voice was softer, almost haunting in its lack of emotion.

Sabriyah visibly stiffened. Had she wrongly assumed her safety, or Sahvorin's interest in preventing tribal unity against him?

Did my seclusion convince him that his actions were inconsequential? Or has he truly reached this paranoia honestly? Is this a means to start negotiations in his favor?

He seemed entirely too disassociated for any to be true. Her eyes remained fixed on his face, constantly analyzing his expression while her own remained blank.

"Since the disappearance of Salekh-Thul," the baron continued before she could respond, "there are numerous factions that would claim dominance here; most relevant to you, the Fhalad Datu'ul. You have come to plead my favor, because without the defense of the sole remaining baron, your father fears for the survival of your tribe since your ancestral pact with Zimyeh-Tan expired during the Long Peace. They are now allied with Fhalad Datu'ul. Or am I mistaken?"

It seemed that Sabriyah had made a fatal assumption in expecting the new and reclusive baron to be uninformed about tribal matters. Despite her father's professed attempt to be cryptic with the Baron in exchanged missives, this beast had become aware of the plight of the Yalayi.

Is he already in league with the Fhalad Datu'ul then? Or perhaps he learned from the Zimyeh-Tan.

She bit her lip beneath the sheer veil and dug nails into her palms to keep herself from trembling, but her heart had begun racing more quickly than her thoughts.