Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #18 September 2015 | Page 40

could see nothing out the window but swirling dust.

More times that Arthur could remember, Tarik
talked their way into or out of the metal barns where
the weapons were stored, often showing a wad of
parchment to the men standing guard on the door. Several times, they’d been threatened with long devices
Grace called guns and twice they came under direct
fire.

“Normal for this time of year,” Grace assured
Arthur, but he was so relieved to be on solid ground
that he’d have tolerated a dozen dust storms.
He trudged behind her though the small terminal, their bags hanging heavily from each of his burly
shoulders. She seemed to be looking for someone,
continually stopping in front of him to rise up on her
toes and whip her face from side to side before hustling on.

Most nights, no matter where they rested,
Arthur fell asleep to the sound of distant bangs and
flashes of light that Grace refused to explain.

The fourth time he almost walked into her,
Grace let out a cry and rushed forward though the
crowds to a tall man wearing a green and brown uniform, the word ‘Madur’ sewn across one side of his
chest.

And then, a month after they stepped off the
dusty plain, they reached the last of the sword barns,
according to the large parchment containing what
Tarik said was a map. The piece of parchment was
large, filling the car’s windscreen and scribbled across
in multiple places in red pen. One by one, Grace and
Tarik had crossed out locations in black pen, which
always gave Arthur the shivers. Black was the colour
of darkness and demons, and Grace had had to assure
him that it was only ink and not a portent.

“Tarik Madur, this is Arthur… er, Arthur King.
Arthur, Tarik is an old friend of my father’s. They
worked together a decade ago, but Tarik’s offered to
help us.”
Tarik nodded, unsmiling but not unwelcoming
and held out his hand.

Tarik swung the car through the last set of
gates, calling out through the window in a rapid language Arthur didn’t understand. He produced the wad
of documents as Grace and Arthur slipped out of the
car and headed for the last metal barn.

Drilled in the protocol of the future, Arthur
smiled politely, shook Tarik’s hand and stepped back,
letting Grace speak for them both. There would be
nothing more telling than opening his mouth and it
was easier not to have to explain where he came from.
The gods only knew what Grace had told Tarik, but
apparently, it was enough, as Tarik led them out of the
airport to a dusty car the colour of his uniform and
drove them into the eye of the dust storm.

“Run!”

A bang filled the air and Grace called out,

A cry of pain, and Arthur looked back long
enough to see Tarik slump against the car