The desert was a sweltering glare.  Sunlight bore down on the eight wayward travelers with a fiery fist, draining spirits, sapping vitality.  The travellers were draped in the flowing white garments typically worn by desert dwellers.  Head scarves were wrapped around their heads, covering their faces, obscuring all but their eyes.  The largest figure in the group led the way, his purpose driven gait defying the environment.  His companions navigated this sea of sand with greater difficulty.  Even the four Medeenites who were products of this land, had trouble matching the ease with which the heavily muscled stranger from the Land of the Blacks cut a path through mounds of drifting sand like a fish through water.

"Slow down, Imaro,"  Rashad pleaded as he clambered up a particularly sleep slope in the wake of the Illyassai's effortless ascent.  Rashad Ebn Asola, was a renowned scholar of history and philosophy at Sancor University in the famed city of Buktuma.  Most of his years up to this point were spent enjoying the comforts of his profession.  He lectured, debated, did research and wrote numerous books and treatises.  Hardly sufficient preparation for the toil and rigors of desert trekking.  Jahim and Malikk, were soldiers assigned by the king of Buktuma to accompany the scholar on his journey.  Captain Uday, Hajad, Mahoud and Ajil were also soldiers.  They served the Amir of Medeen.  They too were tasked with accompanying the scholar and ensuring that what they came into the desert to retrieve made it safely into the hands of those who paid hefty fortunes to fund this expedition.   

The man called Imaro served no master.  The service he provided to both the king of Buktumu and the amir of Medeen was voluntary.  For the two monarchs, the extra cost of securing the services of this vaunted warrior was a considerable burden on their coffers.  It was a cost they were most eager to pay. 

Imaro reached the top of the slope.  A section of scarf covering his face slipped down to his chin, revealing a strongly sculpted face, heavily featured with obsidian eyes that blazed like emeralds.  He looked ahead, holding a hand to his forehead to shield his gaze from the sun.  There they were in the distance. Obelisks and pyramids, comprising a city as ancient as the sands beneath Imaro's feet.  It was a city of ruins now.  Stone structures, their original coloring stripped to their alabaster foundation by centuries of sand blasting, lorded it over an expanse of dry desolation.

Rashad shuffled beside the IIlyassai, his breathing labored, perspiration layering his dark brown face like a coating of wax.  When the scholar laid eyes upon the ruins, his physical discomfort was all but forgotten.  His stress-ridden grimace transitioned to wide eyed awe at the sight.  "We did it, Imaro!"  The scholar let out a delighted yelp.  "The lost city of Petroth, at last. Soon, the dagger and the tablets will be in our possession!"

The Medeenite and Buktuman soldiers gathered at the top of the slope, taking the opportunity to catch their breaths as they stared at the ruins. 

Imaro drew out a sigh of relief that the others did not detect. It had been an arduous journey.  Well worth it if the dagger and tablets were indeed located in this gods forsaken corner of existence.  No matter how well paid, Imaro would have hated to have returned from these ruins empty-handed.  An unease suddenly befell Imaro like the caress of a frigid breeze.  He regarded the ruins anew, as if a filter had been removed from his perception revealing an ancient city that was not as unthreatening as it appeared.  Something was lurking in those stones, something unpleasant, malign.  Imaro had learned not to discount the whisper of warning that alerted him to danger.  It was a whisper that had served him well growing up in the plains of his Illyassai homeland.  It had served him just as well since his departure. 

“Imaro, what is wrong?”  Rashad asked, prompted by the uncertainty on the big warrior’s face.  If there was one thing Imaro had displayed to his companions, it was an almost arrogant absence of uncertainty.  

Imaro took a few seconds to pan the old city, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was sparking his upsurge of caution.  Finally, he turned partially to the scholar, though his eyes never averted from the ruins.  “Nothing,”  he lied.  Imaro moved on.  His right hand rested on the pommel of his saber, absorbing the reassurance of unyielding steel.

The others followed the Illyassai.