May 25th, 761, 6:42 PM; Day 69 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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All night and most of the next day you fled Phiraz, moving as quickly as you could across the flat, rock-strewn desert. The fear of pursuing Confessors kept you moving night and day, stopping only to feed the camels and yourselves, and dozing in the saddle. No one wanted to meet a group of pursuing Confessors, and it was assured that by now the tied-up gate guards would have been discovered, sending a bright, crimson flag as to the route the Expedition took.
If the south-east of Pharazia was a miserable desert, then western Pharazia was worse. When one thought of deserts, the image that came up was one of sand dunes, camels, and oases. Western Pharazia had none of that, except possibly the camels.
Rather, it had rocks. Flat stone was covered by thin layers of sand, and cliffs and rock-outcroppings abounded. Nothing grew, and were it not for the occasional lizard sunning itself on a rock as you cantered past, you'd imagine there was no life at all in this desert. Still it occured to you that even the term 'desert' didn't quite do justice to this border region.
It was a wasteland.
The fact that you were entering the Amber Wastes as it plowed directly into summer didn't make things much better, so by the time you reached the Sebuan border, there wasn't a one of you not longing for the comforts of Dementlieu, or Lamordia, or Sri Raji. Still, once over the border, there was a hope that at least then you could slow down, for even Confessors were not terribly keen on heading out into that trackless wilderness. Or so, at least, was the idea.
"What, exactly, is that?" Maleagant reined in his mount, pointing forward.
Off on the horizon, a brownish-yellow wall seemed to stretch along it, as far as you could see. High into the sky, the brownish cloud rose, and even from the distance of many miles you could see the great wall undulate and shift in the wind.
"I have no idea." Michel said, accurately but not terribly helpfully. "A sandstorm, I think. A big one."
"It is the God-Storm, Effendi." Fassahd al-Muharin ventured softly, his voice hushed and respectful but also a trifle cool. "The grandfather of all sandstorms, the terror of the wastes. When it is awakened, there is no passage through it, for it scours the flesh from the bones."
"Thank you Fassahd, that was very helpful." Maleagant muttered acidly. The nervous Akiri bowed his head and fell to the back of the caravan. "Well, now what?"
And then it occurred to you that there was something odd in the giant sandstorm before you. Not only was it not moving, but there was not one, but two giant sandstorms. A thin wedge of blue sky cleaved the God-Storm in half, off to the north a bit. It might have been some kind of optical illusion, but it seemed that there was, in fact, a passsage through Fassahd's great storm.
