The watchmen had AK-47s. Serious stuff. I was weaponless, other than a curved jambiya I’d found among the bleached-white bones of a forgotten trader. I found these remains one night while pitching my tent and prudently kept the discovery a secret. Now, I wore the traditional curved short blade at my hip, under my belt. Still, I felt naked. I itched for my government-issue Walther. Then again, I often spent time in the field. As such, I rarely carried my weapon with me. Granted, my fieldwork often consisted of returning prisoners to their home countries, not dogs to their rightful owners. If there even was one. It was our third week in the desert. The caravan was well-stocked and should, baring incidents, find its way even to Timbuktu without much problem. Yes, there is a Timbuktu, and I’d been there, though it’s not quite as enchanting as it might sound. However, an attack that left us without supplies could be the death of us all, and it would barely take a day or two for the entire caravan to not look much different than the bleached bones I’d found a few days ago.
What do You think about Dark Rain: 15 Short Tales?
