A Dangerous Game of Football: |
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The camel, its flanks heaving with exhaustion, trotted on to the high plateau, the long race at breakneck speed over sand and rock, finally at an end. Helplessly, its rider peered out across the plain towards the high walls of the palace, clearly visible against the setting sun. His hands were clenched into a knot of anger, as sounds of battle wafted towards him on the evening breeze, and fear, like a black cloud, drifted high into the sky.
Below him, on the pass, lay bodies. Men who had lost their lives protecting the narrow way through the mountains to the plain below – slain by treachery. He knew, without looking, that within the palace walls the same scene was being played out. He was too late, he had failed. The palace was gone and with it the only friends he had in the world.
The sun vanished over the horizon, allowing the calm darkness of the night sky to cover the evil before them.
'Arise beast,' he called softly in Arabic and, within seconds, the shadowy outline of a camel stood beside him. Silently it watched as the fires of battle burned themselves out. Then it spoke.
'The Gods have deserted us, Master. Evil has won the day.'
The rider raised his eyes to the sky; deep-set eyes, hidden away from view under the hood of his cloak, eyes which burned with light. He looked far into the distance, as if he were seeing through the darkness into another world.
'There is nothing to be done for now, beast. But one day a boy will come and then we shall see.
