Swords and Sand is a piece of fiction for Sundara from Merchants of Sundara.

Thick fog filled the streets of Ghostborough, turning the entire district into something out of a dark dream. It eddied and swirled around those who moved through it, reaching for them with phantom fingers, and leaving wet tracks along their cheeks like tears. The very air was heavy, as if a storm was coming, but it was just the remnants of the city’s bad air, blown down around the gutters. Most who had to be out on the streets wore cloths over their faces, ensuring they breathed as little of the steam as possible. They also kept one hand on their purses, and another near a weapon.

The young man strode through the streets with all the care and candor of a reveler who’d stumbled into a funeral. He was lanky and broad-shouldered, with skin that had been tanned dark by the sun, and a face that was passingly handsome, despite his stubble, and a scar that cut through one eyebrow. His boots rang on the cobbles, and he bore no weapon except for the staff he carried over one shoulder. His patched woolens didn’t speak of wealth, but that was not the only reason he was given space by those who saw him. Word had begun to circulate about him, and what he had done since arriving in Ironfire. The beating he had given Oleg the Grinder in the dueling circle was still fresh in the whisper stream, and none of the foot pads or cut purses who saw him wished to try their luck, lest they be given the same kind of treatment.

His steps brought him to a low, heavy-beamed building. No sign hung outside the door, but there was a garland of flowers painted along the frame, marking it out from its neighbors. Glancing around once, he lowered the staff from his shoulder, knocked three times, and stepped inside.

The place was not what one expected to find. Low tables sat around the walls, some with reed mats to kneel on, and some with pillows to offer a little more cushion. Several potted trees filled the air with their soft perfume, and a red silk curtain covered the doorway to the rear of the place. In the center of the room was a low pit filled with clean, white sand. It had been raked smooth in an artful way, but there was no disguising its true purpose.

Two people occupied one of the low tables to one side of the sands. On the far side sat a man of orcish heritage, his legs folded beneath him. His hair was shorn on the sides, and a single braid ran down the middle of his head. His shoulders were huge, and he lifted a tall mug with one hand. It was the only hand he had, as his other arm ended just above where the elbow should have been. Sitting across from him was a woman who appeared to be of elven heritage, judging from the vibrant green of her eyes, and the pointed tips of her ears. It was difficult to say whether her clothes or her hair was more disheveled, but despite her appearance, and the glass of potent spirits she held in one hand, her gaze was sharp, and measuring.

“What do you want?” the blooded woman called out.

“Here to see a smith,” the young man said, leaning on his staff.

The woman snorted, and shook her head before taking a long drink. Her companion set his mug down, and eyed the stranger. “Who are you, to make such a request?”

The young man didn’t answer. Instead, he fished a coin out of the inside pocket of his jerkin, and flicked it toward the one-armed man. The gray-skinned smith snatched it out of the air, and examined it. It was heavy, evenly-milled and made of a unique red gold that caught the light, and glimmered like fresh blood. Stamped on one side of it was an orchid in bloom. The rear side of the coin was smooth, and unblemished. He offered the coin to the woman, who eyed it, and then returned her gaze to the young man. Her gaze had sharpened with curiosity.

“You’re the outlander,” she said, taking another sip of her drink. “Tarak the Headsman’s own blood, finally come home to the House of Black Banners.”

“Which doesn’t explain how you got this,” her gray-skinned companion said.

“What I did is between me, and the master of this house,” the young man said. “Will either of you honor his mark?”

The two companions shared a long look. Though no words were exchanged, the woman raised one hand, as if relenting, and the one-armed man stood. He gave the young outlander a smile, and gestured toward the pit.

“I am Horsk Hammerhand,” he said, bending to take up a long-handled warhammer. “Come. Let me take your measure.”

The outlander stepped down onto the sand, and waited for Horsk to join him. Each of them watched the other for a long moment, weighing one another’s stance, movement, reach, and a dozen other details. Then without warning, they moved. Blows were struck and dodged, and their weapons whistled through the air with only inches to spare. Each advanced, then retreated, feinting and shifting, trying to catch the other off-guard. Horsk saw an advantage, and seized it, following a powerful blow with a butt from his bad shoulder. The outlander twisted, bringing his staff around as if the two of them were dancing, and swept Horsk’s legs right out from under him. Unable to stop his momentum, he fell hard, sand fountaining up from where he struck the ground. Horsk’s opponent held his staff in two hands, pointing the butt end of it at the smith’s chest. The young man was breathing hard, but there was fire in his eyes, and a smile on his lips.

“I yield,” Horsk said, releasing his grip on his hammer, and holding up his empty hand. The outlander planted his staff in the sand, and offered a hand. Horsk grasped his forearm, and was hauled to his feet. “I’ve never seen someone adapt the Viper’s Coils to a single weapon before, let alone one with such reach.”

“Will that be a problem?” the outlander asked.

“No,” Horsk said. “A challenge, perhaps, but not a problem…”