Rider in the Sand

The troops were moving slowly now, baking in the hot desert sun at midday. Everything and everyone was covered in a heavy layer of sweat and sand grit. The general, atop his steed, wearily adjusted the sword at his side and checked his maps once more. As long as they stopped at the Laine Costa River within the hour they would have enough time to rest and refresh and still make the city before nightfall.

“Who the bloody hell is that?” Sir Andrew barked next to him, pointing off in the east at a small white speck moving rapidly towards the caravan. “We’ve no messengers with white horses but someone has the banner.”

“Whoever it is,” the general answered as the speck grew larger, “we shall know soon enough. That horse could not move any faster had he wings and his rider must be made of cloud for him to leap those rocks so lightly.”

At this Sir Walter jerked his head towards the horse and rider and stared intently. “That is no messenger of yours,” he answered sharply, “that is my Lady Ann.”

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