The Chronicles of a Galactic Diplomat

Chapter Five - The Valley of Death

Following the zigzag patterns in the rocky sand I was able to get close enough to spot the Reaper before it ducked beneath some fencing at the top of an incline.

With each step, I slid back into the hot turf, loosening little rocks that were sent skipping down the slope to make contact with Danish, who was now a short distance below me. I was relieved by how well he took the unintended stoning.

Finally, with the aid of the deep-rooted and gnarly fauna, I was able to scramble my way to the top. Pushing aside the superfluous folds of my robe I drew the curved and crested knife my father had given me, and slit the wire fencing.

Straightening my strained back I stepped over the now obsolete barrier. I took a deep breath of the arid breeze coming up from the valley - and retched! The thought of that putrid wind gust still makes me shudder in disgust! I clutched the tasseled end of my scarf to my nose in desperation and stepped forward- gazing out over the valley.

My eyes were blurred with tears; partly due to the smell, but mostly because of the oppressive effects of the widowed mist. Blinking clear my eyes, I hardly believed them. In truth, I didn’t want to.

Littering the valley was hundreds of bloated corpses!

“Nar Allah! ” Said Danish raspily as he reached my side. He was a light shade of green and out of breath- mostly due to his hesitancy in taking one.

“Scrub hogs! “He continued “And every one of 'em dead as a Dolgorian!”

(I’ve yet to ask what a Dolgorian is.)

He shook his head. “What does this mean?!”

“I think it means the death of Oxa and Aura’s livelihood on Padoor,” I said bitterly as I slid my knife back into its sheath. “Not to mention their life savings.”

Danish rubbed the back of his head in puzzlement and whistled.

Where was Oxa? I wondered to myself as I looked out at those frightful hogs.

What happened to his livestock…?

I felt it before I heard it; hoofbeats coming out of the west.

Could THAT be Oxa? My heart leaped at the prospect.

Squinting into the setting sun, my grimaced face was flooded with evening sunlight.

I soon discerned an undulating silhouette, set against fiery skies, riding toward us over a boiling sea.

“That is not him…” I answered aloud to myself, sensing the rider more than seeing him.

Danish, hearing me, caught sight of the rapidly approaching figure. He stepped in front of me and I heard the “ch - chunk- chank!” of his beloved shotgun. I appreciated this brave gesture but also found morbid humor in the fact that the top of his head only came up to my elbow.

The figure barrelled down upon us closer and closer and I noticed my companion's body become rigid and his breath stilled in his nostrils.

When I realized that I could hear the sound of the rider’s coat flapping in the apparent wind, my chest tightened and I was seized with the worry that he intended to attack us. It was during this fleeting terror that Danish let out a steady exhale and raised the barrel of his shotgun toward the threat.

With a howl, the mysterious horseman pulled at the reins - his beast halting violently with a scream and rising up on its back legs in a cloud of amber dust.

The rider’s thighs clung to his mount as one hand reached for the boundless sky while the other tore off the sand-caked handkerchief that covered his aquiline nose and a mouth that muttered panicked curses.

“I’m not looking for a fight!” The man cried.

“What are you looking for?” interrogated Danish in a dramatic baritone.

“I seek Oxa - that confounded fool!”

“What do you want with him?” I asked, resting my hand on Danish’s arm to lower the shotgun.

The man rode up slowly with some hesitation. I could see that - by human standards - he was undeniably handsome with spirited eyes and the rich complexion of robust coffee.

“I want to cuff his ears to start with... ” He growled, now lowering his arms with cautious glances at the shotgun.

I felt no real danger in him, so I approached him and introduced myself; “I am Ingot Peaceable, of the Sellissiian Court of Peaceable.”

He tilted his hat, perfunctorily. “Well, ain’t that a mouthful… Who’s that?” He nodded to Danish.

“Danish Daude - Of Alhara,” answered Danish, proudly.

“He is trusted by my government to be my transportation and guide.” I clarified.

The man sniffed, silently reading us with his eyes.

“May we ask your name?” I said at last.

“Solomon Reed.” The name rumbled from his lips like a passing thunderstorm.