Story #38
Knight of Swords
Tristan had spent the better part of a week in pursuit of the little captain.
The heavy hulls of a sand ship, pushed along by the hot, desert wind, usually left a wide, shallow trench in the sand that, though might be obscured over time, made them fairly easy to follow. Flatter and wider than their seafaring ancestors, the vessels had been modified to cross the barren landscapes that the world had become after the bombs. The snuffing out of modern transportation, coupled with the lack of infrastructure to rebuild, lack of water, and abundance of wind, had given rise to a new kind of vehicle. Like the movement of the oceans of long ago, the wind never rested, and to survive many had learned to harness it. Few had thrived. In a world without laws, without boundaries, ingenuity was power. So, too, was piracy.
Tristan had decided against bringing his whole fleet along on this impulsive mission. He’d sent his other two ships south for another load of supplies. His captains were loyal and more than competent.
He’d lived a somewhat sheltered childhood, tucked safely away from danger in the cliff dwellings deep within the Grand Canyon. The Colorado River no longer ran above ground, as it had for eons in the past, but his clan had tapped into the underground remnants and had thrived there since his grandmother had spoken her premonition.
She’d described the devastation she’d seen in her dream, and the long abandoned dwellings deep within the canyon that she believed would offer shelter. Most of her family and friends had followed her, and the little community of Navajos had survived. His grandmother had been young and vibrant then, and the group had quickly recognized her as their leader, a matriarch that had aided in their ability to persist when most had perished.
Eventually, her son, Tristan’s father, had taken over the responsibility of guiding their people. Tristan, too, had been groomed for the task, but on the eve of his fourteenth birthday, a coup led by some of his father’s most trusted men had led to the death of his parents and Tristan’s exile. There had been many days when he’d doubted his own survival, but he had made it. He’d learned some harsh lessons along the way.
The little captain, the girl, reminded him of himself at the beginning. He’d only seen glimpses of her handiwork, but he was intrigued. His naalchiʼí, one of many women trained as Navajo spies, related to him that the girl, most notable at a distance by her unruly halo of orange curls, had quietly been building a business for herself for a few years. She was a trader and a scavenger. She had a knack for finding just what her customers needed. He could relate. That’s how he’d started as well. Though his father had never let him accompany him on runs out on the surface, he’d hung on every story of adventure told. He realized now that his father and the men who’d accompanied them had been pirates, they didn’t always come by their treasures honestly, but it was a ruthless world they lived in, and he recalled the struggle his father had had with that, and how badly he just wanted to do right by people who were suffering. “A redistribution of wealth,” he remembered his father saying.
