A morning breeze fluttered at the tent flap far up the slope behind him, and then all was still. A slight chill crept in the pre-dawn wind, but Hawk knew it would pass. The air about him was warming, beckoning the full heat of day. This time of silence before full light was good. It allowed him to cleanse his mind and touch the quiet place nestled deep within. With dawn would come the Leave Taking, and then it would be too late.
He stared out into the almost dark, his sword laying flat across his legs. He imagined the grains of sand in their shifting tide, shaping and reshaping the contours of what lay before him. The wind whipped once more about his robes, filling him with a momentary sensation of foreboding. The Ghosts of the Dead moved about him.
One by one, he sensed the others of his tribe approach, lower themselves to sit, cross-legged on the flat expanse of stone behind. It was proper, for he was the Leave Taker. As they sat, he knew they placed their swords flat across their legs, echoing his position. Barely, he heard their breath, gathered softly behind him.
Gradually the sky lightened and the weathered crags in the canyon below become more defined. Sharp rocks jutted forth where the stone had resisted the constant workings of the wind and sand. The growing curves of dunes emerged from the flat desert surface with the light. Dark shapes became paler; color tinged the crested humps. Yet still they waited, a collection of silent sentinels to the dawn.
As the sun crept upward from the edge of the world, only then did Hawk stand and lower his blade, turning to face the assembled group.
As one, his fellow tribesmen angled their blades to send a pool of reflected orange, bathing him in shining fire. He narrowed his eyes against the glare, then steeled himself to face them. He looked beyond the glow to catch the faces of his companions, then slowly, slowly, he smiled. There was no mirth in the expression; it was a killing smile.
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