Shepherd's Oasis

Author’s Note: Ceamor is pronounced Kay-more

There was a reason the native Kashgarians named this desert the Desert of Ten Thousand Suns. Waves of shimmering heat rolled off the hot sands of Dragonsgrave, causing Sir Derek Brunaulf to squint behind his helmet’s visor. Far in the distance lay the Dragon Horn mountains. From where he was, the whole mountain range looked like a sleeping dragon, or a partially buried dragon that had died, its sharp spikes jutting out from the blazing desert sands and ominously silhouetted against the unforgiving burning sky. In Kels, where he was from, the saying was that Dragonsgrave was where the great winged beasts went to die. It was also where lost and weary travelers went to die.

After burying his prized horse, Elwing, the last remaining companion he had left, Sir Derek trudged on through the boiling sands in search of sanctuary. His throat burned and his tongue felt like leather. His lips cracked, opening up fresh new wounds. He was parched and hungry. His food and water supplies were running low, and he did not know how many more days he would last. He thought of cutting Elwing up into pieces and cooking him over a spit, but he could never bring himself to do it. Elwing was no mere horse. He was an old friend. He’d been with Sir Derek since his days as a humble squire to Sir Lantris. The honorable knight would sooner die of hunger than eat an old friend who’d been by his side for many years and had seen so many battles with him.

As the day wore on, the sky took on an orange hue but it was not yet sunset. Judging by the howling wind, Sir Derek knew what was coming and he had to run to find shelter before it overtook him. Ancient Kashgarians had a name for it. The Dragon’s breath—a sandstorm. The exhausted warrior was forced to turn around and take shelter in a cave that he had found. Thankful for the momentary respite, the young knight uncorked his goatskin canteen and drank deep, coughing and choking on the water that spilled down his chin and neck. In his eagerness and exhaustion he did not take into account one important fact—it was the last of his water. He swore, realizing his own foolishness, and threw the bag down on the cave’s sandy floor. With a sigh, he removed his heavy armor, keeping only his tabard, chainmail, and his sword belt around his waist. He was thankful for the lesser weight and the coolness it provided. All throughout his journey, he felt like a cow roasting on a spit above an open flame in that hot armor. His helmet and visor protected his head and eyes from the glaring sun, but by the Old Gods of Kels, he was burning.

With nothing more to be done, Sir Derek unfurled his bedroll and lay down, falling at once into a deep, dreamless slumber, safe in the heart of the cave. When morning came the next day and the sky had cleared, he resumed his journey through the hellish sands of Dragonsgrave. He was eager to get home to Kels, back within the safe walls of Tornbridge Castle, back to the barracks he shared with eleven other men. Back in the company of the friends he had left. Back in the loving arms of his Lady Lisa. He fingered the pebble-sized jewel that hung at the end of her golden necklace, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. And then he kissed it, remembering the softness of her lips and the flowery scent of her hair. Before he could go home, however, there was one important matter he had to take care of—finding food and water, an oasis, anything. He needed to resupply if he was to make it home safely. The war may not have killed him but dehydration and hunger would if he did not find a source quickly.

At around noon, Sir Derek collapsed in his exhaustion, dropping heavily to his knees. He exhaled through his mouth, blowing great puffs of air from his fried and feeble lungs. In doing so, he disturbed the sand beneath him. To his shock, confusion, and delight, there was something else beneath the sand. Something more. There was grass. Green healthy grass, vibrant with life. It meant that there was an oasis nearby. He hoped and prayed it was the case and not some cruel mirage. Thankfully, it was no mirage. This was the oasis he had been searching for. His helmeted ears were greeted by the faint baahs of sheep in the distance and the barking of a sheepdog.

“Good day, sir knight!” a man’s voice called. “From whence came you?”

“Ceamor,” Sir Derek said breathily, looking up. “But I hail from Kels.”

“Well, then!” the shepherd said. “You are welcome in my tent, young Kelsian knight! I am Jarreth of Egralon.”

“I thank you,” Sir Derek said with a sigh of relief as Jarreth helped him up. “May I have a drink of water from yonder lake?”

“Indeed, sir,” Jarreth said, guiding him to the fresh body of water. “Come!”

As soon as they came to the banks of the little lake, Sir Derek fell to his knees, shakily removed his gauntlets, vambraces, and cannon, and splashed his face and arms with the cool, refreshing water. He then drank deeply and greedily, slurping and slobbering about, splashing water everywhere. He also removed his helmet, dipped it into the water, and poured the water over his head as one would with a ladle or dipper. Jarreth laughed with ringing laughter as he watched the young knight splash about like a happy child. Sir Derek, too, was laughing now.

“Thank you,” Sir Derek said with an exhale.

“It is my honor, good sir,” Jarreth said with a smile. “Come! I shall show you to my tent. Rest awhile, and then we shall dine shortly.”

Sir Derek nodded and followed Jarreth into his tent. It wasn’t as grand as a nobleman or a royal’s tent, but it was home. It was warm and inviting. The floor was strewn with goatskin and sheepskin rugs and in the center of the tent was a low table. Off to the side was a simple little cot that Jarreth slept in at night, padded down with fleece and hay, and with burlap for a blanket.

“You must excuse me,” Jarreth apologized. “I must return to my duties.”

“Thank you,” Sir Derek said, sitting on the edge of Jarreth’s cot. He removed the rest of his armor with some difficulty, and lay down to rest, sleeping in only his hose.

A few hours later, the knight was awakened by some movement. Jarreth had returned from his shepherding duties and came into the tent to announce that supper had been laid out. In his exhaustion Sir Derek slept through the midday meal. Jarreth, in his compassion, let the young knight sleep on. On the table in the middle of the tent was a roasted lamb, some quail, a pot of beef stew, grapes, apples, dates, pomegranates, goat cheese, an assortment of nuts, bread, and a jug of wine. Later, Sir Derek would recall that it was the sweetest wine he had ever tasted.

Before he fell upon the feast laid out for him, however, Jarreth dressed his wounds, cleaning them with water and daubing them with ointment that released a sweet and minty smell. After bandaging the knight’s wounds, the shepherd invited him to dine.

“Tell me,” Jarreth asked as they ate. “What brings you to Kashgar? And where are your companions?”

“They are all dead,” Sir Derek answered. “I am the only one left of their company alive. King Raydan had received a letter from King Elian of Ceamor requesting for him to honor their alliance. Bands of Kashgarian and Bhathagite raiders had been wreaking havoc on their lands and stealing their crops, burning their homes, killing their children and elders, and ravishing their women. Many of their knights and men-at-arms were severely wounded and fatigued. They needed our aid badly. The King sent us to Ceamor to intercept the raiders. We set out with an entire legion of knights and men-at-arms. Only seven of us returned.”

“Seven, you say?” the shepherd asked. “Why are they not with you?”

“They died on the return journey,” Sir Derek said sadly. “Two of my comrades fell to Kashgarian swords. Not content that they’d defeated and driven us back, the dishonorable Kashgarians tracked us down like hunters tracking wild animals. The rest died from the brutal desert heat. Our supplies were running low. I, myself, was unsure whether I would make it back home had I not stumbled upon your encampment in this little oasis.”

“You need not fear then, brave knight,” the shepherd said. “This is a safe haven. Not that you have fear. You would not have made it this far if you had any.”

“What about you?” Sir Derek asked. “Do you not fear the Kashgarian raiders and their Bhathagite allies? These are Kashgarian lands you’ve led your sheep to.”

“I have no fear,” Jarreth said with a laugh, throwing his head back in mirth. “The sheep are terrified enough as it is! My undershepherds and I have to be brave if we are to defend the flock.”

“You would die for your sheep and goats if need be?” Sir Derek asked.

“I would,” Jarreth answered solemnly.

“That is most commendable, sir,” Sir Derek said.

As the night wore on and their conversation drifted to much lighter topics, Sir Derek’s mind began to wander. He could have sworn for a full minute that he was in the great hall of Tornbridge Castle, in the presence of the King. Was it the dim light that created the effect? Surely he must have been mistaken. Jarreth was a mere shepherd. He was no King Raydan. Was it the wine? Had he been drinking too much? Or was it his own longing for home that was playing such cruel tricks on his eyes? Perhaps it was his exhaustion.

“Pardon me,” Sir Derek said with a yawn. “I must retire. The night is deep and I am exhausted from my travels.”

“Of course,” Jarreth said, moving to clear the table. “Sleep peacefully, sir knight. I shall keep watch for the night.”

And sleep peacefully he did. Sir Derek dreamed of his beloved in his arms. In his dream, they had four children together—two boys and two girls. It was a wonderful dream he wished would never end. In the morning, the knight awoke to the sound of birdsong and the bleating of the sheep. He sat up and stretched, feeling refreshed and restrengthened. He emerged from Jarreth’s tent and bathed in the lake in the center of the oasis, washing away weeks and months of filthy grime. After bathing, he joined Jarreth for breakfast. The table was set with porridge, bread, butter, cheese, rashers of bacon, an assortment of fruits and nuts, and a jug of the sweetest honey mead.

“I thank you for your kindness, shepherd,” Sir Derek said as he sat down to breakfast. “But I fear I must bid you farewell and leave this wonderful oasis. I must make my journey home today.”

“Very well,” Jarreth said with a smile. “Go with my blessing. But do not leave until I have loaded you with provisions.”

“As you wish,” Sir Derek said with a bow of his head.

True to his word, the shepherd loaded him with provisions for his journey. A new hose and arming jacket, new chain mail, a new set of gleaming armor with no dents, which Jarreth himself put on Sir Derek, lamb and goat jerkies, bacon, a skin of wine, water, cheese, and bread. He also provided him with a new bed roll, a fresh new tunic and trousers, a new blue and gold tabard with Sir Derek’s own sigil, a bag of gold, a jar of the minty ointment that Jarreth had used on his wounds, and a new horse. And then he sent him off on his journey home.

Before leaving the oasis, Sir Derek marked the place with twelve stones. He swore he would return to properly thank the shepherds who had taken good care of a stranger like himself. A very strange thing occurred, however. After returning to Kels, he set out on a journey back to the Kashgarian desert to make good on his word and thank Jarreth and the young men in his employ. To his confusion, he could not locate that very same oasis. He did, however, find the twelve stones he had left.

“How strange,” Sir Derek thought, pondering the meaning of this mystery.

“You will never find the oasis in the same place twice, sir knight,” a voice behind him said with a laugh.

“Jarreth!” Sir Derek turned in surprise and then fell to his knees in the sand. “Your Majesty!”

It was, indeed, His Majesty, King Raydan himself with a smile on his face, resplendent in all his glory, astride his white charger.

“The oasis is for my people and for any poor and weary traveler,” King Raydan said. “It appears whenever and wherever there is a need.”

“It was you then,” Sir Derek said. “So you are…?”

“Jarreth the Shepherd, yes,” King Raydan said with a chuckle. “The people of Kels are my sheep. And I always take care of my sheep.”

“How can I ever repay you, Your Majesty?” Sir Derek said, bowing.

“By taking care of the poor and the needy,” the king said. “The widow and the orphaned. Unshackle the oppressed. Welcome the weary stranger seeking shelter at your gates. Bind up the wounded. Show mercy.”

“I will,” Sir Derek vowed solemnly.

“Come!” King Raydan said. “Ride home with me.”