The Chief

A fairly large town sat on the Northside of the vast desert, where the land has faint numbers of grasses growing in the areas. It wasn't a beautiful or rich place—there were no flowers in the windows of the villages or music in the streets. It was a town built on hardship, filled with heat, dust, and sadness.

The houses were old and falling apart, their roofs drooping like they could collapse at any moment. The walls were cracked, worn down over time. A strong smell of dung filled the air—it was smeared on the walls as part of a strange local belief to keep away evil spirits.

People in the town wore loose clothes made from animal skins. The clothes were thin and worn out, hanging on thin, weak bodies. Hunger was common here—most people had lived with it for so long that death seemed more normal than staying alive.

But in the middle of this poor town stood the chief's palace. Compared to everything else, it was impressive. It was made from stones brought in from far away, with strong, high walls. It wasn't fancy by the standards of richer cities, but to the people of the town, it looked magical. To them, it wasn't just a building—it was a dream of a better life they knew they'd never reach.

Within its main hall, a throne stood elevated on a low platform, draped in rich animal furs dyed with rare pigments. Upon it lounged a massive man, round-bellied and opulent in his bearing, even so, a large scary scar ran down from his face, a testament to his proficiency at war.

Right at the moment though, he was lazily munching on a fruit in one hand while his other hand wandered the body of a woman seated across his lap. Her breasts, full and supple, fit perfectly into his greedy palm as he kneaded them. Her soft gasps, muffled through clenched teeth, and her helplessness further aroused his desires.

He tossed the fruit aside and slipped his hand down between her legs, his fingers searching, pressing, until her moans filled the silent hall. When she trembled and collapsed slightly against his chest, he pulled his hand out—sticky with her release—sniffed it, and grinned before greedily sucking it clean.

"Hah!" he exclaimed, licking his fingers with exaggerated delight. "Better than any fruit in this cursed desert. Your nectar flows like a mountain spring. Like dew on the leaves of paradise. What else, what else—" He laughed aloud, a bronze tooth glinting as he grabbed her face and crushed his lips against hers.

The hall was silent save for his giggles and her stifled moans. None of the other men dared look up. Their faces flushed with restrained desires that was obvious from the substance that poked from the down part of their garments. But they could only try their best to suppress it as fear held them still. Their heads bowed low. Their breath shallow. Their arousal undeniable.

The Chief, pleased with the silence and the power that it echoed, chuckled deeply and scanned the bowed heads.

"So," he said, voice shifting suddenly to sharp seriousness. "What have you found out?"

A middle-aged man stepped forward, cupping his hands in salute before bowing his head.

"Chief," he began, "it's been confirmed. A number of convoys crossed the desert three days ago. They've traded from Tibah, well enough to last them through the entire storm season."

The Chief's interest peaked. He paused his fondling and turned fully toward the speaker.

"How many convoys?"

"Enough to drive twenty fully-loaded caravans. Some rode horses, others walked on foot. Their cargo was vast."

The Chief's eyes widened in astonishment. "Twenty?!"

The man nodded. "Yes, Chief."

The Chief leaned back, shaking his head slowly. "And who are they? Where do they hail from?"

"We do not know exactly," the man admitted. "What we've learned is that they belong to a mysterious tribe—rarely seen, highly secretive. They never reveal their faces or flesh. We wouldn't have learned about them, if not for the price we paid."

A sour grunt escaped the Chief's throat. He knew—without needing to ask—that the cost had come from his private stores which gave him a headache just thinking about it. Still, he forced himself to find comfort in the potential of a greater gain.

"What are they called?"

"The Tigerline tribe."

"Tigerline?" The Chief scoffed, amused. "What, were they raised by tigers?"

He chuckled at his own joke, but quickly grew serious again.

"And where are they located?"

The middle-aged man untied a rolled map from his belt and extended it forward with both hands. "Here, Chief. Their location is marked."

The Chief unrolled the map and studied it. A frown spread across his face.

"This is the edge of the desert, to the south." he said, tapping a finger on the parchment. "Aren't there many canyons in that area? According to the map, the canyons are locked together blocking away any entrance or exit? You're telling me a tribe exists beyond there?" His voice was full of skepticism.

"Yes, Chief. That's exactly what the findings had proven."

The Chief's expression darkened. His gaze lingered on the map, thoughts turning, curiosity igniting.

The middle-aged man, noticing the chief's skepticism, quickly continued, "It's true, Chief—there is no known entrance or exit. But... that isn't entirely accurate. There exists a route—hidden, inconspicuous, and known to very few. I believe it's the same path the Tigerline tribe uses for their comings and goings."

"A route?" the Chief echoed, his brow twitching.

"Yes, Chief," the man confirmed, unrolling another parchment and presenting it with both hands. The Chief took it, eyes narrowing as he scanned the rough sketches.

Sure enough, etched faintly on the hide was a narrow pass—threading through the canyons like fine lines.

"It would take a month of hard travel to reach the canyon's edge," the Chief muttered, more to himself than anyone.

The middle-aged man nodded, confirming the assessment.

The Chief's eyes remained on the map, but suspicion clouded his features. "If this route has existed all this time... why hasn't it been known and explored? Since the map and information for the route is accessible, why hasn't anyone traded for it?"

An awkward stillness crept into the room. The middle-aged man swallowed hard and shifted his feet before answering.

"Because, Chief... the information, with the map and route, the cost is so high... no one's ever been willing to pay it. They all felt it might not be worth the price."

At that, the Chief froze.

A slow tension gripped the hall as the mood shifted like a stormfront rolling in. The woman on his lap was flung aside with careless force. He leaned forward, his tone low and dangerous.

"So... High? How high?" The words slithered from his mouth like venom.

Every man in the chamber stiffened, the very air becoming brittle. No one dared move. No one dared breathe too loud.

Everyone knew the chief loved to hoard wealth. Once something went into his stashes, it never came out unless absolutely necessary. He would go to war just to gather more riches, and he wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who tried to cheat him. His greed affected the whole town. He forced heavy taxes on his people just to fill his stores. At first, this worked. But when the villages started falling into deep poverty, he turned to raiding other towns, stealing their goods and even taking women he found attractive.

He also knew the sandstorm season was coming soon. It was common knowledge that before the sandstorm season, everyone travels to Tibah, a large city open to all kinds of trade. There, they exchanged goods to prepare for the months the sandstorm would last. But the chief didn't like trading. He didn't want to give away his stock. Instead, he had always used this time to watch for other towns returning from Tibah with their full caravans, then he would raid them at his own convenience.

A few days ago, he heard that a large convoy had passed through the desert. He quickly sent his men to investigate, no matter the cost.

But now, he hadn't expected the cost to be so high—even though he still didn't know the full amount.

He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and asked:

"How much?" he asked, voice tight, heart pounding beneath layers of flesh and fur. "How much have you spent?"

The middle-aged man trembled. "T-T-Ten..."

"Ten bronze?" the Chief asked quickly, hopeful.

The man shook his head.

"Ten silver?"

Still shaking.

The Chief's lips drew thin, his eyes flashing. "Ten... gold?"

Again, the man shook his head, beads of sweat pouring from his temples.

A deep silence sank over the hall.

The Chief leaned back, his breath turning heavy.

"Speak it," he growled.

By now, the Chief already guessed the number—he just didn't want to believe it. And worse, he knew the price might not truly be up to that, even if it was truly expensive. Definitely, they'd used the deal to make other private trades for themselves.

His breath hitched as he slumped back into his throne, his chest rising and falling in shallow, angry bursts. Silence fell like a blade across the hall. The others stood frozen, trembling where they were, but none more so than the middle-aged man who had collapsed to his knees.

"It's ten thousand gold, my Chief!" the man cried, his voice cracking as he lowered his chest to the floor, arms stretched forward in supplication.

Hearing the confirmation of his guess, the Chief sat frozen. His face was blank. His breathing shallow and rapid.

Outrageous!

Ten. Thousand.

Gasps sucked through his clenched teeth. The walls themselves seemed to groan at the number. What is the point of raiding then? He could have used that amount to exchange for goods at Tibah and it would be fine.

The middle-aged man cursed himself inwardly. Why did I purchase the information? He hadn't acted alone though—there were the others too—but none dared speak now. They had done this together as usual. Yes, the information and maps had been outrageously priced, but they had also acquired some goods for their own gain alongside—enough to push the total to ten thousand gold.

The Chief's eyes glinted with dangerous calm as he asked, "When… and how did you take ten thousand gold for trade—without my knowing?"

The man couldn't answer. He merely shivered, unable to meet the Chief's gaze. That silence sealed his fate.

The Chief raised a single hand. No words. Just a gesture.

The two guards flanking him stepped forward immediately, grabbing the man under his arms and dragging him across the floor.

"Chief! Have mercy!" he cried, voice echoing off the stone walls. "I wasn't the only one! We all went for the trade!"

The Chief did not flinch. He spoke as though addressing a child. "Don't worry... I know exactly how to deal with it."

His gaze swept over the remaining men—each one rigid, their faces pale and damp. Then he laughed, a sound as sharp as it was cruel.

"Go prepare. We ride in two days."

That was dismissal enough. The men bowed hastily and turned to leave, grateful to be breathing.

But just as they reached the threshold, the Chief's voice stopped them again.

"One of you—summon the oracle."

For a brief moment, their hearts stopped. Then, realizing he hadn't called for punishment, a collective breath was released. One man nodded and left quickly. The rest followed.

Once the chamber was empty again, the Chief leaned back, staring up at the ceiling with a twisted grin.

"Perhaps it might not be so bad," he murmured, trying to comfort himself. "A tribe that can send twenty caravans through the desert must be worth bleeding."

He felt better at the thought, then let his eyes drift to where the woman still lay crumpled. She tensed under his gaze, her body recoiling instinctively.

With a grunt of amusement, he grabbed her roughly and pulled her back into his lap. She struggled, but his laughter only grew louder as his hands roamed again, indifferent to her fear.

A moment later, the said oracle entered.

He was a withered old man, hunched over, barely upright with the help of his staff. His steps were slow, but his eyes burned with quiet contempt.

The Chief grinned like a predator.

"Oracle," he greeted mockingly, "I'll be raiding again. Tell me—what future do the gods show?"

The old man stopped a few paces from the throne. His lip curled, and without hesitation, he spat on the floor.

"What else would they show me but your doom?" the oracle spit in disdain.

The Chief roared with laughter. "Perfect!" he bellowed. "That's exactly what I was hoping to hear."

There was no resentment in voice, he had consulted on numerous occasions, but this said oracle had always given him this sort of premonition as usual.

He looked at the oracle with strange affection, the kind one reserves for a pet or a tool. He had plucked the old man from a dying village long ago, slapping a title on him like a badge. He had heard that great kings kept wise men at their side, prophets who whispered secrets of fate.

He couldn't afford a real one—so he made one.

Whether the gods spoke or not didn't matter to him. What mattered was the illusion he fed himself.

And in that illusion, he was mighty.