Sand Racer

By KD Nielson

To the people of Gemma Arenae and the Southern Empire, Sand Racers are the heroes and celebrities of the day, with their heart-stopping, death-defying races across the Burning Desert into the Devils Heart. It requires a certain kind of grit and tenacity, split second reactions and a deep understanding of the desert itself, to challenge the swiftly changing landscape. But what is more heart-stopping and death-defying is when Nicolas, the Blue Rider, and his friend, Carver, the Yellow Rider, get caught up in political intrigue that will ultimately take the empire to the brink of civil war.

Set against the lush background of the fabled Jewel of the Sand, Sand Racer is a breath-taking ride of skill, endurance, love and political manoeuvring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KD Nielson
• Release date: May 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310718878

KD Nielson

Fantasy Writer Hi all, this is K.D. Nielson ... and welcome to my .... mind. I am a full time writer in search of a publisher, so I have to work at my day job to pay the bills. I have been writing and telling stories now for over 30 years. Since the 11,000+ earthquakes here in Christchurch, I have been free to indulge in my greatest passion, telling stories, while the city starts to get back on its feet. I have drawn on my experiences these past months (seems like years) of awful earthquakes, the years serving as a prison officer, and my time in the US Navy as part of Operation Deep Freeze, making seven deployments to Antarctica. Yes, in spite of everything, I am still sane. I have drawn on my daily experiences in these jobs and the different facets of everyday life, as material for my books. I have a wealth of intrigue, love, betrayal, war and heroic deeds just waiting for an avid reader. I have finished several books in the world I have created. They are just waiting to be discovered by that right someone, hopefully a publisher. All my books are available on Amazon through Kindle, and Createspace's print on demand. I am married to a lovely English girl, a schoolteacher, and we have three sons, one which seems to keep coming back, kind of cramps my style. My wife has donated (sometimes gang pressed might be more like it) hours of her valuable time helping me with editing and reading manuscripts, and being very patient with all my questions, some of them might be, well ... dumb. I have also been working with a like-minded friend who is a fantasy fan and a very good writer in her own right. She is also a renowned artist and in conjunction with another project connected to my books, she is working on sketches of the characters and creatures of my world. For more information on my books go to http://www.theworldsofkdnielson.com Thank you for bearing with me while I rabbit on ... I challenge you, step into my mind ....you might like it so much ... you may not want to leave. KD Nielson

Book preview

Sand Racer

By

KD Nielson

Copyright KD Nielson, 4 May 2014

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

First Edition License Notes

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my loving and long suffering wife, Anita. The countless hours I drafted her into helping me are truly appreciated.

Also I would like to thank Debs, a kindred spirit who untiringly read the many versions.

The last person I would like to thank is Dale Caroline Russell for her input to my books and for writing the back cover write-up.

Covers designed by Amanda L. Matthews @ www.mandematthews.com

Other books by KD Nielson

The Lich War Series

Amberwine

Cassandra of Cr' Mere

A Line in the Sand

Tales of Menel Fenn

Osey

Fool's Quest

The Confederation Kingdoms of Bree

Mage's Mistake

Ghost Dancer

DSMR Series

Through The Portal

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CONTENTS

Sand Racer

Gemma Arenae

The Storm

Treason

The plan

Festival of the Scarabs

Traitor’s Spawn

The First Race

Race Two

Lay Day

Race Three

Race Four

Lay Day Two

Professional Class Race One

Professional Class, race two

Desert Tour

Epilogue

Glossary

Author

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Sand Racer

The heat shimmered across the endless sand. The undulating landscape was bleached bone. Looking across the hostile alien world, any sane person would have been absolutely positive that nothing lived there. The heat was like a wraith, hovering, always close. The soul destroying-moan of the constant wind and the burning rays sucked the very life essence from anyone, or anything stupid, or unfortunate, enough to be caught there. However, the casual onlooker would have been wrong; the sand itself was so fine that even the spiders and scorpions that haunted normal deserts, disappeared under the surface. This area of the Burning Desert was normally avoided. Even the sloth-toed Anark, the lone four-footed animal native to the area, only came here if the overly stupid, or crazy two-legged creatures forced it to. The rest of the inhabitants lived under the dunes. To the residents here, the sand’s hundreds of mile expanse was like a vast ocean.

In the distance the air shimmered in the heat; against the rippling blue sky, small patches of color could be seen. Red and blue, mixed with yellow and indigo. No two were the same. These splotches seemed to drift in the air as if mocking the surrounding area for the lack of original color. The blotches in the sky gradually gained clarity as they came closer. Now, if someone was daft enough to be here watching, they might see the objects were cloth. They bobbed and danced in the thermal air currents across the blistering sand. Relentlessly they came, until they took on shape. They looked to be a type of kite sail anchored, hundreds of feet below to an object, screaming across the tundra.

The tall muscular man braced himself looking upward, shading his eyes against the sun as he checked the position of his kite sail. Satisfied, he pulled the leather headpiece back into place. The mask covered the face where two clear glass lenses protected the man’s delicate eyes from the razor sharp particles that peppered his frame. The mask covered the nose and mouth, where gauze filters kept the minute granules clear of the sensitive nasal membranes. The rider quickly covered the twenty feet to the rear of the racer and looked over the stern. The dusky-skinned man could see ten other racers spread out over the area, jockeying for the best position, heading into the Devil’s Heart. This part of the race tested the mettle of any who dared the wasteland. Often a Sand Racer would disappear, never to be found. The carcass of the broken sleds made navigation here hazardous. The rider, his long hair in a ponytail, just grinned beneath his mask.

Usually the first two or three sleds were left alone. The passage sent vibrations through the sand and the scarabs that hunted this area quickly responded. There weren’t enough of them normally to damage a sled, but it was known that every four years in their spawning cycle, thousands of them waited just under the surface, spread out over several miles. Even the mighty Sand Leech vacated the area when the scarabs swarmed.

The rider went forward, checking his anchor harness as he took up position between the steering ropes. He slipped his feet into the straps; wiping his hands dry on his loincloth and grasped the ‘D’ shaped steering lines, one in each hand. He looked once again to the side and rear, and then glanced apprehensively around the emptiness. They were two years overdue for a swarm. For the first time he actually thought of abandoning the race; however, usually the leaders were fairly safe. He shrugged off his doubts and kicked off the guide lock. Now that the lock was released, the tiny triangular-shaped piece of wood under the sled was detached and pulled behind the racing sled on a small cord. For the rest of the race the manoeuvring would be strictly up to the rider.

The man looked around as a high-pitched hiss could be heard, the sound the polished oaken hull made screaming over the sand. Another rider, his fiercest rival, was already closing. He shook his head angrily, most sane drivers slowed entering the Heart; the bordering dune that separated the area was close to two hundred feet high and a half-mile wide. The sled’s rider grunted and pulled hard with the right line, changing the angle slightly so the sled veered to the right. He took the dune at an angle, hissing along the side, gradually working his way to the crest. He looked over at the indigo sled and could see the other rider’s bold tactic; he was taking the barrier head on. It was a gutsy move and if he pulled it off, it might well give him the race, putting him a good two miles ahead of everyone else.

Suddenly lunging to the left, pulling the emergency dump, and spilling most of the wind, he veered hard, as he could see the shattered remains of a black hull protruding from the sand. The manoeuvre forced him higher up the dune than he would have wanted, so he carried on left and cut behind the indigo sled driver. He looked up in horror to see that in the yellow sled, the youngest rider was trying the head on attack, as well.

For the next five minutes, the rider was too busy getting his craft over the crest; he topped and literally flew forty feet, heading for the desert surface at a rapid speed. Again he pulled the dump and the sail sagged, dropping sixty feet, pulling him almost vertical with the sand below. One more dump and his runners kissed down lightly on the bleached surface. As he tugged backwards and forwards, working the kite sail higher, he had a chance to look around quickly. The manoeuvre had gone badly for indigo and he had come down hard, breaking the runner on one side. The sled was slowing rapidly and was becoming unmanageable. The rider could see the indigo sled driver abandon his steering position and race to the rear of the sled; he transferred his anchor to a small cradle in the rear and yanked a cord. A small ‘U’ shaped cloth popped out the back and the indigo rider was quickly plucked from the deck of his sled as it tipped, slewing sideways, pushing into the sand, smashing itself to kindling. An indigo colored rocket shot skyward, as the friction of the emergency release ignited the fuse.

The rider sighed and yanked hard on the left; he desperately held it as the winds aloft tore at the kite sail. By the time the almost two mile turn had been made, his arms felt as if they had been torn from his sockets. Now the rider could see a yellow rocket sinking, sputtering to the ground. It didn’t take long to find the wreck. The rider dumped more air and manoeuvred closer to the shattered sled. He could see the yellow rider lying in the broken ground; the youth had managed to get his capture harness rigged. Now he just lay in the sand, his broken and bleeding body a shapeless lump. Slipping one foot out of the block the Blue Rider quickly stamped on the spring plate next to his driving position, then he did the same to the other side.

Suddenly the dune in the distance erupted as hundreds of scarabs poured from dozens of conical shapes. The rider’s eyes tightened angrily. This stupid recklessness had put all their lives in danger. His sled screamed closer to the yellow cloth bundle on the ground and the hook on that side snagged the harness where it had been staked out; the cord unreeled as the body was dragged along. The line reached the end and the automatic tension started pulling him in. The rider had no chance to help the yellow driver onto the sled as he carefully lined up the indigo rider and the hook effortlessly snagged his pick up line, on the other side. Again the cord reeled out before the automatic tension pulled him in.

The rider looked quickly back and could see fin shaped objects protruding from the sand. He knew that each scarab was about three feet long, with the body almost a wedge shape with a bony ridge along its back about half as tall as it was long. The rider gritted his teeth, desperately working the sail higher for more speed. With one last look behind him, he could see hundreds of the ‘fins’ following them. It was no wonder they called the scarab the ‘land shark’.

He heard a thunk from the side of his sled and quickly looked down. He could see the indigo rider pulled up on the runner where he was now securely held. It would be a bumpy ride, but at least he could see he was alive as the man gave him a tired ‘thumbs up’. Burdened with the extra weight, the rider had to use his knowledge, experience and all his luck, to keep his over-loaded sled ahead of the scarabs.

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Gemma Arenae

The capital of Regione Aquilonis bustled with activity as the day wore on. Originally the military outpost was home to the 4th Imperial Legion. The city grew as the northern district expanded in importance as the Imperium Meridiem stretched its borders, sometimes peacefully, often in strife, with bloodshed and turmoil. The fortress of the garrison had to be added on as the church found its way into the wilds. The new Governor soon stopped the disorganized chaos. He had the city moved east two miles and rebuilt around the plush Vallis Aurea Oasis. The valley cliffs to the east that sheltered the hidden basin guarding the life-giving essence, was rich in gold and rare gems. Now the city was rebuilt from the ground up with a definite plan in mind. The Governor’s Palace and the Basilica were strategically placed on opposite sides of the oasis, now the central part of the city. The expanded Imperial Legion Fortress was built near the city walls as the newly formed 12th Legion arrived.

Over the years the city grew rich and the new Episcopus Fornicem arrived to take over. The Archbishop’s dream of making the city a ‘thing of legends’ was soon caught by the Governor. Gold from the nearby mines was melted paper-thin and used to coat the four smaller domes spaced around the larger central dome. The palace towers twisted upward where the vast arches overlooked the city and surrounding landscape shaded under conical turrets covered in golden sheets.

Two hundred years later the city looked the same. Nicknamed the ‘Jewel of the Sands’, it was home to more than three thousand people. As summer approached the longest day, the population had swelled to over twelve thousand; all came for the ‘Festival of the Scarabs’, but most simply wanted to watch the races. The transitory population was quartered within the massive walls in the sprouting tent city. The towering white marble edifice stood one hundred feet high, and the thirty-foot wide crenulated battlements were minute forts in their own right. Each had watchtowers and barracks for the company strong contingent. They had their own heating source for oil, carefully placed catapults for the best field of fire and storage for thousands of arrows. The one hundred men were rotated every four days. Gone were the days of war with the neighbouring tribesman and the long-lived humans who had raided from the forestlands, hundreds of miles to the northeast across the Ardentis Deserta. Now the men who competed in the races simply called it, ‘The Burning Desert’.

However, times were not as peaceful as the government censors said. The Grand Duchy of Cr’Mere was sniping at the outposts of the Imperium Meridiem, or the Southern Empire as the kingdoms in the surrounding lands called them now. There were rumours of treasonous plots by corrupt officials hinting at civil war. The Emperor’s black leather-armoured Spectris Equiatus were everywhere. The secret police were ruthless in their investigation of the allegations. The current governor, Comite Ossan Anke Am ruled Gemma Arenae as fairly as he could, and while he didn’t like the presence of the Spectris Equiatus in his city, he was compelled to be seen to be helping in their investigations. However, as Minister of Internal Affairs, his own people often presented him with conflicting intelligence.

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The small group of men and women slowly made their way down the grand stairs; Ossan was bedecked in his rich burgundy sleeveless robe. The upper torso had been designed to look like the sleeveless kingdom tunics. The wide leather belt was elaborately decorated with small linked silver chains. His old scimitar hung at his side in a plain leather scabbard. The gold chain of office with the imperial starburst hung around his neck. Unlike most men in this area, Ossan preferred to go hatless without even the traditional turban or the headscarf, which hung down his back. He turned and waited patiently for his wife. She leaned heavily on his arm and as much as she tried, she couldn’t hide the pain. The woman was taller than he was by almost two inches. Her rich auburn hair was swirled and gathered at the back of her head; an ornament of gold filigree highlighted her silky locks. Enchanting ringlets hung to the sides of her face. The traditional floor length burgundy silk sleeveless chiton caressed her as she moved. A golden cord of beaded thread formed a double girdle where the upper strand twisted in front and passed up between her shapely breasts and fastened at the nape of her neck. The silver starburst of a governor’s wife graced her lovely shoulder. She came slowly, and gasped as a thoughtless movement made it hard to be graceful and elegant. Ossan waited breathlessly, watching the beautiful woman. She caught his adoring look and giggled girlishly, demurely tucking her chin downward, the faint blush rushing to her cheeks as she smiled sweetly.

Esmeralda paused on the ground level and shrugged her two ladies off irritably.

Don’t fuss. I’m sick not dead, she declared emphatically.

Esmer they are only trying to help, Ossan said pointedly.

She paused and looked up quickly. I’m doing it again? she asked contritely.

Ossan nodded and she blushed furiously.

Domina Erin, Domina Meagan, please forgive me.

Both women’s strained faces dissolved in a rush of emotion as they surged in around her.

I promise, when we get home I’ll let Ossan spank me, she declared solemnly.

That brought a gasp of shocked outrage, which set both women giggling furiously.

Ossan stood watching his wife, as she was led away.

He started and turned, hearing boots scuffing on the marble. She only says things like that because the girls think it scandalous.

She’s not any better today?

The man towered over Ossan. The giant was built like a young god, thick in the chest, strong muscled shoulders and arms, his iron hard thighs barely