Blown by the hot winds, five bright sand coracles drifted over the expanse of blond dunes. Even the sparse brown grass of the hills looked like paradise to the travelers after their long passage across the Great Desert.
The coracles were not the same as the typical airborne vessels flown by Uraban merchants each season. Instead of wickerwork, tanned buffalo hides were stretched tight over the wooden basket frames.
For their first attempts, the Nunghal travelers had filled the braziers with dried buffalo dung, which was in great supply across the plains; those attempts, though, generated barely enough heat to lift the coracles into the air, and the baskets had crashed without going very far. So Khan Jikaris dispatched riders to explore the land until they found exposed veins of black coal—the same stuff the Uraban merchants used—which proved to be an appropriate fuel.
Finally, the first Nunghal expedition set off. Khan Jikaris had never been so far from his open grassland, his tent city, or his wives. The women, who did not often agree, were unanimous in considering him foolish to embark on such a ridiculous adventure. He hadn’t listened to them (in fact, he rarely did). He felt enthralled, and a bit nauseated, as the heat from the coal fire lifted the balloon and carried them out into the desert.
Queasy, he leaned over the side of the basket and vomited out into the open air. Two of his companions laughed at his discomfort, and he forced them to push fingers down their own throats until they too vomited in a gesture of solidarity.
The khan had grown quite fond of the annual visitors from the strange lands to the north. Each year, they brought fascinating and desirable items and told remarkable stories. He anticipated the arrival of the sand coracles as much as he looked forward to the Nunghal clan gatherings on the southern sea.
Several times in the past, Imir had encouraged Jikaris to visit Uraba, but since he was the khan, he had always let the strangers come to him. But this year there was no sign of any strangers from across the desert. Week after week, the khan waited for the colorful Uraban coracles to arrive, and eager anticipation faded into disappointment, until the watchers simply wandered off and went about their own business.
Some, however, encouraged the khan to go investigate himself. It began as a joke, but to his annoyance the pressure mounted, and Jikaris felt pushed into a corner. It wouldn’t do for some blustering young rider to label his reluctance as cowardice, which would force Jikaris to defend his leadership of the clans. Though he was old, no one had yet demanded that he surrender his title to someone younger and stronger. In point of fact, few Nunghals particularly cared to become khan, since the independent clans weren’t easily led.
But Jikaris did want to know why the foreigners hadn’t come on their usual journey. Perhaps some great disaster had occurred, a plague or a storm that had killed everyone in their land. (He had no real concept of how large Uraba was.) Or, worse, had the Nunghals committed some offense that caused his friends and trading partners to turn their backs on him?
Honor-bound to investigate, Khan Jikaris commanded his people to build coracles and prepare for departure. Many of his clansmen understood the sand coracles, since they helped repair and rebuild the battered vessels each season before the Urabans sailed back across the Great Desert.
Once up in the air, however, even the khan of the Nunghal-Ari could not command or guide the floating ships. They were at the mercy of the winds. After many days of forlorn drifting and grumbling among his crowded companions—no doubt this grumbling was reflected in the other four coracles—they spotted the end of the desert and a small Uraban encampment.
“We’ll soon be on the ground again, where we can stretch our legs and run!” Jikaris was happy to take credit for the success of their voyage. He could hear the loud Nunghals in the other craft cheering.
However, the settlement they approached was almost empty. With all the stories Asaddan and Imir had told, he’d imagined that the Uraban capital would be much more extensive. He spotted only a dozen or so structures, some of which were tents. Two surprised young men ran out of a dusty shed, shouting in excitement when they saw the coracles.
As the Nunghals banked the coal fires in the braziers, the coracles settled toward the ground. Two of the craft crashed heavily, tumbling the occupants onto the grassy ground. Jikaris got up, brushed off his breeches, and stood tall as a handful of Uraban people ran forward to greet them. The khan tried not to show his disappointment, though he had expected a more extravagant celebration of his arrival.
Jikaris knew a few words of their language, but he had always pretended to not speak it in order to force his guests to use the Nunghal tongue. One of his companions had made two prior coracle voyages to Uraba and was more fluent in Uraban, so he served as translator. Jikaris nodded when his name was spoken, and the locals talked with one another, hurriedly discussing what to do. Apparently, their village was named Desert Harbor.
“Where is Imir?” Jikaris finally asked. “My friend Imir?”
After one of the Urabans responded at length, the Nunghal translated for his khan. “This is merely a place for the coracles to arrive. Their nearest capital city, Arikara, was recently destroyed in an earthquake. Their buildings collapsed. Many people are dead. I think he said Imir is there.”
Though distressed to hear this, Jikaris swelled his chest and struck his buffalo-hide vest. “Then it’s a good thing we have arrived. Have them take us to this Arikara. We will show them the way Nunghals help in a disaster.”
Khan Jikaris knew little about living in buildings, but he knew everything about living without them.