For at least a quarter day, I knew that there was death ahead.
It was a feeling at first, even before I saw the sunbirds circling the spot of green on the plain below. Down from the hills, and closer, I could smell it on the occasional quartering wind.
The oasis was known to me. It was a seldom-used stop on this odd leg of the caravan route. In dry years the spring was brackish and foul, and the discomfort of the route and the lack of secondary trade opportunities generally outweighed the day or two gained by the slightly shorter distance traveled between Carchemesh and Mari. Most traffic was by the Euphrates road, instead.
The feeling grew stronger as I approached. Around my neck, the broken-tooth talisman throbbed. It knew death. So did I.
I dismounted, and made the last thousand steps cautiously afoot. Closer, the mare started to shy. I stopped to tie her lead rope to a large rock. From the wolf skin sheath hanging from the saddle, I pulled my sword. Holding it with the heavy point down, I slowly made my way to the first line of trees where the red dust gave way to the grey-green saw grass of the oasis floor.
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