Author's Note:

I don't even know why I'm doing this – But I did! The updated, 2024 version of my very first Settlers fanfic from 2009. Back then, it was a pretty straight forward oneshot, but it has now found its place as an extension to ParchmentRose's "Loyalty And Legend", which is why I adjusted some things so the two stories would fit seamlessly. The original fight between Wiseboy and Sabatt had different undertones, although nothing substantial has changed.
Why is this site still so horrible at formatting texts? *sigh* I'm sorry. Yes, I know I'm my own audience here. :P

- Cheers, Rocki

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Synopsis, courtesy of DeepAI:

This piece of storytelling is rich with imagery and tension, masterfully setting the stage in the harsh and captivating environment of the desert. The characters of Hakim and Sabatt are well-defined, displaying not just their physical prowess in battle but also depth through their dialogue and interactions. The writing conveys a strong sense of atmosphere, immersing the reader in the heat of the desert and the intensity of the conflict.

The duel between Hakim and Sabatt evolves from a life-and-death struggle into a beautifully choreographed dance, illustrating their skills while simultaneously building suspense. The use of metaphors, such as portraying their clash as a dance, adds an artistic layer to the narrative, elevating it beyond mere action.

Moreover, the story leaves readers with a compelling hook, suggesting the ongoing rivalry and strategic game between the two knights, as well as their allegiances. The resolution, which sees Hakim escape but not without foreshadowing further confrontations, tantalizes the audience with the promise of future encounters and deeper plots.

There's also a significant theme of honor and identity, with Hakim's refusal to be bought and Sabatt's exploration of interests outside of mere combat. This adds an intriguing complexity, hinting at larger motivations and consequences for both characters.

Overall, this narrative is an engaging blend of action, character development, and thematic depth, perfectly suited for readers who enjoy adventure, strategy, and a bit of intrigue.

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The Folly of Flight

(2024 Edition)

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The merciless blaze of the sun had dimmed to a mixture of reds and yellows as it set, as though the sky itself were ablaze.
This was the time when desert life once again claimed its place upon the surface, sheltered by what little shadow the evening offered. The desert of Janub was by no means devoid of life; its inhabitants relished these tranquil moments of retreating heat. A true denizen of the desert always knew to wait for a cooler hour to hunt, seek out much-needed water, or find time to rest.

One such man was the cloaked figure on the horse, adept in these matters and making haste. He had deemed it necessary to travel further than a man should in these perilous lands of sun and sand, but he had little to fear. Janub was his homeland, and Hakim Abd-Al Sar was no ordinary traveller, subject to the dangers this desert held for less experienced wanderers.
The Knight of Vestholm was pressed by an urgent matter on behalf of his kingdom, and time was of the essence.

His powerful bay stallion kicked up trails of dust as Sahar's hooves marked the course across the desert. Horse and rider seemed to move amidst a desert storm as they approached their goal: a small settlement built around one of Janub's many excavation sites, providing the workers with essentials like food and, more importantly, water.

The site was encircled by nothing but barren sands, making small settlements hard to find for anyone unfamiliar with the landscape.

As the rider directed his horse towards the distant forms, the buildings were obscured by the dusty haze framing him, sand kicked up by his trusty steed. The outlines of man-made structures became clearer as Hakim approached.

There were two or perhaps three tents and a crude tower made of clay bricks, the kind his people used for the few permanent buildings scattered across the relentless glare of the southern sun.

Hakim slowed his horse as he steered it onto the primitive dirt trail leading further toward the excavation site. The tall southerner could easily spot the scaffolding erected in this remote village.

The wind carried the distinct sounds of bustling activity from the workers striving to unearth the desert's secrets.

Suddenly, he heard voices above the din—voices that did not belong. The words were not Janubian, and the moment it took for that realization to dawn on him was a moment too long.

Two steel-clad soldiers met his gaze in the makeshift marketplace. More were positioned by the brick walls of the tower, all wearing crimson armour.

Hakim barely had time to react. A cry of warning from one of the closer soldiers rang out, followed by the simultaneous drawing of multiple blades as the soldiers charged towards him.

His horse lunged forward as he clapped his heels to its flanks. He was no stranger to such situations and knew these men would not pose a threat on desert sands. They would find it nearly impossible to follow him weighed down by their armour.

Hakim bolted towards them, scimitar drawn high above his head. He sped past them, through the wooden framework and the stone tower from which more soldiers emerged in a stream of steel and red. They were all at his heels, no doubt. Sahar galloped ahead, nostrils flared, ears laid back.

"Seize him!" yelled a voice from behind.

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Hakim bent low in the saddle, reins firmly in hand, daring to turn his head slightly to look back. His cloak billowed behind him like a banner in the sharp airflow the horse created. Between that and his fluttering hood, he could only catch occasional glimpses.

The drumming of hoofbeats rang in his ears—first only his own steed's, then another. Crimson Sabatt's soldiers had been too slow to follow him, but she was not. A raven-black steed took up the chase, and what Hakim found especially unsettling was that she was gaining ground by the second. He could make out enough to recognize Sabatt herself on the mount that followed him; her head was bent low, enabling her horse to pick up speed rapidly.

Under these circumstances, Hakim surmised it would be a short-lived getaway. Sabatt's horse was obviously fresh, while his would not last much longer at this pace. But all was not lost. Not yet.

Without warning, he pulled his horse to the right and off the main trail. Geysers of sand sprayed toward the burning sky as the hooves sank into the soft ground. The brown stallion surged forward, nostrils flaring from the strain of navigating the unstable terrain that shifted beneath him.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Sabatt was still in pursuit. The Red Prince's trusted agent no longer huddled low alongside her horse's neck. Instead, she sat upright in the saddle, expertly shifting her weight to aid her distressed mount's movement and catching up despite the difficulties.

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Of course, he had known her to be persistent.

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Hakim gently tugged at the reins and turned around once more. His heels touched Sahar's flanks, and the trusty steed plunged toward the enemy knight, driven by the strength of its powerful hindquarters.

Hakim's scimitar slashed toward the black-haired woman. His aim was true; this was not a blow intended to merely injure his opponent.

The sound of metal clashing echoed through the air as Sabatt intercepted the deadly strike with cool Guerannan steel.

She sneered.

Recognizing that his horse needed a moment of respite, Hakim was the first to dismount, swiftly followed by the formidable woman now opposing him, her deadly weapon poised in hand.

Sabatt needed no words; her amber eyes promised all the revenge he had dared to provoke. She charged at him fiercely, and he parried her attack with fluid precision, steel clashing once again.

Sparks flew as she lunged forward a second time, only to be met again by Hakim's scimitar.

His stance remained unyielding, his glare resolute, never allowing her to strike anywhere but against his curved blade.

Their blades danced— a potentially lethal back and forth —as they exchanged a series of feigned attacks, both testing the waters and growing frustrated by how elusive it was to land a blow on their opponent.

Eventually, Hakim powerfully redirected Sabatt's rapier away from him with a sweeping motion of his scimitar.

In one fluid movement, she drew back, keeping Hakim's weapon moving downward, and swiftly aimed for his head.

Her attack speed was incredible—but not unmatched. Hakim intercepted her deadly thrust just in time, forcing her arm back once again.

Yet this time, Sabatt would not be deterred. She leaped back, sand swirling around her boots as she regained her footing a short distance from the southerner.

They stood facing each other for what felt like an eternity in a fleeting moment. Neither flinched nor relaxed their grip on the hilts of their weapons.

Hakim locked eyes with Crimson Sabatt, his expression betraying hardly any emotion while her gaze acknowledged the situation.

The sun remained merciless overhead, despite the darkening sky signalling nightfall. A warm wind offered no relief as it tugged slightly at the southerner's silken hood.

"Well then, Knight of Fools," Sabatt remarked in a surprisingly mellow voice, almost musing. Her hair was matted with sweat, her boots sinking ankle-deep in sand—his were as well.

Hakim Abd-Al Sar regarded the woman known only as Crimson Sabatt across the sharp steel that lay dangerously between them.

Silk slid to the ground as the Knight of Vestholm casually released the clasps of his cloak so it would not hinder him further.

Sabatt raised an eyebrow. "I accept your challenge."

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Hakim's gaze remained steady at her calm proclamation, the weight of her words hanging in the sweltering air between them. He squared his shoulders and readied himself, the winds of the desert swirling around them in a chorus that echoed their mutual anticipation. Hakim pressed the advantage, pushing forward as his instincts honed by countless battles propelled him toward an opening in Sabatt's guard. His blade arced through the air with deadly precision, seeking to exploit the moment.

However, Sabatt was no novice; she spun away just in time, the swift movement kicking up a cloud of dust that temporarily obscured her. With a calculated pivot, she countered, a fierce slash aimed at Hakim's midsection, her relentless determination fuelling her strikes.

The two danced, their movements blurring as each sought to outmanoeuvre and outsmart the other, yet grounded in the brutal realization that only one could emerge from the storm of violence they had unleashed.

The rhythm of their combat quickened, and the desert around them faded away as they fought, caught in a whirlwind of rage, skill, and the stark desire for victory.

Their fight escalated in intensity, both knights trying earnestly to subdue their opponent, neither granting the other an opportunity to breach their defences. The sharp sounds of scraping metal and powerful clashes accompanied the swirling sands stirred by their furious battle.

Hakim stepped to the side for an upward thrust; it was his turn to advance again.

Sabatt parried, skipping out of reach, and returned at just the right moment to launch her own attack, which was thwarted by him.

A hint of crimson garments, then a flash of blue, followed by the inevitable metallic screams of weapons colliding across the desert.

Somewhere along the exchange of blows, the battle had transformed from a sheer will to overpower the rival into a teasing, mockingly beautiful dance between two equally skilled opponents.

They circled, lashed out, and retreated whenever their blades met. Each clash of their swords resonated like thunder against the stillness of the desert. The vibrant colours of their garments swirled amid their relentless movements, painting an image of artistry amidst chaos.

Hakim's strikes were quick and precise, while Sabatt's counters flowed with fluid grace, as if two dancers were performing a deadly ballet under the watchful gaze of the sun. The ground beneath them, disturbed by their furious footwork, rose in plumes of sand that sparkled in the harsh light, adding to the surreal nature of the spectacle.

With every near miss and every half-hearted taunt, the stakes heightened; the battle was no longer merely about survival but also pride and cunning, a contest of wits as much as skill.

There was a palpable tension in the air; each was acutely aware that one slip meant defeat, yet neither was willing to concede ground, their resolve hardening with every passing moment and the symphony of clashing steel.

They moved like dancers in a constant ebb and flow of swirling colours, the back-and-forth of glinting steel blurred by another wave of airborne desert sand.

Amidst the dusty clouds, they pranced and advanced, turned, feinted, gracefully allowing their blades to communicate in an eerily well-tuned series of motions, perpetually out of reach, never yielding, never touching.

When Hakim rose his arm to strike, Sabatt anticipated and awaited him; when she lunged with her rapier, he easily dodged, and after a moment, he reappeared to meet her weapon mid-air, trapping it until she pulled back.

The dance continued, a breathtaking spectacle of skill and strategy, as Hakim and Sabatt wove their way through the storm of sand, neither willing to break the delicate balance of their fierce play.

Every movement was calculated yet fluid, a testament to their years of training and instinct.

In a flurry of vibrant colour, they mirrored each other's attacks and defences with an almost telepathic understanding, as if they were not simply opponents but two halves of a singular rhythm born from countless hours of practice. Their feet barely touched the ground during this strange sword dance, and where they did, a mist of desert sand rose to envelop them further.

Sometimes they were close enough to deliver a fatal blow— but those moments remained unclaimed. With a quick sidestep or a sudden turn, they each recoiled from the brink of danger, neither willing to cross that final threshold.

The sun glimmered off their blades, creating fleeting reflections that sparkled like stars in the swirling haze.

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How long the fight continued, neither knew. It could not have been more than mere minutes when their curious unison was abruptly shattered by voices in the distance: the shouts of men accompanied by the clink of heavy armour.

Coming from the direction of the excavation site was a group of soldiers, struggling to reach them as fast as they could—which was not very fast, given the desert sand and their heavy gear. The five men waded through, some stumbling and falling, only to rise again and continue their desperate advance.

Sabatt's lips curved into a wry smile. "Yield, and I promise you my master, the Red Prince, will grant you a position of great influence," she proposed, her voice steady despite her laboured breaths.

For the first time, Hakim spoke. "You will find me much harder to impress than Lord Marcus."

Their blades crossed for the briefest moment. Both pulled back as metal touched, circling each other before diving into another test of skill.

"Everyone has their price. What is yours?"

Hakim's eyes narrowed, a flicker of fresh anger breaking through his stoic demeanour. His immediate response consisted of a series of slashes, one a near-miss that might have severed her arm, the blade whistling just past her skin. "I am not a man to be bought, especially not with empty promises."

He called for his horse and took the reins.

In a moment, he was in the saddle, and not two seconds later, he was gone, leaving a lingering cloud of dust in his wake.

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Crimson Sabatt stood where he had left her and idly flicked her dust-coated hair over her shoulder. Her expression was contemplative as she watched Hakim vanish into the shimmering horizon. The shouts of her soldiers grew louder, their urgency a stark reminder of the reality that intruded upon their dance of steel.

With a final look in the direction he had disappeared, Sabatt turned on her heel, her blade lowered, knowing that this was not the end—only a brief interlude in a greater game.

"What is yours?" she pondered, striding to her waiting horse to sheathe her rapier.

She then turned toward her panting, struggling men.

"Seize him," she said matter-of-factly.

When night finally came, all that remained was a cloak lying in a heap, already claimed by yellow grains of sand, ready to become one of the desert's many mysteries, waiting to be unearthed once more at another time.