Scars of the Golden Dancer, Chapter 1 - The Caravanserai (Updated)

For March, I decided to post the updated version of Chapter 1 from “Scars of the Golden Dancer.” This shows how the first chapter evolved after working on the novel for two more years. One thing that changed drastically during the editing process is how Naji engages with Zayn. After getting feedback on it, I realized I needed to make the relationship healthier, which I did in this chapter and throughout the book. Naji’s state of mind has subtly shifted compared to the earlier version.

If you've got some time, I'd suggest reading this version and see how it compares to the earlier draft I posted back in 2019.

The desert moon shines like a jewel in the night sky, full and bright, watching over the caravan town. Now that the sun has set, the dry air is cool, and the wind shifts lazily over the dunes, ruffling my fur. With the stifling heat of the day fading away, it’s refreshing to be outside.

I’ve never been here before, so I didn’t know what to expect. This village of Zaptu is off the main caravan routes through the desert, and it’s little more than a cluster of mudbrick houses on the road leading to the local caravanserai. In the center of the houses there is a small square with a cheap inn, which is where I decide to stay. The rest of the structures in town are just residences. I’ve been to more remote places in my travels, but Zaptu is one of the smallest caravan towns I’ve seen. If the shortcut through the mountains doesn’t prove useful, I doubt I’ll ever come back through here.

The innkeeper suggested I go to the caravanserai since they’re having a festival tonight. While I want to sleep, the ghosts of my past are haunting me. After traveling straight across the desert for five days alone, camping out in the open, I need the company of others to bring me back to the present. My body is worn from hours of climbing over sand dunes, and my paws ache from stepping over jagged rocks, but I have been alone with my thoughts too much. Even if I just stand quietly off by myself, it will be a nice distraction. I will feel relieved to be a part of society again.

As I approach the stone compound, it looms over me. It has only a single gate. The walls are nondescript, but the gate’s archway is eloquently carved with inscriptions and ornamentation, a sign that appears to reflect more the town’s past wealth than its current. The door under the arch is open, with a lone caracal standing guard outside. He waves me over as I approach.

He takes a moment to appraise me before he speaks. “Have you come to see the dances tonight, traveler?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. The innkeeper didn’t specify what was going on, but I gathered it would be a show of some kind. He said I would find it very entertaining, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him I likely wouldn’t find what interests me there. I did take his advice to at least come and look. Spotted hyenas like me aren’t common in this area, yet that’s not where my reservations come from.

The caracal nods. “Things have already started, but there is still some entertainment left for the night. What’s your name?”

“Naji.”

He smiles and spreads his paws out. “Welcome to the caravanserai of Zaptu, Naji.”

I smile back and head through the gate. While the outside is simple with only one entrance, the inside has everything a traveler or caravan would need in one building. The narrow tunnel from the entrance opens into a large courtyard in the center of the complex. Small shops and storefronts are set along the courtyard’s edge while the high exterior wall protects the complex from raiders. There are rooms for rent and booths for passing merchants wishing to sell some of their wares. I realize I could have stayed here, but there’s no need. Any room with a clean bed beats sleeping on the ground.

On one side of the courtyard, a small crowd has gathered, and music is playing. People are standing in groups or sitting on carpets watching. Getting closer, I catch sight of a female striped hyena dancing alone in the center of the gathering, and my attention is drawn to her. A long piece of fabric is fluttering around her body, clasped in her paws. Other performers are waiting their turn off to one side, but the hyena captivates the audience with her performance.

She comes out of a twist and drops the fabric in front of herself. As the music begins its crescendo, she plants both feet and starts undulating her body. The muscles under her fur cause her stomach to ripple back and forth. Quick movements are followed by soft sensual motions, her actions precise and carefully timed. The drumbeat quickens as her dance hits its climax. As the song thunders to its end, she reaches down to the shift she’s wearing and pulls it. The next moment, she’s wearing only her top as the fabric around her waist falls away. As the final notes sound in the song’s finale, she lifts her top and pulls it off. Now completely naked, she gracefully bows low.

The audience explodes with hooting and catcalls. I clap myself, appreciating her form and moves, but surprised at the boldness of the dance. A cheetah comes forward, wearing a long kaftan, and stands next to the hyena, waiting for the applause to die down before he speaks. “Thank you, Sahar, for your beautiful dance,” he says, pausing to chuckle, “and the wonderful flourish at the end. If you liked Sahar’s routine, please don’t be stingy now.” He pauses, and the crowd applauds again. “Who wishes to buy the lady’s attentions for the night? She’s as good between the sheets as she is at dancing.”

“A silver dirham!” someone shouts.

“A silver and ten copper fals,” comes another call from the crowd.

I understood what the innkeeper was suggesting when I came here, but it still surprises me to see people bid in public like this. In Aksu, where I live, when you see dancers on the street, they always belong to an acrobat troupe. I had never seen whores dancing to advertise their wares in public like this, not that you can’t find them in the back alleys. The people of Aksu are not very rigid in their morals toward prostitution, but they are more reserved where they let it reside. Then again, in a city with a thousand courtyards, discretion is much easier to achieve than here.

Everyone here seems to be enjoying the spectacle, and the bidding is very lively. Many of the bidders appear to be travelers, still wearing their dusty robes like I am, but a few people wear finer clothing. The bidding ends, and the hyena’s attentions go for four silver dirhams to a scrawny wolf wearing a worn cloak fashionable with people to the north. I feel out of place standing here by myself, the only one of my kind in the crowd, but before I can leave, the next dancer is stepping forward. I’m ready to turn to leave when the glint of steel catches my eye.

A male golden jackal steps up with a swish in his step, carrying a kilij. The curved sword is unsheathed, and the blade glints in the light. Loose sheer fabric hangs off his hips, with a sash around his waist. An open vest on top of a tight shirt completes the ensemble. Like the woman before him, he’s here to sell his wares, but his is a different kind of attraction. He looks quiet and reserved as he stands in the middle of the audience and kneels, holding the sword out in front of him, the tip in the dirt. He focuses on the point of the sword in the ground, waiting for the music to begin.

“And now, Zayn,” calls out the cheetah. The applause is muted as he steps back to the stand next to the musicians.

The music starts slow with a flute. At first, the jackal just lets it drift, staying still, but when the strings join, he comes to life. Zayn swings the blade out before him and twists his body as he brings it to his side. He moves gracefully, stepping quickly with his feet and sweeping the sword in wide motions. He catches the dull edge of the blade with his free paw so he can pivot while holding it above his head before he lets go as he swings it out again. Slowly the music builds up pace, and Zayn moves faster, pushing himself into the song with eagerness.

When the drums begin, he rolls his stomach suggestively to the beat, while holding the sword above his head. He drops to his knees, balancing the sword on top of his head, and the blade barely wobbles.

He is one of the best dancers I have ever seen.

He leans back, holding the sword on the ground, till his head is touching the earth, twisting his belly and body to the beat. Then in a flash, he is back on his feet swinging the kilij.

His movements are intoxicating, and he is beautiful. As I’m watching him perform, I find myself wondering what he would feel like under my paws. His performance is powerful, seductive, and leaves me breathless. With the music at its crescendo, he spins around, holding the sword. He steps to the left, and the blade is a blur as he swings it wide. Zayn spins again, stepping back to the right, the blade slicing through the air with precision where he stood a moment before.

He finishes his dance with his footpaws close together, chest heaving from exertion. He has put his heart and soul into this, and while the audience applauds his efforts, they are not fired up like they were with the girl who danced previously.

The cheetah comes up smiling, pats Zayn on the back, and shakes his shoulder. “Passionate as always,” he declares to the audience. “Who wishes his attentions for the night?”

There is no response from the crowd, only a gentle mumble.

“No one wishes for his attentions this night?” asks the cheetah.

“Two coppers for his muzzle,” says someone in the audience. The jackal looks toward the speaker, his ears drooping instinctively.

Someone else laughs at the ridiculously low offer.

“Four coppers for his tail,” someone else calls out. The jackal huffs, not amused.

“He won’t even give you a hand job for four coppers,” says the cheetah to the audience. “Has not his dance earned him at least a silver dirham? Be generous now.”

Nobody speaks up. I hear a whispered comment of “not buying in public” from someone near me. The jackal looks away from the crowd, dejected. His lively ears and tail are drooping even though he is still panting heavily from the exertion of the dance. He’s a great dancer, I can tell that, but he belongs in an acrobat troupe, not out here selling himself to travelers. Glancing around at the audience, I can see many of them want him with hunger in their eyes but are too shy to speak up. A few are licking their fangs.

He turns away from the center of the dancing area, tail dragging behind. All that passion and drive he showed is gone, replaced by despondence. I can’t deny I wonder what touching him feels like, but I also feel a connection to him, an understanding. I know what that look is; I know what being alone is like. I’m reminded of rosetted fur from a ghost in my mind that followed me across the desert for five days, of days past, and days that could have been. And deep down, I want to feel the lithe frame of the jackal, with his powerful muscles, under my paws.

“Three silver!” I call out, going high. There is a palpable gasp from the crowd as many of them turn to gawk at me. A few give me jealous looks. I don’t care what any of these people think of my tastes. I stand up straight, letting them stare. The jackal has frozen in mid-step and isn’t moving. Even though I’m paid for my skills with the sword, I can feel all the eyes on me, and it’s a little frightening.

Did I just buy the attention of a male whore for the night? Have I been alone for so long I’m willing to pay and pay well for companionship? The job that sent me across the desert only paid twenty silver dirhams, so this is a good chunk of what I just earned.

“Three it is,” calls out the cheetah.

Why yes, I did.

#

Zayn is standing off to the side next to the musicians as I approach him, money in my paw. He’s leaning against the wall of the courtyard, waiting. His ears perk when he sees me. There is already another dancer entertaining the crowd, so no one is paying any attention to us now. He’s still wearing his dancing clothes, but he doesn’t have the sword anymore.

“Three silvers is most kind of you, sir,” he says meekly, looking down.

This submissive action surprises me. It’s different from how I thought he’d act. I much prefer the drive he showed dancing and the fiery personality I suspect lies within. I reach down and gently tilt the jackal’s muzzle up, so he is looking at me. “You are an amazing dancer.” When he doesn’t respond, I continue. “Are you not worth three silver?” I ask him.

“Oh yes, but some nights the crowd is shy. Not everyone is as discerning as you are,” he says and then grins, tongue lolling out.

“I appreciate anyone who can swing a sword like that.”

That gets me a small chuckle in return. He puffs up his chest. He has a slenderer build than I do, but he’s only a few inches shorter than I am. I’m rather broad-chested, but hyenas are usually stockier than jackals. “I will not disappoint you.”

His scent is strong from the exertion of dancing, but beneath his musk, I can smell the enticing hint of frankincense. I’m forced to smile at his enthusiasm. “I don’t think you will,” I say, slipping the money into one of his paws.

He looks down to check the money before he sequesters it away into a small pouch. Pleased, he asks me, “You are staying here in the caravanserai?”

He’s very down to business. I guess in his line of work, people don’t pay you to talk, but I want to know more about him too. I want to know what makes this lanky canine tick. He doesn’t know that, though. He thinks I’m just paying for his body, which I suppose I just did.

“I’m staying at the inn on the other side of town.”

“Ah, that’s fine. The rooms there are nicer,” he says before he smiles, flashing a little fang. “Shall we sojourn?”

I do want to go, to explore his lithe frame, but first, I want to introduce us formally, even though I already know who he is. “What is your name?”

“Zayn,” he says, bobbing his head softly. He pauses, considering. “What is yours?” he asks, finally.

“Naji,” I say.

The jackal nods, wagging his tail softly and doesn’t say anything else. I want to ask him something to keep him talking, but he’s waiting on me to move.

“I’ve, uh, never done this before,” I confess.

“You take me back to your room.”

“I know, I’m just…,” I know what drives someone to this type of work. “I’m sorry.”

His expression hardens. “I’m not giving you your money back.”

“I wouldn’t ask for it.”

“Then why bid with your coin?”

I shrug. He wouldn’t understand, and I’m not sure I do either. “Spur of the moment, I guess.”

“You find me attractive, do you not?”

I nod. “Of course, but I have always been mithly.”

“You are the same as me then,” Zayn says, before pointing a finger toward the crowd. “Not many of us here with that preference, but you never know who passes through town.”

“I imagine that doesn’t make your work easy.”

He shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t, but I survive.” He yawns. “You sure you don’t want to get what you paid for?”

“I’m good. It’s—” A paw touches my arm to stop me from talking.

“It’s okay, really. I don’t mind,” he says.

My ears lower. “It wouldn’t be right.”

He looks toward the current dancer, a fennec fox, bounding around the stage. “Life isn’t always right, but we keep on living anyway. Shall we go?”

There’s nothing I can think of saying to that, so I turn to lead him out, and he wraps an arm around mine. His paw is warm, and the pads on his fingertips tease the fur on my arm. No one watches us leave as we walk out of the caravanserai, and I’m struck by how casual this feels as we head out into the night.

The caracal guarding the gate waves and smiles. “Glad to see you found something of interest to do with your time here,” he says.

I just mumble a thanks and walk down the road, the jackal holding onto me. His musk has taken on the subtle scent of arousal, and it tickles at my nose. The air doesn’t feel oppressive in the cool night, but the anticipation of what’s to come makes my fur tingle.

#

The innkeeper barely looks up from his reading when I return with Zayn. This inn is a small building, and the entranceway opens into a modest tiled courtyard with a single date palm growing in the center. I pause in the courtyard to light a lantern and lead Zayn to my accommodations for the night. There are a few lamps set up around the inn, but in my room, it’s dark. Halfway up the wall, there is a large metal hook, and I hang the lantern on it.

The room itself is simple. It contains a small, low, wooden table on one side with a washbasin on it and a narrow wood frame bed. The accommodations are basic, but there is decorative stone latticework high in the wall that lets fresh air in from the courtyard.

Even as I’m closing the heavy wooden door behind us, Zayn is stepping into his role. He walks up behind me to press himself against me, running his paws across my stomach. His touch is gentle as he ruffles my fur. I turn around.

“You waste no time,” I say to him.

He laughs, lightly toying with my pants. “I know how to handle someone like you.”

I smile at that comment. I’m not sure comfortable is the right way to describe what I’m feeling. I already feel a little flush being in this little room alone with him. I wonder if he’s really as excited as he seems or just good at this. The vest I’m wearing is buttoned up the front, and the moment I go to start undoing them, Zayn starts to loosen my pants. He has them down at my ankles before I undo the last button. He looks up at me, obviously trying to guess what I want to do first. The look in his eyes is plain: do I want to have him get on his knees, or do I plan to lead? Before he can take some action, I step away from the door, leaving my pants on the floor, and brush past him.

“Come,” I say, going over to the bed, trailing a paw across his chest. I slip the vest off, and I pull off the shirt I am wearing, tossing it aside. The bed is small, but the inn at least provided me with some pillows for it. Zayn takes off his sash and pants, carefully folding them before he places them on the table. When he’s done, the jackal comes over and gets on top of me to straddle me as I recline on the pillows. I’m already aroused, but I can feel myself stiffen further.

Slowly, he pulls off his vest and the undershirt while on top of me. His body is beautiful, and his shaft is already starting to peek out of its sheath. I stroke my large paws through his fur. My need aches with him sitting on my hips, and the jackal quivers at my touch. Yet, the moment I put my paws on him, things feel wrong. The jackal’s fur is coarse, and yet underneath it, I can feel the tracing of scars against the flesh. Old scars and wounds cover his body on his back and sides. I frown to myself as I ruffle his fur.

“Are my attentions not to your liking?” Zayn asks. He’s noticed the change in my demeanor.

“They are very much to my liking,” I say. I run my paw up his back, feeling the subtle way the skin has been ripped up and healed, hidden by the coarse fur. “You have been whipped before?”

Zayn looks away the moment I ask the question, and his ears lower quickly for a second before he looks back at me. “Once, yes.”

I stroke my paw carefully through the fur. “Why?”

Zayn tickles my tummy, making me squirm, trying to distract me. “It was a long time ago; I had a rough time growing up.”

I close my eyes and rub up and down the jackal’s side, making Zayn squirm. I trace over the scars again before letting go. “You had such a rough time growing up so that you were whipped multiple times?” I ask when I open my eyes and look straight up at him. There are too many scars for this to be a single occurrence.

Zayn growls at me. “I don’t have to be here. If my body does not please you, I can leave.”

“These are not the scars of a prostitute,” I respond.

Zayn sighs and looks away again, thinking before he looks back at me. “It was a long time ago and not something I want to talk about.” The jackal leans down to lick my nose. “Now, will you stop asking questions and let us continue this? You’re going soft on me.”

There is something more to him I don’t know. “You don’t have to do this,” I whisper. “We can just talk.” The scars tell a story I want to know.

Zayn chuckles. “I want to,” he says. I wonder if his reassurance is real or part of the job. He doesn’t give me long to question that, because he quickly draws me into a kiss. When I press my tongue up against him, he deepens the kiss and lets me explore his muzzle. I can feel his fingers starting to wrap around my cock, running up and down it. I shift my weight underneath him, and when he breaks off the kiss, I reach up to trace the line of his muzzle.

He smiles down at me before he sits up in my lap, leaving my hardening cock pressed against his rear. Lithe, powerful, and seductive, he’s beautiful. Looking over the jackal’s tawny pelt, I can almost forget what lies underneath it. I gently trace my paw down his thigh, toward his groin, and along his cock. He whines with need and presses himself back harder, paws going up behind his head to show off his stomach. I squeeze his shaft a little to see what type of response I get out of him.

He shivers, letting his stomach muscles roll. “See, isn’t this better?” he murmurs. He lifts himself up a little and sits down, forcing my hardness to trace the cleft of his ass, his tongue lolling out of his muzzle. What he is doing is just making me want him even more; I need to feel him wrapped around my cock. He senses that, because as if on cue, he’s reaching back behind himself. I don’t even see where he gets the oil from with him balanced on my chest, but I can smell it. The next time his paw touches me, he’s stroking my shaft with the lubricating oil. I feel myself gasp at his touch, but that only causes him to start smirking.

The jackal pushes up and positions himself so that I feel myself pressed up against his hole. A split second later, I’m sinking into him as he sits down. He consumes all of me with no restraint then pulls himself up to start a riding rhythm. All I can do is grab his hips and hold onto him as he starts bouncing on my slickened member. I close my eyes and just feel him work me. It’s everything I thought he would be.

The sensation is wonderful. Each stroke is like heaven, and the room fades out of my perception. All I can feel is Zayn, and I don’t want to let this moment go. The bed is groaning loudly in protest, but I barely notice. I find myself panting hard as I rise up to meet his body. He’s hot against me, and each stroke pushes me closer to the edge of release. It stretches on seemingly forever, but finally, I feel a quickening in my own pulse and his rhythms. I press myself into him as hard and deep as I can, and I feel myself explode. He stiffens at first and then lets his body relax as I settle back on the bed.

As I collapse spent, I realize he hasn’t come yet, so I wrap my fingers around his cock again. He squirms a little and gives off a needy moan. With one paw holding his thighs down, I work my hand over his hard canine knot, grinding my spent shaft against his rear.

He barks a little and screws his eyes shut. It doesn’t take much effort on my part until his tongue is lolling out of his muzzle. With a yip, the jackal shoots onto my stomach, almost hitting me in the face.

“Someone enjoyed that,” I say, spent and exhausted.

He pants, out of breath. “Yes.”

We stay this way for a few minutes, sharing the afterglow before he gets off of me. Cleaning up with a towel and a small jug of water Zayn fetches for us, I wonder if he’s going to leave now, but he doesn’t make any effort to. Afterward, we lie on the bed with him on top of me. I run my claws through his fur as I breathe in his scent. He’s warm, and I have my muzzle buried between his ears. We’re both tired, but I still have questions. Idly I’ve been tracing the scars across his back.

“Really, how did you get these scars?” I ask him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. I wonder if he has fallen asleep, but then he speaks.

“I was paid well by a traveler passing through town who enjoyed using the whip. He beat me pretty badly, and at the end of the night handed me a purse full of gold. I spent the next few weeks recuperating.”

I shake my head. “Some people think only of themselves. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Yes,” he responds coolly, “but I’m not the only one with scars under their fur either. How did you acquire a jagged scar like the one on your flank?”

I’m a little surprised he noticed that, but I tell him the story. “Knife fight. I got ambushed while working as a guard back in Aksu. My assailant was quick and managed to slice me open good, but he wasn’t quick enough once I pulled my sword. He ended up dead.”

I feel him stiffen. “What is it you exactly do?” he asks me.

“I’m a hired swordsman. I generally do guard work, but I’ve also done caravan work before. I try to be discerning about who I work for.”

I feel him relax a little. “Of course. You have to be with that type of work.”

I want to talk to him more, but I’m tired, worn from traveling and worn from what we just did. Instead, I just hold him. We drift off to sleep together shortly after that.

#

Sunlight is filling the room as I recheck my pack. It’s getting toward mid-morning as I finish getting my gear together. Zayn left at dawn, wishing me well on my journey, and since then, I have been alone with my thoughts. I went out to buy supplies for the last leg of my trip before returning to get my things together. I am trying not to dwell on the jackal, but my mind keeps drifting back to him. The old road up to the pass will take me away from here and back to Khalin on the other side of the mountains. I may never come back through this town again. If so, I would never see Zayn again, and for some reason, that bothers me.

Absently, I stroke my left flank, feeling the scar there. It was a very deep cut, and the fur has a subtle way of not growing right over the wound that slightly mars my pelt. I can still mentally feel the scars under his fur as I think back to touching him. Zayn has been whipped so that his fur wouldn’t bear the marks of the beatings, yet the skin underneath carries the wounds. Whoever did that was careful not to ruin the jackal’s looks.

I shake my head. Something about the story doesn’t sit right with me, but who am I to judge? We’ve all got scars we don’t want to talk about, including me. Lucky for me, not all of mine are visible.

“You’re growing soft, Naji,” I mutter, as I stand looking over the items I have with me. Years of working as a hired blade and I would think something like this wouldn’t bother me. I’ve killed people before, but I try to maintain a sense of honor about my work. Some of the jobs I had to take when I first started out made that impossible to do. Now that I’ve established a good reputation, I no longer do that kind of work.

I sigh to myself. Crossing the desert without a camel has been very draining, and being alone out in the sand can play tricks on your mind. I did a lot of thinking on my way here, and I’ll do a lot of thinking on my way to Aksu. I’ve done a lot of hurrying from place to place in my life, always moving, always keeping busy, looking for my next job. It’s kept me going, and it’s kept me alive, yet it’s getting harder to keep things in the past behind me.

Maybe I should give myself a little time to breathe right now. I can leave tomorrow; there’s no pressing reason for me to be back in Aksu immediately, and just maybe, I can see Zayn again.