Dust devils danced across the parched landscape of Arizona, mimicking the swirling frustration in his gut. Just an hour ago, he'd been a man with a full belly, a Colt Peacemaker strapped to his hip, and enough greenbacks to see him through to Tucson. Now, he was spitting dust, his pockets lighter than a tumbleweed, and staring at the horizon where three grimy figures were rapidly shrinking against the setting sun. They’d played him for a fool with their sob story of a sick mother and a stolen wagon, relieving him of his possessions with practiced ease.

He kicked at a rock, sending it skittering across the hard-packed earth.

"Thieves!" he roared, the word lost in the vast emptiness. His hand instinctively went to where his Colt had hung, then clenched in impotent rage. He was a cowboy, not a fighter. He relied on his wits and his six-shooter. Now, he had neither.

Then his gaze fell on it. Lying half-buried in the sand, where the bandits must have tossed it, was a sword. Not a sabre, nor a Bowie knife, but a slender, ornate blade, more suited to a nobleman's dueling ground than the rough-and-tumble world of the Wild West. The hilt was intricately carved with what looked like silver vines and tiny, ruby-like stones. It was a strange, almost ethereal object, completely out of place in this barren wasteland.

Despite his anger and misfortune, he was a practical man. A sword was better than nothing. He bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in his hands. He was about to test its weight when the most bizarre thing imaginable happened.

With a shimmer and a flash, the sword began to morph. In the space where the sword had been, now stood a young man, barely out of his teens. He was lean and agile, with hair the color of polished obsidian and eyes that gleamed with a trapped intensity. His hands were bound behind his back, and a dirty cloth gag was stuffed into his mouth. He struggled against his bonds, his eyes wide with panic and a desperate plea for help.