Chapter 1: A Mercy

  Ammon’s blood ran cold despite the sun beating down on his bare arms as he stood atop a ridge staring down into the valley down below. For all it was worth, it was a beautiful day, no clouds covered the Ocean of Sand, though they rarely did. His stomach turned, as he peeled his eyes away, and forced himself to look away, just for a moment, to delay the inevitable.

  He turned around, swallowing hard to keep down the dried meat he had eaten just moments before. Sweat poured off his brow, as he looked down at two men, Ol’ha and Micha, soldiers both, pulling up and storing massive Water Rocks in a nearby wagon, all ready to be tapped. They didn’t know what was on the other side of the ridge. Thinking of it made Ammon gag, but his lunch stayed put. For now. Oh, gods above, this is horrible. He wanted to turn back around, but he couldn’t, so he just stared at the massive Spire just beyond the men. It wasn’t the only one in the area, but it was the biggest, by far. It had a flat top on which the army in this part of the Ocean had set up base. The men and women on top, seemed nothing more than tiny specks of dust being blown around in the wind.

  Ol’ha and Micha cut the roots off another water rock and loaded it into the wagon. They spoke for a moment and looked around until they spotted Ammon. He waved to them. “What are you doing up there?” Micha called to him, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  “Just looking around, for a moment. Stay there. I’m going down here to walk. Take a look at things. No need to come with,” he called back hoping they’d listen.

  “All right, we’ll be here under the wagon. We can pull more if we need them when you get back.” Ol’ha didn’t look happy about that offer, but it was hard to tell from this distance. Ammon nodded back at the two men. With that, they began trotting to the wagon, pulling the water skins off their belts and taking long drinks.

  Ammon steeled himself, bracing himself against what he was about to see, and turned around. The sight was something that he was just going to have to get used to. He thought he could sense a metallic taste in the air, from the blood baking on the rocks in the heat, and even thought he could hear the sizzling of it boiling off. The blood belonged to four bodies, two children and a man and a woman, a family, he assumed. Though maybe it wasn’t. Maybe they had made it look like it was a family.

  They were all tied down, sprawled out between some particularly pointed rocks by ropes, and their stomachs had been sliced open, allowing the heat of the sun to cook their innards. The father had gotten the worst of it, by the looks of it, Ammon thought. His stomach didn’t look like it had been cut open, his head had been tied down facing his family so that he would be forced to watch them slowly bleed out. A cruel fate, that was, to die in the heat of the sun, boiled and baked from the inside out. It brought to mind the image of some wild beast playing with its food before finally giving it the mercy of killing it.

  Ammon stumbled down the rocky ridge, small pointed rocks digging into the soft soles of his leather sandals as he went. He gulped when he got closer as the actual smell of blood in the air invaded his throat and the stink of death slapped him in the face. He covered his mouth, and willed his feet forward while every inch of his being protested, begging him to crawl back up the ridge and hide.

  One step at a time he pushed the fifteen or so feet to the family. The two children’s heads were gone, a horrible crime as it made the funeral much harder to hold, as the head was what was buried. Whoever would hold it, would make do, Ammon was sure. Everyone made do in the end.

  The blood on the ground was sizzling. They must have been killed in the night, as the pool was still there for the most part. Fear gripped at Ammon, and his vision spun, as he saw the terrible image of himself in the same position. When he came back to himself, he was on his hands and knees, and he was shaking. He picked himself up and walked on, surveying the damage done. The woman’s head was still hanging on just a bit, her mouth frozen in a perpetual scream. The man, however, did not seem to be touched, only his head tied looking at his family, though instead of his stomach it seemed his throat was cut.

  In fact, there was still blood dripping out of the man’s throat, and the pool of blood under him was nowhere near the size as the massive pool underneath the rest of his family. The individual drops made a faint splat as they joined the rest of his blood on the ground.

  As Ammon made his way down the row of bodies, he kicked a rock and it bumped the leg of the man. His eyes shot open and rolled until they found Ammon. His eyes were a bright green, piercing, looking right at Ammon. His breathing was a bit labored, but it was steady. The cuts on his neck didn’t look that deep, but he had been bleeding for at least half an hour now, by the size of the pool beneath him. Ammon’s breath caught in his throat as he watched man pull weakly against his restraints. He couldn’t leave him here, but what else was he supposed to do? He felt the urge to leave again, pulling at his feet.

  He pushed all those thoughts to the side. He could use this man, and he would.

  “Help me, oh gods, my family. Oh gods, why us? Help…” on and on he rambled and stuttered, like that, until Ammon went up to him. Down below a nearby embankment, Ammon could see a wagon, the family’s, he assumed, with a water rock inside.

  He was still going, when Ammon pulled the knife off his belt and cut his head restraint. Ammon grabbed the man by the chin and held it still where they could see each other. He covered the man’s mouth with his hand. “If I go get you some water, will you hush and tell me what happened here?” Ammon took his hand away and the man just blinked. He kept his mouth shut but nodded.

  “Right,” Ammon said, pushing himself up. He made his way to the wagon and searched it. There was a cup there, as well as some goods that looked market ready, some jewelry, some tools, some raw metal, the usual goods. Ammon took the cup and climbed in the wagon and shuffled around the water rock until he found the tap. As he was standing to leave the wagon, he saw a figure sitting on top of a nearby spire, one of the many in the immediate area. Ammon shaded his eyes with his free hand. He saw a glint of a spyglass that the man was looking at him through. You? He mouthed counting on the chance that he could read his lips from there. The man took the glass down and nodded. Ammon just looked for a moment, not feeling, not really even thinking. Oh, gods, it’s really happening, isn’t it? Ammon thought to himself, panic rising in him, but he balled his fists and pushed through.

  He swallowed hard, turned, jumped off the wagon, and took the water back to the man.

  Once the man had finished the cup, he coughed out the word, “more.”

  Ammon had no time for this. He was sure at that very moment, Ol’ha and Micha were just over the ridge, about to catch him here. He couldn’t let that happen. But he needed this man. He needed him to talk. Needed him for just a moment longer. So, with more reluctance than he should have shown, he pulled the flask from his belt, and turned it up to the man’s lips.

  “What’s your name?” Ammon asked, taking the flask away. It wasn’t yet empty.

  “Kasara,” he said, his head falling back onto the rock at an odd angle. Ammon held it up. “Who are you,” he asked.

  “Ammon, is my name. Would you like more water?”

  He did so Ammon poured the remainder of the water from his flask into his mouth. “That’s all, the water rock in your wagon had been slashed. I was lucky to get what I did out,” Ammon lied. He had no time to go back and get more, he needed to be gone from here now, but he had to deal with this man.

  “Can you help me,” Kasara asked. His green eyes were piercing into Ammon’s, helpless.

  Ammon shook his head.

  Tears began to stream down his face. For the first time Ammon looked at him closely. He was a sturdy man, around the same age as Ammon in his thirties. His cheeks were bronzed from years in the sun, and had deep lines running through it from years of wind sweeping sand in his face. “So is this really it for me? Oh gods why like this?” he wailed. He didn’t seem to be talking to Ammon, but rather something past him, beyond the sky and past the sun.

  “Kasara,” Ammon said, trying to cut through the man’s crying.

  Nothing.

  “Kasara,” Ammon said, shaking his head slightly with the hand holding it and snapping his fingers at him with the other. He was able to get through to him. “Kasara, I might not have been able to help you and your family, but I swear to you if you tell me what I need to know, this will never happen to another family again. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, but more tears leaked from his eyes.

  “Good, good. Now tell me what happened.” The pool of blood beneath him was growing. He had been cut on both sides of his neck, but not very deep and not all the way across.

  “We were coming to the market underneath the Spire, we had rented a plot for a tent and everything. We were going to stay through the season, just like we always do… did.” The tears came back. Some deep and foul part of Ammon had to resist the urge to smack Kasara across the face. He was running out of the moment he had promised his men.

  “Take your time, Kasara, take your time. How did you get in this situation exactly? Hurry, your wounds are opening further.” It was a lie, but maybe it would motivate him into speaking.

  “We… umm… we were just riding along, business as usual, and this man, I think it was just one man— “

  “Just one man, not two, not three? All important for the future. Look at my vest, see the red trim? I’m a Humble One, I have connections. Ones that can help families like yourself in the future, try and remember all of this in exact terms.”

  Kasara thought for a moment. “Yes, for sure just one man. He came up to us. Asked us where we were heading. I told him ‘Spireshade Market’. Said he was going that way too. Asked us… asked us if we had room for a fifth. We told him we did and he hopped in the back. Heard my daughter, or maybe my son, I don’t know, either way, one of them screamed and then everything went black.”

  “Right, yes yes, then what? How did you get here?”

  “Oh gods, just let me die,” the man moaned, tears mixing with blood around his neck, streaking the dust on his face into the blood and making this dirty paste on his neck. Ammon’s neck throbbed in sympathy.

  “Please, Kasara, I promise you can go peacefully in a moment, I just want to make sure you’ve given me a full account, that’s all.”

  “He took the wagon here. I was tied up. My family was dead. The man from the wagon was murdering my family. That is the whole story, Ammon. I know nothing else.”

  Ammon nodded. “You have been a great help to me and the people of the Ocean. We will find your murderers and will prosecute him to the fullness of the law. Thank you.” He took out his belt knife once again, and held it. He let go of Kasara’s head and sat down next to him.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” Kasara asked him, his eyes rolling around trying to see Ammon.

  “Have you ever had to perform an act that you didn’t want to, Kasara? One that you know you had to or else everything would fall apart?” Ammon asked, turning his knife over and over in his hand, feeling the bone hilt and checking the sharpness of the blade.

  “What do you mean?” Kasara asked, his eyes growing more frantic. Ammon rose to his knees and looked down over Kasara.

  “Sometimes, Kasara, we have to do things that we don’t want to, but that we have to. For what’s best for everyone. And this will be best for everyone.” It has to be best for everyone, it has to be, Ammon thought, raising the knife above his head.

  “Wait, Ammon, don’t do this,” Kasara was beginning to yell.

  Ammon brought his hand down on his mouth so that Micah and Ol’ha wouldn’t hear. “I’m sorry it had to end like this Kasara.”

  “Please, consider it a mercy,” Ammon said, plunging the knife right in the man’s throat. He wasn’t sure if the noise that came after was from himself or Kasara. Blood spurted up around the blade, covering it and Ammon’s hands. Kasara began to choke as it ran down into his lungs and it bubbled out of his mouth. He pulled and trashed against the restraints, but it was no use. Their eyes met. Kasara’s eyes weren’t afraid, they were accusing, condemning, and angry at Ammon. They said that in that moment, he knew that he could’ve been saved, but instead Ammon decided to kill him. Ammon had no choice but to look away. He couldn’t face those eyes, but he could still feel them, staring at him, accusing him. He pushed harder, warm blood covered his hands once again, why wouldn’t the man just die already? He gripped the handle with both hands and twisted hard, turning the blade sideways. He closed his eyes to escape the feeling, but they were there staring at him, even in his own head. Nowhere was safe. He pulled the knife out and plunged it back in for good measure.

  Finally, the man was dead. The blade was still stuck in his neck, at a stranger angle than the initial clean stab, and the blood covering Ammon’s hands made them feel heavy. Ammon could feel his throat contracting, and he gagged, but kept himself from vomiting, with some effort. Time to focus, he thought to himself. He couldn’t leave his knife in the man’s throat, it was an army issue, which Ammon cursed himself for thinking about using.

  He grabbed it with both hands, and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. He used his foot on the man’s chest for leverage to finally get it free. He wiped the blood on the man’s sky blue vest, staining it with thin red marks just above his waist. He wrapped a piece of the vest around the blade and scrubbed it to get the last drops off. He pointedly avoided the man’s eyes, but it didn’t matter. Every time he blinked he could see them, in that swirling, inky blackness of the back of his eyelids.

  The blade was finally clean, and after a moment of thought he just jammed it back in the sheath, and started scurrying back over the ridge. His breathing was labored, when he got to the top, and his vision was swimming slightly. He wasn’t sure how much of it was from the climb back up and how much was from what had happened in the valley below.

  This side of the ridge, the leeward side of the flat plain that the field of water rocks was planted on, wasn’t as steep. Ammon straightened his back, to try and look natural, and calmly walked towards the wagon. He remembered that his hands were still covered in blood. He looked down at himself to make sure that there were no other signs of blood on his person. He didn’t see any, so he wiped his hands on a leaf from the water rocks, and kept going, while trying to steady his breathing even further.

  The two men were right where Micha had said they’d be, lounging under the wagon, lying on the rocky ground, out of the harsh sun, sipping on a water skin, passing it back and forth laughing. Ammon squatted down and looked at the two. The one on the left was Ol’ha, a stocky man with massive arms and deep tan skin, with dark black hair, cut short all over his head. There was a massive scar under his left eye, running from just under his eye, down under his chin, from an accident gathering wood when he was younger. Staying out in the sun like he always did caused the color of the sacar to drain out and swell, making it look puffy and too white.

  The man on the right, Micah, was the complete opposite. He was a tiny man, much younger than the thirty-something Ol’ha, somewhere around twenty-three, with pasty white skin, burnt red from being out in the sun. He had red hair, when it was longer, but he kept it shaved most of the time, shorter than the older men. Now you could see some of the red poking out.

  “Are you two ready?”

  “Yeah,” Ol’ha said, crawling out from under the wagon. He offered his hand to Micha to help him up. “Say, Ammon, where did you run off to,” he asked, knocking the dust off his hands and the knees of his baggy pants.

  Ammon thought for just a moment, looking at him with a blank expression on his face, something he was more than capable of producing. He blinked. The eyes stared at him. He winced and calmly, trying his best to keep his hands from shaking, took out a cloth from his belt pouch and wiped the sweat off his bald forehead. Ol’ha was so much taller than Ammon, which didn’t take much, but this man was massive. Micha was nearing six and half feet tall, but Ol’ha even towered over him. But Ammon wasn’t intimidated. “I thought I heard something. Ji’an was saying the other day, that there were raiding parties out on the outskirts, robbing families on their way into Sipreshade. One can never be too careful, when raiders are out and about.” He climbed up in the wagon, and sat. He was sure that would be enough to deter any more questions. Besides, he was famous for his ability to wander off and get lost among the rocks while supervising work. They would be none the wiser.

  “Well?” Micha said, shifting his feet nervously. He eyed his double-ended spear, a ka’pa as they were called, which wasn’t in his hand, but rather sitting next to Ammon. Ammon’s mouth worked. They can see it in your face, they know, a little voice, his own voice, in the back of his head, said, taunting him. They will kill-- he cut the voice off before it could finish its sentence.

  “Well, I didn’t see anything. I got distracted just walking around for a moment,” Ammon said, glancing at his hands and seeing faint red on them, then folding them between his thighs.

  His heart raced.

  He blinked. The eyes were still there.

  He wiped his forehead.

  Micha nodded, but Ol’ha looked annoyed. “It would’ve been nice to have had a hand with those things, really.”

  Micha turned a shade of gray as the color drained from his face. He had joined the army after the institution of the Humble Ones about six years back, so he had more respect for the title than the old timers like Ol’ha. That sort of belligerence was punishable, but Ammon understood.

  “Really, Ol’ha, work like this is above my station.” Ammon unconsciously fingered his vest trim. He blinked and saw the eyes again. The other men had golden trim on their vests, in certain patterns denoting which Tribe they belonged to and were sky-blue, which was the most common color in the Ocean for attire. Ammon’s was a unique pattern, one reserved for Humble Ones. “Besides, you needed someone to watch your back. You never know what’s lurking out there.” It was unconvincing, because, well, they knew Ammon and what he was capable of. No they don’t, the voice whispered to him.

  “Bah. No matter. Work’s done anyhow. That’ll be enough, yes? Please say yes, I really don’t want to have to pull anymore,” Ol’ha begged, knowing that Ammon could easily make him pull more. There were four water rocks in the wagon.

  “Yes, the trip isn’t that long, not really, and there’s only let’s see…” Ammon mouthed names and counted on his fingers, “... five of us, at most. Clear Waters isn’t that far away. So yes, this should be plenty. Excess, more than likely. Especially once we stop at Little Stone.”

  Ol’ha rolled his eyes.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Better safe than sorry, Ol’ha,” he added flatly. “Can we get moving?”

  “Of course,” Ol’ha said, walking off muttering to himself, shaking his head. Ol’ha walked up a small hill beside the wagon that had rock exposed right to the sun. On top there was a massive black and yellow snake, curled up sunning itself. He patted it on the side to wake it up and it unrolled itself, to a size that made Ol’ha look like a child. He grabbed a bridle off the ground and fitted it around the snake’s mouth, and led it down the hill, the rattleback dwarfing Ol’ha trailing behind the man. The creature’s name was Zanor, and was Ammon’s personal rattleback and was rarely used for physical labor like this, but every so often something other than carrying Ammon around was good for the animal.

  While Ol’ha was fitting the strange contraption that allowed the snake’s round body to pull the wagons and have them still turn, Micha sat down next to him and fidgeted with his ka’pa. “What is it, Micha?” Ammon asked, as the man very obviously wanted to ask a question. He tried to keep his face straight, his voice steady. The small whisper in the back of his mind taunted him, telling him Micha knew. The wagon lurched forward as Ol’ha stepped up on the wagon seat and clicked at the rattleback.

  “I’ve just been thinking about our trip, you know,” Micha said, and Ammon let out his breath and wiped his forehead with the cloth.

  “I don’t think I do know, Micha, why don’t you tell me?” Was his voice fatherly? Ammon hadn’t meant for it to be, but he couldn’t really help it, not while talking to Micha. He wasn’t sure what it was about the kid, but he couldn’t shake a protective feeling towards him. Maybe it was that he was scrawny and too young to really fit in with the other army men, but he could hold his own in talk and knew his way around the ka’pa better than anyone Ammon knew, barring Captain Ji’an. He pushed the thoughts to the side as Micha answered.

  “Well, what if none of it works? What if all of this is for nothing? Why are we sticking our necks out like this?”

  “You don’t want to try to heal the King?”

  “Of course I do,” he said, spinning his head around and looking at Ammon with indignation painted all over his face. “It’s just, this whole thing seems risky.” He patted one of the water rocks absently, and looked down at the wagon as if looking for answers in the wood grain.

  “No kingdom ever lived without taking risks. No good one at least,” Ammon said, looking at him from the corner of his eye. Micha was still engrossed in the wooden boards, tracing a knot nervously, with one hand, with a white-knuckled grip on his ka’pa with the other. The wagon rolled forward, through the natural path through the rock, Ol’ha whistled a tune that Ammon didn’t know as he steered the rattleback. The Spire was towering over them to Ammon’s right, getting ever closer, prominently splitting the sky.

  “Yes, but going in search of the Magic? Making a trek across the whole bloody Ocean? I’d think we’re mad, but… I don’t know,” Micha finally said, never looking up from the knot that he was still tracing.

  That was just it. No one knew what was going to happen tomorrow night at Clear Waters. There was speculation, of course, and everyone knew why they were going, but they couldn’t know the events. The politics of the kingdom was a jumbled mess, at least most of the time. Ammon couldn’t imagine that this time was going to be any different, but he would get involved one way or another.

  Added to the mess would be Hima, brother to King Akka, showing up from his home in Sandstone Hold to the east of them, to make the trip with Ji’an and crew. He was planning something for the meeting --something that he wasn’t telling-- but every time Ammon cornered him about it, he dodged the questions. Then he mostly hid from Ammon.

  It had been three days since the call to make the trip to Clear Waters, the capital of the Kingdom of the Ocean of Sand, to vote on whether or not to take the dying king to the healers in the east, in Asin. This wasn’t a common trip, though it wasn’t unheard of, but it was unprecedented to carry the bleeding King of the Ocean on the trip. Even in the feudal days of the Ocean, generations past had never taken a leader, none that were written about in the scant writings that were still around, however.

  The wagon lurched along, hitting small divots, and little pebbles that felt more like boulders under the wagon wheels. Micha had grown silent but he seemed to have gotten out of his own head, at least somewhat. He was no longer tracing the boards, and he was looking around, and seemed to be enjoying the day. He smiled a little half smile in one corner of his mouth. “Ammon, I’ve been thinking a bit, and I thought I’d make you an offer.”

  “And what would that be?” Ammon replied, cautiously.

  “I was in training the other day, and I was thinking that I’ve never seen you on a Pagona, and I thought that you might want to take a little trip on mine at some point. You know, take a little run, climb a few spires, see the world from the army’s side of things.”

  Ammon just glared at him. Micha knew what he was doing. All the soldiers liked to rib Ammon constantly, no matter the topic, and his mild fear of pagonas was always in their arsenal. Ammon despised getting within thirty feet of one of those overgrown lizards. They spent too much of their time climbing too high up for Ammon’s liking. The army was full of fools who would spend more time in the air than they would on the ground like a body with good sense.

  “No thank you Micha, I prefer both feet on the ground, thank you very much.”

  “Ammon, has anyone ever told you that you were no fun?” Ol’ha called from the seat of the wagon.

  “Many times, really. I don’t think I could count on both hands and feet the amount of times,” Ammon called back with a slight smile. “My own mother kicked me out into the Ocean as she found me too boring.”

  Ol’ha and Micha stared at him, mouths slightly agape, Ol’ha glanced back to make sure they weren’t about to run into a ravine. “Ammon, if that was a joke, it was the worst one I have ever heard,” Ol’ha said.

  “Well it was a joke. My mother was a very kind and loving woman.”

  “I don’t know, Ol’ha, I have to give him points for trying. One day Ammon, you’ll get a joke in-- a good one. I promise,” Micha slapped him on the shoulder and chuckled. Ammon smiled and resisted the urge to rub the shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but that was the friendliest thing anyone had ever done to him. His mind beat against his skull, yelling in his ears, they’ll abandon you when they learn. They don’t even know you. He shook his head, trying to bask in the kindness, delaying what he would have to face soon. His stomach lurched, and he could taste bile climbing his throat, but he managed to keep it down for a moment longer.

  Soon, Ol’ha was barking at people to move out the way in Spireshade, the massive market that sprawled out under the Spire like a city. Every time Ol’ha cursed at some people carelessly walking across the roadway, three more people cursed them for trying to use their road.

  It was a lively place, simply counting only the angry shouts not even taking into account the sounds of laughter and children playing outside of tents pitched in plots around the area. People were selling livestock, most local, like goats and sheep, but there were some from the traders of the east. They were a sect not a part of the kingdom, who regularly traded with them here and the people in Asin, but kept tight-lipped about Asin under penalty of death. People were haggling and bartering, laughing and catching up with each other. There was a near constant stream into Spireshade, but hardly anyone leaving.

  Women carried baskets of fruit and bread to wagons or other stalls. They wore loose blouses and billowing skirts or baggy pants, most in bright yellow, others in sky blue. The men dressed the same way, except they wore a hooded vest or no shirt at all, though they were crying out from behind booth counters, trying to get the attention of the passersby to sell them anything from raw iron all the way to handmade silver jewelry. The stench of sweat and animals filled the air, carts rumbled and thudded down the narrow paths, creating jams and blocks.

  Ammon hated it here. It was far too loud and the people took up too much space. He supposed that it had its benefits, such as constant flow of recruits for the army, but that was about all he saw in the way of uses for the place.

  The real heart and soul of the Spire wasn’t in the market below, but rather it was on the top. The army’s outpost was as busy as always, people training, running back and forth carrying equipment, water skins, rolling carts of water rocks, if there was an activity that one could imagine, it probably had its place here on the Spire.

  There were tents pitched everywhere in neat little rows, two people per tent, three thousand tents, and only about six hundred were ever empty at a time. Ammon couldn’t help but smile. This was his home. The quiet, pulsing, near unstoppable force that lived on top of the Spire. From here one could look to the north and see Clear Waters. Its massive red flag hung two miles high, reduced to nothing but a pinprick on the light blue sky. Visible distance here was nearly fifty miles in all directions with the right kind of spyglass.

  Ammon shook himself and tried to focus. He scanned the area looking for Captain Ji’an, the man he was paid to advise, though some days he thought of it more as babysitting. He saw a group of men circled up and cheering at the training ground. That would be him, Ammon had no doubt about it. “Ol'ha just circle up there with the men and park the wagon, we’ll leave from there. Micha, go find Hima, I don’t know where we stuck him, just bring him back to the wagon and we’ll all leave from there.”

  Ammon looked up. The sun was past its peak when they had started picking the water rocks, but now it was getting closer to setting, the shadows lengthening. It is getting closer, that taunting little part of himself said in the back of his mind. Ammon pushed the voice away. “We should try to leave right after… No, we need to leave right before sunset. I’m going to drag Ji’an away from his games.”

  “They aren’t games, Ammon,” Ol’ha said absently. Ji’an had all the soldiers trained to answer Ammon’s complaints with the same speech.

  Micha jumped from the wagon and ran off, asking the nearest person a question. The man pointed and Micha was off.

  “Whatever, I don’t have time to get into it right now,” Ammon said with a slight turn to his mouth.

  The wagon was parked and Ammon cut through the cheering crowd. “Excuse me, pardon me…” he said, over and over until he was at the front. Sure enough, there Ji’an was, pinning a man to the ground, but having a hard time of it. Ammon watched, cocking his head to each side, mouth slightly open. He didn’t get it but the men loved it. He supposed that he didn’t care, no matter how much he should. Captain Ji’an lost his wrestling match, and the victor helped him up, which turned into Ji’an raising the man’s hand up. The men erupted with cheers and well wishes. Ji’an made eye contact with Ammon and left the man to be swallowed by the crowd.

  “I see you all made it back. How was the picking?” Ji’an was a tall man, with charcoal black skin and longer black hair woven into rows, held together at the tips of the rows with iron and gold bands, and all of the rows had been pulled back into a bunch on the back of his head. It had only been about four years since Ji’an and Ammon had been assigned together. Ammon was his advisor, assigned by the king. Six years ago the order was established that created the Humble Ones, two years later, they were sent out into the Ocean to help guide all the captains and representatives in the Ocean.

  It hadn’t always been the best relationship with the man, but things were coming along. They hadn’t killed each other in those four years, not yet, though Ammon was sure the want was mutual.

  “It went fine, nothing out of the ordinary, really. Are you ready?” Ammon said.

  “Were there any raiders?” Ji’an asked, ignoring the question. Someone came up and handed him a towel to wipe the sweat and dust off with. He was still breathing hard. “I’ve not sent scouts today, seeing as there hasn’t been anything in days, but still… I can’t help but wonder.” He wiped off his face, then started on his arms.

  “Not that I saw,” Ammon said, absently wiping off his forehead with his cloth. “Scouts won't be needed, at least not now. They haven’t found anything for weeks, so we’re no more than wasting their time. Are you ready to leave?”

  “Yes, of course I’m ready. When are we heading off?” Ji’an said, moving to a nearby rack where his vest was hung and swung it around his shoulders. Ammon tried to bite back a curse, but it escaped as a low growl. It always seemed that whenever there was something serious happening, Ji’an seemed aloof. He was always worried about the wrong things such as sending scouts when he should be worried about the dying King. Though he was right, he should’ve sent scouts today, Ammon thought. The eyes felt like they were stabbing into his back. He wiped his forehead.

  Death will come for you, Ammon, that little voice whispered in his ear. He shook it off.

  “Ammon,” Ji’an said, waving in his face. “When are we heading off?”

  “Once we find everyone,” Ammon answered, shaking himself. “ Where was Hima lodged?” Ammon asked, looking sideways at Ji’an who was toweling off his hair, the bands around the braids clicking together as shook his head.

  Ji’an just shrugged. “ I tried my hardest to give him my tent, but he said he wouldn’t take it. I mean, the bleeding brother to the king might want a nice place to sleep, or least you might think. Said his tent would do.”

  “Fine enough, if he wanted to sleep on the ground for two days. Did you see where he put his tent?”

  “No, he hides it too well, hold-over from the war, no doubt. Someone’ll know where it is, I’m sure.” He looked off into the distance. “Well what do you know, someone knew where it was. Here he comes, now.”

  Hima was a sturdy man, but his age was showing. His skin a deep tan, wrinkled by the sun and by his advanced years. He was a veteran from the War of Blood and Sand, the war that unified the Ocean. He and brother plotted long and hard to get to where they were, and Ammon was envious of the drive they had. Hima sat himself in the wagon with ease as Ji’an and Ammon walked up and joined them.

  They were exchanging pleasantries as Ol’ha showed up leading three Pagonas. “Thought we might need these.”

  “Yes, of course, thank you Ol’ha,” Ammon said, stuttering slightly, and wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. You’re letting it get to you too much, that small part of himself was growing, getting louder. He half expected Ol’ha to reach in the wagon for a weapon and kill him on the spot. Ol’ha simply nodded. With that they were off.

  Ammon and Ji’an took the lead with Ammon on Zanor pulling the wagon, down the Spire and out into the open. It was flat around the Spire and the sweeping rock formation around them, like lapping waves against the shore in the west, cast strange shadows in the setting sun. Ammon chose the path carefully. He slowly coaxed them around the right side of the water rock plot and around the ridge that he had walked down earlier. Here the ground sloped much more gently, and the wagon had little trouble. Soon they found themselves back in the valley that Ammon had found the family in before. And killed a man, that voice screamed in his head.

  The sun was nearly touching the horizon now, the last rays shining out through the wavy rocks, casting crooked shadows, long and meandering over the landscape like the point of a fine knife.

  Ammon’s heart skipped and raced as the edges of his vision spun. In the corners of his eye, he could see them, the Kasara’s green eyes, glowing in the dim light, accusing him still. His breathing sped up. His stomach churned as they rounded the last hill, back to the spot where Ammon had found the family. And murdered a man, the voice in his head was too loud, too sharp to push away. In the smallest parts of the shadows he could see Kasara’s green eyes, floating out in front of him, to the side of him. Every bump of the wagon wheel over rocks was another stroke on Ammon’s death warrant, he could feel it.

  The men in front began to chatter. So they had seen them. This is where you die, his own voice screamed back at him, his brain pounding against his skull, as if it wanted out. Despite the cooling air of the night, sweat began to pour off of him. The air and sweat mixing caused Ammon’s skin to crawl and he began to shiver.

  Ji’an led the charge forward toward the bodies, but Ammon never looked up. He sat staring straight ahead right at a small yellow spot on Zanor’s back. He tried to think of a way to run if it came to it, but he couldn’t think. He could only hear the once small voice screaming at him.

  Hima leaned forward and squinted, trying to see what was going on in front of them. “Can you see what all the fuss is about up there?” he asked, trying a spyglass, with no success.

  “Bodies, by the looks of it,” Ammon said, his voice shaking. He hoped that they were close enough that he’d be able to see them, without already knowing what they were. All his nerves had been spent earlier and he was fading, darkness creeping in on him. His ribs hurt and panic gripped at his heart.

  “By the gods…” Hima said, when he could see them. “Two bloody children, and no heads. Sick, cruel animals did that.” The way into the afterlife in the tradition of the Oceainers, was to find a spot to bury the heads and burn the bodies. To cut the head off of a corpse and take it was nothing short of evil. It kept the person from a guaranteed afterlife. There would be much praying for this family’s souls, in the coming days. The man Ammon had seen atop that spire earlier near the wagon must have come back and finished the job.

  When Ammon and Hima caught up to the two men, Ji’an was reading a note and crying quietly to himself, single tears rolling down every so often. Ammon managed to stop the wagon, but that was all he could do before the darkness at the edge of his vision crept up around his eyes until he could see only a tiny point, a scar in the leather of the reins in his hand. Ji’an read the note, though it sounded like Ammon’s head was wrapped in a blanket. “The King must die. Let the Tribes rise again. This family has paid for your hubris. You have been warned.” the note read.

  “This will need to be brought to the attention of the counsel tomorrow night. They will need to know of this new risk,” Ji’an said, wiping his eyes and walking over to the bodies. “Tomorrow, Ammon, send…” He had seen that Ammon hadn’t followed. “Ammon?”

  Ammon hadn’t heard. He was too busy vomiting. He couldn’t open his eyes without getting dizzy from his vision spinning, and he couldn’t close them without seeing the man’s eyes. Soon he was dry heaving. He fell off the wagon seat, those green eyes floating around him in that inky blackness, and he could tell, somehow, they were laughing at him.

  “It’s fine, Ammon, really. Death isn’t something pleasant. Please, don’t get up. Rest. Hima’s going to take up driving. See you when you wake up.”

  The men began to chatter, though Ammon didn’t pay any attention to what they were saying. He wasn’t sad about the family, not that they died. He hadn’t meant for the mercenary that he hired to be so brutal. He and his people just need to send a message, that was all.

  Like the note said. The Tribes would reign again.

  And Ammon would be at the forefront.