Krav didn’t know how long they had stayed in the town. He only knew they had overstayed, and he wanted to get a move on.

  They were in a place called Mallum Vid, a quiet town positioned on a large hill. Its defensive position guaranteed peace throughout the seasons, and so it became something of a suburbia for vagabonds like Krav and his friends.

  An entire area of the town was ramshackle wooden shacks built as temporary homes for travelers, and the rest of the town was made to accommodate them. A large bar in the center of town was commonly packed to the beams with ex-raiders, fortune seekers, travelling merchants, and exiles. Local traders had entire shops for their wares, often stocking multiple stalls worth of products such as tinctures, remedies, and potable foodstuffs. There was real peace here, and Krav hated it.

  They had separated for the day, and of course Krav chose the bar. He didn’t have the best experience with the one in Kiva Noon, so he tried his luck here. The inside of the bar was well lit from the large windows on either side. Ceiling fans spun lazily above the sparsely populated tavern. There was a time that a place like this would more aptly be called a saloon. But that word was lost to time.

  Krav had drank through his allowance rather quickly. The barman, a thickly built hairy man, must have been selling him liquor cut with water, because after four glasses of top shelf whiskey, he was as sober as he was when he came in. An idea bloomed in his head, and he held onto the last of his drinks, never sipping it past the halfway mark.

  A patron appeared to his left, tipped his leather cap at the barman, and left his glass at the bar. It dripped with welcoming condensation, the booze inside still swirled, a sip or so left. While the barman was busy mopping up a spill, Krav turned the abandoned glass into his own, refilling it. He smiled a wicked smile to himself. Now it was time to get hammered.

  He continued his little game, taking sips from half spent glasses for about a few hours. It was a surprise the barman didn’t take notice sooner. He was halfway through filling up his glass with a patron’s who had simply gotten up to use the outhouse, when the barman snatched him by the collar.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled into the boy’s face.

  “It’s just a little conservation,” he grinned, drunk by now. “Is it really that bad?”

  It took the barman and two other patrons to drag Krav out of the bar and toss him into the streets.

  Mallum Vid was large, but its roads made it easy to navigate. The people here used them much like highways, sticking to the right-hand side and only stopping when they stepped off to not impede anyone. So, it was a great taboo when Krav lay on the floor, drunk and aching.

  He was staring up at the sky, wondering if Lenny might be doing the same. A few of the townsfolk scoffed and stepped over him. It was probably to be expected when crossing a bar patroned by drifters, but the nuisance of sleeping on the road was enough to earn him a glare here and there. Krav didn’t mind. He was lost in the idea of his brother. Drunk tears formed in his eyes, and he choked them back into the corners.

  Meanwhile, Mac bobbed in and out of the shops. She had a list made, and she smiled her shiny new smile as she skipped from one storefront to another. Shopping, even in the apocalypse, was a girl’s best friend after all.

  She popped into a linens store and perused for something to replace her frayed robes. The tattered brown cloth hadn’t been changed in a while, and she yearned for something more colorful. She browsed through various red and blue dyes and was able to pick out her favorite colors to be printed on her new clothes. Finally, she was free of the brown sack. She could barely keep from tearing it off the moment the tailor returned with her custom outfit.

  The new outfit was not cheap. In total, she paid a trinket she had stolen from the bag of offerings for the Bone Eaters and a skin of water she had stored from Agua Fria. In the end it was worth it. She was clad in something more akin to a member of the Gordo clan; two tone pants with one leg red and the other blue, a shirt dyed to look like animal print, and a coat that shimmered like a rainbow trapped in a dark waterfall. As soon as the outfit was in her hand, she stripped down and began to change.

  “Can I offer you a bandeau, free of charge?” the tailor asked sheepishly. He hid his gaze behind his hand, but chanced a peek at the door to be sure no other customers might stumble in and get the wrong idea.

  “Sure!” she said as she pulled the pants up. They were so soft, she felt herself melt into them. Without looking at her, the tailor reached for something under the counter and returned with a cotton band. If she were being honest with him, she wasn’t sure what a bandeau was. Mac took it, bored by its plain black color, and slipped it on her head like a headband. It didn’t look half bad with the outfit, and with her hair pushed back like that, she felt like Shi-Toh.

  Back on the road, she looked for the next thing on her list: mock root. It had been some time since she had mellowed out with something light like the drug, and Krav had gone on and on about it ever since they got the skull back. The way the boy spoke of it so longingly tugged on her heart strings, and she knew the feeling of craving a certain high. The next shop was the pharmacy.

  Immediately she was distracted. The pharmacy was a musky hut that smelled sharply of herbs. Windowless walls prevented most daylight from entering, but blades of light stabbed through the gaps in the ceiling. Large spools, their contents empty, now served as tables, and each one was organized for browsing. One table had an army of small bottles full of powder lined up like soldiers on parade and color coded for ease of purchase. Another had dried plants that were separated by bins.

  Mac found one table labeled “TOXIC” and floated to it with mischievous curiosity. Most of its contents were varied, contrasting with the other well-organized tables. Things were tossed about like a disorganized discount bin, and she brushed aside bottles of fermented animal urine and tiny baggies of mustard-yellow powder.

  Satisfied with her browsing, she purchased the mock root and a few other necessities: medicine, drugs, and elements needed for explosives. She thanked the clerk, an old woman who looked like a swamp witch, and traded herbs from her own collection. She threw in the bandeau for good measure. It didn’t go well with her hair anyways.

  She had never been anywhere so bustling. It was a wonder how so many people from different backgrounds managed to live in peace. They wore various garments that spoke of citizenship from across the valley. Some were wrapped head to toe in cloth like Bedouins. Others exposed their half-dressed skins to the elements and were scarred to prove it. Maybe one day, the Gordo clan could settle somewhere nice like this, and she could have her own linen store where she could dye her clothes and trade them. It sounded nice.

  Fantasies of weaving fabric and experimenting with colors were quickly cast aside as she rounded a corner towards the bar and saw Krav on the floor, shaking his fist at someone as they stepped over him.

  Across town, Ulrich groaned as Greenblatt carefully cut another stitch and pulled it from his skin with tweezers. The Pit Lord was used to being sewn back together, but he still despised the feeling of having threads removed. They felt like worms eating free from his pores, and he instinctively itched the wound whenever Greenblatt leaned back to drop the discarded stitch into a pan.

  “Knock that off,” he commanded. “You’ll reopen it.”

  “If scratching it opens it back up, you didn’t do a good job stitching.”

  Greenblatt lifted his goggles to meet Ulrich’s eyes and gestured to the two Bodyguards. “I built that! I think I can handle sewing you up.”

  They were back in the group’s shack, which was a luxury apartment in the valley. A sheet metal roof crackled as it bent in the heat. Electricity haphazardly wired around the structure provided power to a ceiling fan that drifted lazily and gave no respite from the elements. Each of them had a cot, but Ulrich barely fit them. He wanted more than anything to sleep on the floor, but Greenblatt didn’t let him. In the warlord’s estimation, an executioner’s combat capabilities were worth more than both his bodyguards combined, and he couldn’t risk infection.

  They had both spent most of their time in the shack. Greenblatt had only left for medical supplies and to use the communal outhouse. Ulrich was cot-bound, his wounds closing quickly. After weeks stuck in the town, his stitches were almost all out, and the Pit Lord was eager to stretch his legs.

  When he was finished, Greenblatt leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. He was tired of Ulrich’s awful smell and constant complaining. It wasn’t clear how long he had been a lone operative for his clan, but he had obviously forgotten all tact and social taboo in those years.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Ulrich didn’t dislike Greenblatt. He didn’t dislike anyone he traveled with now. Deep down, he was secretly happy to have a group of people to talk to. His profession was often lonely, and he could spend months forgetting the sound of his own voice. The beard on his face was good at hiding smiles that never reached his eyes, and he was content to hide his feelings behind it.

  The Pit lord moved to scratch his healing wound but was stopped by a glare from Greenblatt. “Do not…”

  “Well, it itches! Isn’t there anything here to help?”

  Greenblatt’s head lulled from one side to the other. Exhaustion was overcoming him, and he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders fail to relax. It was a weight bared by most leaders in any time period. Even in downtime, when the wounds were healed the threats far off beyond the horizon, he was on edge. He wanted to calm down and sink into the cot, only waking up after he caught up on weeks’ worth of sleep, but that was impossible sober. “You wouldn’t be scratching so damn much if you just forgot about it. Help me up. Let’s go get a drink.”

  Muscular legs that atrophied with underutilization wobbled as Ulrich stood from the cot. Normally, Ulrich might have been able to lift the thin warlord with little thought. As he bent however, he realized he needed both hands now. He cupped him under his arms and lifted him like a baby.

  “Easy!” Greenblatt cried, but he was too tired to protest beyond that.

  The two of them walked along the road. Mallum Vid was the kind of place where the two of them could blend in. Anywhere else, a twiggy warlord and a musclebound mammoth would have been picked out of any crowd. Here, however, they were a mismatched pair amongst a sea of unlikely friends. None of the other vagrants even noticed the pendant that bounced around Ulrich’s chest. Little did he know that made him a celebrity to the locals.

  They made small talk as they went. With how much time they spent in the tent together, they should have been passed the point of constant small talk, but the executioner turned out to be an awkward conversationalist. There were a few moments Greenblatt tried to get him to open up a bit by asking about his past and previous jobs he had taken, but each prodding question was met with a grunt or one word answer. So, they stuck to discussing the obvious. The weather was quite hot, they agreed. The town’s name was funny. They had never known a place that was so welcoming.

  “Well, there was Ballast Ridge,” Greenblatt said. “That place was accommodating. When I went, I was the first visitor in months. They were so pleased with my presence; they had a feast in celebration. One of the elders even offered me his daughter’s hand in marriage. I had to refuse, of course, I had a woman waiting for me.”

  “I’ve been there. They were sheltering an enemy of the clan. I forgot the guy’s name now, but he was guilty of stealing from us. When I caught up to him, he couldn’t pay, and the whole town tried to fight me off to protect him. I ended up killing three before throwing the thief down a ravine.”

  “It’s a raiders nature to be violent, I suppose,” Greenblatt sighed. It was easy to forget that the Black Thumbs were a relatively peaceful clan.

  Ulrich shrugged. It seemed obvious to him. The cycle of violence doesn’t end with one man refusing orders. If he let mercy overcome him and allowed the thief to escape, he would inherit that violence upon himself. Another executioner would be sent after him, probably with some charge of cowardice or neglected duty, and the violence would be settled between him and a brother rather than a traitor.

  Before they even reached the bar, they could hear the voices. A storm of heated shouts and insults filled the air like static. People were turning their heads to see what the commotion was, but Greenblatt and Ulrich didn’t need to see it. They quickened their pace.

  “Why do you get new clothes? I want new clothes!”

  “You traded all your loot drinking!”

  “No! I have some left over. Show me where you got that!”

  They were standing in the middle of the road, fingers in each other’s faces. Foot traffic around them had nearly ceased, and for the first time in its history, Mallum Vid had to break up a traffic jam. The locals stopped in their tracks, trying to look over the shoulders of the others who had simply stopped walking the path. Those who weren’t accustomed to the social standards of the town kept moving, even shoving some aside as they went. Ulrich and Greenblatt were part of that group.

  The Pit Lord spread the crowd. A few angry locals shouted their annoyances at the brute, but quickly silenced themselves when they noticed his pendant. Greenblatt stayed close, skulking behind him before the crowd could reform around them.

  “These were very expensive,” Mac said, spinning in her new outfit. The fabric flowed majestically around her figure, and she posed like a half-baked model. The colors rippled off her coat and caught Krav’s envious eye. “You couldn’t afford it.”

  “Scab head!” he barked.

  “Broke ass.” Her voice was haughty and aired on the boastful side.

  “Enough,” Greenblatt said. He stepped ahead of Ulrich as they closed in on the steps of the bar. One look at Mac and he knew she overpaid for her garments. They were far too luxurious for anything in their budget, and he had noticed a waterskin unaccounted for that morning. He didn’t have the energy to care. He just wanted a drink. “Come on. I’m getting us a round.”

  It was that easy. Both agreed to drop their fight for the time being. At the mention of a free round of booze, Krav complimented the colorful coat, and Mac offered him a purple stem. The boy eagerly popped it in his mouth and chewed, mellowing out immediately.

  The four of them left a wake of chaos behind them unwittingly. All it took was for one of the fed-up locals to shout his frustrations. One of the vagabonds took it personally and turned to confront the man. There were shouts between the foreigner and the citizen, then the vagabond cracked him in the face with a punch to the cheekbone. An all-out brawl broke out in the hallowed road as the group disappeared behind the swing doors.

  They took up stools in the center of the bar, right in eyeshot of the bartender, who fumed when he saw Krav. Just before the two could resume their fight and bring the brawl from outside into the bar, Greenblatt tiredly introduced himself, paid Krav’s tab with a few bits of scrap metal turned into coin, and ordered a round.

  “Whiskey,” he said. As he counted the small bits of metal, he added, “Well whiskey.”

  An old man at the bar leaned back. A youthful grin split his wrinkled face and he pulled down a pair of obsidian glasses to get a better look at the group. He recognized the boy, but his friends were new.

  He took a special interest in the one with the gold pendant. “Do you mind if I pay for you? I didn’t know we had a celebrity in the city.”

  Greenblatt locked up with fear. He turned to the man, ready to interrogate the old man on how he knew Albert Ibram Ao Dominus-Greenblatt, when he noticed the gleam in his eye wasn’t turned towards him at all. He was beaming at Ulrich. “What, that guy?”

  “Oh of course! This should cover the five of us.” The old man fiddled with something in his mouth, then placed a gold tooth on the bar. The bartender quickly snatched it from the envious eyes of the bar’s patrons, then nodded. The old man smiled up at Ulrich. “So, what brings a Pit Lord this far from home? Shouldn’t you be back home, duking it out with desert beasties and convicted criminals?”

  The old man punched Ulrich with a quick, two hit combo. He had the speed of a boxer, but not the strength. Ulrich shrugged and sipped his drink. He turned away from the old man, not wanting to converse.

  “He’s an executioner or something,” Krav said. “He had a secret mission to-”

  Mac’s hand closed around Krav’s mouth and she pulled him into a headlock. She didn’t know much about the Pit Lords, but she knew the topic of secret missions was taboo. “Shut your mouth, you idiot!”

  “An executioner? Like Loken or Hati? Those are some of my favorites! And don’t even get me started on Shiela the Lioness, good lord I’d let that woman behead me in front of an audience if it meant I got so much as a whiff of her!”

  Ulrich shifted in his chair. Of course, he knew those names. Loken and Hati were a tag team show, one who wielded a chain snare, and the other carried a short handaxe. And Shiela was always a fan favorite. They were executioners as well, but they stayed in the Pit as main event fighters. They didn’t do what Ulrich did. They didn’t scour the wasteland all alone for petty vengeance. Still, he smiled at the old man beneath his bushy beard.

  “You sound like a fan. I assume you’ve been?”

  “Oh, I’m the Pit Lords number one fan in these parts! Devlin Domino,” he said with an extended palm. Krav shook it for Ulrich and the old man shrugged. “Infamous trade prince from Rio. Business has been slow, so I haven’t been able to afford the admittance fee, but I think I got something that’ll get me in this time.”

  Ulrich nodded and sipped his drink. The entry fee to the Pit was steep, often a hundred pounds of steel or fifty pounds of food. In some cases, they had a sack near the entrance that could be filled to the brim with drugs in exchange for admittance. The old man just paid their tab with a gold tooth, so Ulrich believed him when he said he had something that could get him in. But the excitement in the man’s voice had him intrigued. “And what would that be?”

  The old man smiled, and pulled a sealed scroll from his bag. Opening it, he slammed a map on the table. It was a highly detailed depiction of the valley, but there were some intriguing markings. Devlin tapped a picture of a bunker as if that was the true prize, but what drew everyone else’s eyes was an area that looked like someone had tried to erase. In the west, there was the faint outlines of the words “Emerald Expanse.”

  Krav, Mac, and Greenblatt stopped drinking. Now their full attention was on this stranger.

  “Got a map to a special bunker close by. I was told by its previous owner that you won’t find this spot on any other map in the valley. Whatever’s down there, it’s got to be worth a fortune! If I had the crew, I’d go by myself. It’s just so dangerous that-”

  “Give it to me,” Krav said. He slammed his drink down on the bar. “Give it to me!”

  The boy was clawing his way over his companions to reach the old man. They all tried to hold him back, his boots kicking and his fingers grasping. The Bartender was rolling up his sleeves, preparing to toss him out all over again. Ulrich put a meaty palm over Krav’s face and pushed him away from the old man with ease.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Greenblatt said. He traced a finger over the erased lines.

  Devlin snatched the map away and rolled it up. “I’m not sure what you think it is, but you guys are freaking me out.”

  “We could really use that map. Ulrich, can’t you do something about getting him in?”

  The Pit Lord shuffled in his stool. It had been a while since he had seen the faces of his comrades, and they weren’t always interested in free tickets to their show. He drummed his fingers on the bar for a moment, thinking. Then, he pushed away from the bar, the stool squealing against the floor. The sharp noise gave Krav pause enough to watch the interaction. Ulrich put a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “On my honor as a Pit Lord, I will help you get in. But you must give us that map. It isn’t something that’s safe in your hands, and my friends need it. Do we have a deal?”

  The old man smiled, spit into his palm and extended it for a shake. “Deal, mister Pit Lord. On my honor as Devlin Domino Esquire. You get me front row to a show with the Lioness, and you can have my map.”

  “I’ll get you VIP for that damn map,” Ulrich said. He recognized the gesture and repeated it, spitting into his own hand and gripping the old man’s. “I am Ulrich of the Pit Lords, and these are my friends.”