Prologue: Arkhal
About Five Years Ago
Heat hammered at a dry, dead world.
The Arkhal Desert sands moved both slower and faster than most other things. Waves formed and footprints disappeared, as if stopped in time or as if they had never been.
Violent red streaks of colour boiled along the edge of the Sun. The air shimmered in waves from the ground to the sky. Bursts of wind created small funnels of white that whipped across the crests of dunes and out of sight. The Wanderer tried to grab a sand funnel in an attempt to hold onto anything real, and it dissolved in her grasp.
Glittering specks of dust floated in the wind like a cloud of sparkflies. The sand shone on the ground and on the dark, glassy rocks and in the sky, forever moving with the world, a sea of life and death. They were wayward dunes. The shape of the wind, the depth of the world, of pain, life and no end. Tracks lined the sand, uneven and without direction—the Sun’s reflection blinding a pathless trek.
Tracks could tell much, and they were odd for three reasons. Highsun was a time when the already unforgiving heat was barely survivable. A time to dig deep and for people to hold their children as the heat melted away any thought of a cool breeze.
It was the end of the season known to the locals of the great southern City of Jhanar as Ashrak. Soon it would be time to fast—for saving food and water for when the all-but-dead gods deemed the hour of renewal was upon the Arkhal. The world would be blanketed in the darkness of the Black Sun.
Those who followed the Ways of Sehrai would not have the energy to cross the Arkhal. There was only one set of tracks. This was a Lone Wanderer.
The Lone Wanderer placed one foot in front of the other. Every grain of sand was her own personal punishment. Each burn was a repentance. There was no more water, for every drop of sweat had dried in the Sun, each a pinprick of penance.
The sand reflected the brilliant Sun and gleamed a blinding reddish-white. There was no end in sight.
The Wanderer wished that she could cry, yet there were no more tears. The lonely Desert of cresting dunes was right for her. Death would be quick.
It neared the middle of the cycle; perhaps there would only be weeks till Takhal. The end of the Suncycle was always inevitable. The footprints represented time and distance in the Desert, and hers flickered into a faraway memory.
The woman tried to forget her name and her tribe. Her family. Her legacy. They tasted like ash on her tongue. Her knees started to burn, blistering against rocks heated by the Sun. The trek had finally become unbearable, and she had fallen to the ground with weariness and dehydration.
The ground was hard and sharp. It grated into her knees. There were not many stones in this part of the Desert, and somehow she had landed on one.
The woman wanted to be buried by the sands. A proper burial. Fair and honest, even if it was not deserved. She did not want to fade away on a rock, uncovered. But even that was taken away from her. Everything was a lie. Strength would have to be found to move, and she could find none. This was her end.
Good.
The stones themselves yelled. If only it were sickness instead of what she feared most. The winds whispered. Sand formed words around her. A breath of wind sighed as it moved lazily with the arid heat. The winds continued to whisper, becoming ever louder. They echoed off the ever-moving dunes.
They yelled now. She cried dry tears as she remembered her name.
Jaz ik Rehgal laughed as delusion fitted into the dead spaces of her heat-cooked mind. The voices sounded as if from far away at first, now much too loud. Everything vibrated. Her vision swam, and she screamed, the sound tearing through a bone-dry throat.
The lines of her face deepened as if etched by a chisel while her will to go on was scattered before the Desert.
“Let me die!”
A fitting punishment.
She would live and hear the voices of dead gods. Heat and pain seared into her heart. This world proved how truly cruel it could be.
The words became coherent. Many spoke as one. They spoke with the weight of the Sunspine and the heat of the Sun. They spoke with the graveness of Jaz accepting and begging for death. They were voices that endured.
The stones under her groaned, black, jagged, and bathed in blood. Sand gripped against her, mixing with the stark red streaks on the ground.
Heat flooded through her bones. The very marrow of them charred as she fell to her chest.
Damn them. Thrice blacken their souls. And damn my family in kind. Damn their lies. They have ruined us all.
She screamed, and no sound came. She feared the words as she feared her own damned, scorched, weary soul. Deep in her chest, laughter filtered through like a flame flickering to the surface.
It said, “It is time to begin.”
Part One: Baquya
“Dead gods require prayer more so than even the living.”
Chapter One: Cairn
The caravan guard strained to help lift the fallen wagon upright, its contents removed to make it lighter. Carefully steadied with corded ropes as it touched the sandy terrain with a loud thud, it was almost ready to move once again.
Spooked, the rakar had jerked quickly and pulled the wagonsled away from the path, spilling it on uneven ground. A fast method of travel for goods, yet not without pitfall. This was the reason why most merchants who travelled the Arkhal traditionally used rakar only as pack animals.
The brothers said sandspawn could be near. Rakar had far better hearing and smell than humans, and even the best trained wagon-pullers feared their talons and teeth. Without armor, a man would be torn to pieces. Even with armor and a sharp blade, it would be best to steer very clear. A pack could slaughter an entire hold if they somehow got into one.
This particular rakar was named Jvex and while undersized, he did have a vicious protective streak and rare loyalty.
Thraska sat to the side while the others worked on the wagon. He was a relatively wealthy merchant; as wealthy as it was possible to become in the Arkhal, which at the very least meant he did not have to help in the heat with menial labour.
His guilt was like a light breeze, quick to come, quick to leave.
Knowledge and success had its benefits. He even had passage to travel far north which was somewhat of a rarity. More sand, more traveling and he could be in the City. Always more sand.
His hands shook, which he had shoved into his lap. The rakar cheese was good, and far better than the men would eat. He took a long swig of water from a skin. It was a little soured.
The Sun shone overhead as it always did, white as a sheet of fresh linen, while Thraska continued to eat. His light robes protected him from the hot Sun, but sweat still beaded down his body. He was a large man. Forty years and three cycles had aged him and deep lines of Sun-worn skin gave him an older look.
Dead gods, the fourth would be soon.
The heat was sweltering now. Dark hair, short, rare black eyes, too round around his midsection for his age. He had had a hard life, and he earned rest and respite from such labour. Luckily, the tremor in his hands had ceased for now.
One of the workers stood off to the side and watched while the others dealt with the wagon.
Thraska called out to Gahro, “Move your ass, you lazy tit!” Humor rippled through his yell.
Gahro was the skinniest man Thraska had ever known and the three other workers laughed at this in unison. 'Merchants who keep their workers happy avoid a slit throat', his father once told him. He learned everything from the man. Even lessons best not taught.
“Can you even ride a rakar anymore, Thras?” Gahro yelled back with laughter. He mimed a heavy weight on his back with a wide earnest smile.
“You know better than I that your mother doesn't like to be called a rakar!” replied Thraska. “But she sure sounds like one under the sheets!”
A little too crass perhaps.
“Praise the dead gods, I'm not the only one who thinks so,” said another worker, as he sputtered through laughter.
Standing from his perch above the crew, he went over to clap Gahro's back. It was hollow like a drum and he made a mental reminder to be more gentle next time.
“Sand and black stone man, you need to eat more.”
Thraska shoved the cheese he had been eating into the man’s hands. He smiled and lowered his voice.
“Sandspawn this close to the City?”
Gahro raised an eyebrow and sighed. If he had any confidence it would have rang hollow in Thraska’s ears.
“Best hurry and not see the truth of it.”
That was sound advice.
After the wagon was upright and checked for damage from the fall, men loaded it with the many goods that were traded from the various tribes and holds which filled the close outer spiral from Jhanar.
The wagonsled was made of a dark twisted wood which grew in the south. Because the wood was gnarled and oddly grained, most people did not like to use it. His design held up well to the fall.
The wagons were pulled on thick sleds that could glide over thin areas of sand, an innovation that only worked for some of the common mapped paths through the Desert in higher areas with less sand. It would not work in other areas but was efficient here.
Enough to make a clever merchant gold. Through true dunes the rakar would act as pack animals, which was of course agonizingly slow. Luckily, that was not needed for this trip. Luckily, the trip was fruitful in spite of inevitable snags along the way.
The most precious item was carefully placed in a hidden compartment in the wagon. He also had some in his own personal trunk. Dareshk root. A heavily addictive, difficult to grow plant, which was not outright banned, though you would not want to be caught with it.
The Ways were clear. Thraska would sample the root later in the night when they reached the City. Six weeks in a wagon. Trading. Bartering. He earned it.
Jvex huffed in front of the wagonsled against his harness, muscles taut, ready to bolt again. Thick squat legs, skin and fur so thick it was armour. It had a wide head and a jaw designed for insects, lizards and rodents. With a wide low back it could pull for days. Thankfully they were closer to relief from the Sun than that.
Another huff cleared sand out of its large nostrils. This one said, time to go.
The two guards, brothers named Hareed – the older brother – and Kareff, had their drab iron swords out and were tensely alert as they moved on. If sandspawn attacked, one did not want to be unprepared.
Vicious creatures.
Some with talons the size of a man's hand. Rare until they cut a caravan to ribbons. Most people would live their whole lives without seeing one. Some people even thought they did not really exist. Bedtime stories to keep children from leaving at night.
Fools. Rare did not mean not real.
Thraska had his knife out in solidarity, though he hoped he did not have to use it. He was unassuming and quicker than he looked. Still, it would mostly be in vain.
Gahro was the only other man in the back of the wagonsled, and he had a club lying on his waist. They all sat there in silence, and Gahro's lips were moving slowly in prayer. Such fear this world gave to men.
A breath of wind cut the heat from a furnace to a mere campfire. Normally they would shelter and wait till later to continue, but the men were wary.
‘Superstitious to a fault is safe in bed,’ as they say.
The long dark wagon had Thraska in the middle on top of a barrel, Gahro at the back watched their rear and the brothers at the front guided the rakar forward towards the cool relief of the cavernous City. The tall towers, covered streets, and cool baths would be a godsend. They had the top canvas cover pulled down to better see what lay upon their path.
Simple things to feel in control.
The wagonsled suddenly stopped, pulling Thraska from his reverie. There was nothing except the sound of Jvex whining; a silence that placed a pressure on his ears. They rang like a tuning fork.
Something was wrong. It was these instincts that reinforced that man is an animal all the same as any other.
There was no wind now. Even that had left the men and the merchant. The two brothers looked at each other, quivering. Perhaps prayer was not such a bad idea.
Dead gods, breathe, man.
“Thras, you're going to want to see this!” yelled the elder of the brothers, voice cracking.
Wordlessly, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings, Thraska jumped out of the centre of the wagon and walked to where the men pointed.
This is not good.
An old children's rhyme popped in Thraska’s head.
‘Man and beast in the sand
Dig, deep! A good plan!
Who gets stone from the sky?
The Chief to say goodbye!
Not gold, not iron,
Not sand is bound,
Cold stone in layer
All around.
King and god
Lay in time
Find and fill
And pray in kind’
An old part of the Ways. Old as Sun, sand and stone. Old as laughter amongst friends. Old as sorrow with family. Important in the same way a person might gently brush a weapon while on the road simply to be reassured it was still where they left it.
‘Instinct and tradition. Sand and stone. Heat like fire. Iron and bone.’
Childhood had a way of flashing into memory with stress. ‘Walk the path. The Way, the Stone. The heat is here, in us All.’
Before the Clan and Jhanar, there was only the tribe, and the Chief had different rites.
This was a bloodbath.
Using spit and sand, the merchant’s men had made circles on their foreheads, not unlike the dead men laying in a sand dune, covered except for sand swept limbs.
Wind finally whipped the battered dead men like the Desert exhaling. The typical rites of death the Clan and tribes had used since the beginning of time were enacted here.
Thraska counted nine men covered in the sand along a dune where blood stains pooled in long rivulets along the bottom of slopes. This was not just recent. It must have just happened. The dead bodies were men from Jhanar. There was also a blackened charring further away that he could not make out. It smoldered in the distance even in the wind.
He made the sign of the Sun when his eyes locked on the tenth man.
“Scorched gods.”
He could only whisper the words.
Several large flatter rocks had been carried from some cliffs and placed in a way to make a large, dark cairn. Pebbles and smaller rocks had been arranged around a body so that the outline created that of a man.
The above ground coffin was entirely devoid of sand. This was not a sand burial. A delicate intricacy of stone was inlaid with blood red sigils, barely browned, covering the dark rock. The entire group had been silent besides prayers during the encounter, until Hareed spoke.
“A large pack of sandspawn attacked here.”
“They would never attack this many men. They are fierce but shy,” his brother stated.
“How many Reskhal warriors do you think would have been guarding this man?” Hareed asked.
“Yet they still attacked,” Kareff stated, fear slipping through as his teeth chattered. “They don’t do this, Hareed. They are smart creatures. Vicious. They do not attack unless they can win. Either they were desperate… or something drove them to do this.”
Thraska shook his head with weariness. He asked, “What makes you think they were not killed by men?”
Kareff responded first. “See those small uneven holes?”
He pointed to the other side of the gravesite. “Those are spawnburrows, where they lay in wait. There would also be some sign of sand burial for the other warriors.”
It would be truly disrespectful to not bury your enemy. It does happen. A man's emotions in the heat of battle under the Sun could set him on an unwise path. The Ways were clear.
Hareed nodded in agreement. “I agree,” he said while giving his brother a small smile. “Also.” He pointed to the charred remains down the hill. “They wouldn't burn the bodies of the enemy.”
It seemed clear what had happened here. This brought cold comfort in dire heat to Thraska. They were not safe here and he was unsure the sandspawn were the true heart of his fear. In the immediacy perhaps. Once they reached the city a new set of problems would arise.
Gahro was silent through this ordeal and in some ways Thraska agreed.
What else was there to say?
They were only another day away from Jhanar, but he intended to get there in less time if possible. Unfortunately, they may not be as safe in the City as they once might have hoped.
“We take a break, eat and drink, and then we ride harder than we ever have before,” Thraska ordered, keeping his voice surprisingly steady. “We make for Jhanar and I expect to be there before midnight. We push the wagon till we bleed if need be.”
It would be hard on the large rakar. He hoped they did not kill the creature. It too huffed at the tension, almost sounding like agreement.
He was at the edge of a cliff. Less fear, more uncertainty.
How much control does a man truly have over his life?
When it spiraled out of your grip, sometimes gripping harder only worsened the fall.
Just past Highsun and the heat was already unbearable. It would only get worse. The men were determined and Thraska did not need to give them more motivation than what their eyes had wrought upon themselves.
They left the bodies and prayed for the safety of stone walls. Of their own holds. Of cave, rock, spear and bone. However deep they went, it might be more tomb than salvation. War was likely.
For today the King of the Clan, Rehgal, the ruler of Jhanar had died.