Where're you going—

Where're you going—

Where're you going Amos?

The warden's voice taunted him again and again, echoing through the forest like gusts through the leaves.

Where're you going?

Sunlight broke through the tree line. Sweat dripped off his clammy skin. His hand held on to the bloody rags failing to keep his wound at bay. Pride alone pulling him from one tree to the next.

"Are you gonna tell me?" the warden asked, suddenly leaning against a nearby tree. His morbid black and white form almost tainting its browns and greens.

Just ignore him, Amos thought. He knew he had to keep running. He'd fall if he stopped.

He'd die if he stopped.

Dirt clung to his feet. Bark dug into his hand. Gnats whizzed past his ear as he stumbled through the trees.

"Don't tell me you don't know," the warden said, appearing again beside him as he cocked his head to stare.

Amos ducked under a branch. Grass teased his sore ankles. Another root. Another hill.

Another chance to slip and die.

"My God he doesn't know!" the warden said, looking shocked as he appeared sitting on a log. "All this running and he doesn't even know!"

Amos did know, or at least he mostly knew. The trees looked normal around here, which was way too small for the Moririne Forest. That combined with the city being a bit to his left and the sun still rising behind him meant he was southeast of Dargas. He couldn't be more than a few miles away. If he just kept running, he should hit one of the smuggler's routes into the city from the Nubian Plains.

Bad shit always had a way of slipping through a conflict to places it didn't belong; and there's no better conflict than war.

It's not like the fighting had changed Dargas. As far as Amos was concerned the city had always been full of shit. Now, the war just smelled the worst. 'Help defend us from the savages!' 'Bring peace and prosperity to all!' 'Make a name for yourself and improve your standing with military service!'

The lies were so obvious now it was almost funny.

Almost.

Amos had a policy. You could be corrupt or you could be stupid, but you couldn't be both. That crossed the line, and whoever was in charge of this charade was miles past the line now. Of course, no one in Dargas actually cared. Nobody wanted to know how many hands were dipping into the war chest, or how crazy things had gotten in the plains. Better to keep your head in the clouds and think you're clean, than to look down and see all the filth you're stepping in.

That was the Dargas way.

Up ahead there was a clearing. A wide trail in the woods. Unguarded. This was the place, and there was a wagon sitting on the road.

Amos darted behind a tree.

A wagon meant supplies. The back was covered with a tarp but it was clearly filled with something. This path was long, whoever was here should have some food. He sharpened his mind. He was getting that food.

He kept waiting. Someone would show up soon. If it was just a couple people he could rush them before they fought back. Any more than that though, and he'd have to pick them off one at a time. He looked down at his stomach, still bleeding through the rags. Will I last that long? he thought to himself. He shook his head. No excuses, he thought. If they fight back, they die.

He started counting the time. One minute. Two. No other wagons were nearby. The group was alone. Three minutes. Four. The two horses weren't antsy. They hadn't been here long. Five minutes. Six. The wagon was still alone. Where the fuck were these people? Seven minutes. Eight.

"You won't last much longer," the warden sang behind him. "Are you gonna wait forever?"

Nine minutes. Ten. This didn't make sense. No one would leave a wagon this long. Not on this road. Not with so much stuff. But it was still alone. Why would they leave it? Is it a trap? I—

Suddenly he grabbed the tree, catching himself. I was falling? he thought, then he realized the truth. I blacked out. It was only for a moment but he had blacked out. He looked back at the wagon. I can't wait anymore.

He darted out onto the road.

Three breaths and he was at the wagon. Being careful not to startle the horses. Two breaths to check for anyone coming. No one was there. He drew his sword. One breath to cut the tarp, another to tear it open, and then... a miracle.

Crates of breads and cheeses, fruits and wines, glistening in the back like piles of gold. There was even a crate with smoked jerky. His eyes went wide. Smoked. Jerky.

"Are you drooling?" the warden asked, now leaning against the wagon's side, but Amos didn't care. He didn't even hear him.

Amos just came to eat.

He dropped his sword and tore into the food. Three bites of meat. Another with cheese. Some bread, an apple, then sweet red wine. With every bite he lost himself to the moment a little more, until even a moment proved to be too long.

"Don't move," a man's voice called out behind him as a sword poked against his back.

Amos turned his head to get a better look at him. It was an old man, and a decrepit one at that. A bald relic with aged skin and a scraggly beard wearing a dark cloak. His right was closed and scarred, he was missing a few teeth, and had a stance that told Amos he wasn't used to holding that sword.

"I said don't move," the old man said, pressing his sword a little harder on Amos's back. A small trail of blood rolled down his skin.

Amos looked around at the empty path. "Are you the only one guarding this, old man?" he asked. Amos could see the alarm in the man's eyes. He sucked his teeth. That's the second time today I let some amateur cut me.

"T-that doesn't even matter," the old man said. "You can't be here. Now get away from my—"

"Listen I've had a difficult day today," Amos cut in, "and I don't need some decrepit sack of shit making it any worse."

"Decrepit? Who the hell—"

"So here's what's gonna happen. I'm going to take some food, let you get back on your wagon, and then you and I are gonna go our separate ways."

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"That's not—"

"Now, you can either loose a few supplies or you can loose your life. Doesn't make a difference to me so, choice is yours."

The old man stayed quiet. Amos could feel the sword start to tremble on his back. Put it down already I'm starving, Amos thought to himself.

The old man's gaze darted nervously around before catching a glance at Amos's wound. He gave a nervous grin.

"What're you gonna do with a wound like that?" The old man asked.

Amos sighed. "Ten seconds."

"Ten seconds? What're you—"

"I'll give you ten seconds to decide. After that, I'll just kill you."

The old man started to sweat. "Y-you're bluffing. You can probably barely stand with that!"

"Then wait eight more seconds," Amos said. "But I'm tired and in a bad mood already old man." His glare turned cold. "Don't make me kill you."

The old man's trembling grew worse. His gaze faltered away. Amos knew the signs. The old man would cave.

This was over.

"Grandpa?" a young voice called out beside them.

Both men turned to see a little boy walking out of the brush. The old man caught Amos's gaze on the boy. His eyes went wide. Ah shit, Amos thought to himself.

"Ian run!" the old man said.

He tried to lunge at Amos, but before he'd even finished the motion Amos grabbed his wrist, spun him around while he snatched the sword, and tossed him into the wagon.

"Calm down—" Amos began but the old man bolted up and charged him again.

"Go now Ian!" the old man said. "Hurry!"

Tears streamed down Ian's face as he turned to run.

Amos was still struggling with the old man. Struggling a lot actually. Amos sucked his teeth. When'd he get this strong?

"Just... relax old man!" Amos said, as he finally managed to shove him into the wagon again. "I'm not gonna hurt your—"

A flash of pain plowed through his cheek as the old man punched him hard in the face.

Amos staggered back, pain still dancing around the blow. A warm flow started to drip from his nose. He wiped it away, before looking down at his hand. It was blood. His blood.

His eyes went wide.

The old man swung again but this time Amos caught the blow, bending the old man's wrist back.

"That's enough!" Amos roared, kicking the old man down. Bone cracked, the old man screamed, and his body went thundering into the wagon.

Amos took a breath. Fucking finally. Then he looked back at the old man, lying still.

Shit did I kill him? He started walking closer.

"You still alive old man?"

The body didn't move.

Ah shit, maybe I did kill him.

"Come on, don't die on me yet," Amos said.

"You've still got your—"

The old man sprung to life tossing a handful of dirt into Amos's eyes.

"Goddamnit!" Amos said, staggering back as he wiped his eyes. How can this guy still move? Amos couldn't see well but he caught a flash of light glistening off the ground. He tensed up. I left my sword there...

The old man roared. Amos knew he was charging but he couldn't see. Couldn't think. There was no time. Instinct took over. In one breath he spun out the way, brandished the sword in his hand, and lunged at the old man's voice, driving him back into the wagon and stabbing him through the chest.

Amos used a free-hand to wipe the last of the dirt from his eyes. Just in time to see blood spill from the old man's mouth, staining his beard as Amos caught his trembling frame.

"You stupid old man I wasn't trying to—" Amos cut himself off. What the hell? The old man wasn't trembling.

He was laughing.

"Look at you," he said, with his half-toothed smile. "Killing an old man, desperate to save his grandson."

"I told you I wasn't—"

"I'm glad to see you haven't changed."

"The hell are you talking abo—"

"You're still just the feral dog you were raised to be."

"I said what the hell are you talking abo—"

"Amos."

Amos glared down at him. "Who the fuck are you?"

The old man's smile went wide. "A friend of your father."

Before Amos had a chance to say anything else the old man pulled the sword deeper into his chest, and died in Amos's arms.

Amos pulled the sword out, dropping the old man. What the fuck?

"Grandpa!" A voice called out.

Amos looked up. It was the kid, Ian, standing up ahead on the road. Amos was stunned. He didn't run...

Ian was panting, his eyes overwhelmed and confused. Amos could almost see the scene through their tear filled lens. See his grandfather's corpse on the ground. It's blood seeping into the soil, dripping off the sword, staining Amos's skin. For a moment their eyes met, and in that moment Amos knew that Ian had learned fear.

Amos started to reach out his hand, but Ian turned away and ran.

"Wait—" Amos began, until his wound lashed out with pain. Amos sucked his teeth. I can't chase him like this. He looked down at the sword. But maybe... He picked up the weapon then tossed it up and caught it by the blade. He looked back at the kid. But can I make the throw? He took a breath then readied his stance. It was far, but he knew his strength.

He could make it.

"Go ahead," the warden said, his voice calling out behind him. "Kid might know something after all."

Amos thought back to Ian's face. To the fear in his eyes. He sighed. "He doesn't know anything."

The warden came up beside him. "Maybe he doesn't," he said with a shrug. "Either way, this would be easier without witnesses right?"

Amos thought about that. If he knows who you are, and warns people ahead of time, this is over before it starts. He raised up the sword. A second went by. Then two. Then three.

"Oh come on, why're you hesitating?" the warden asked. "You already broke up his family, might as well finish the job." He leaned into Amos's ear. "It's not like it'd be the first time."

Amos looked at Ian again, watching him run. Alone. He lowered his sword.

He let him go.

"This won't redeem you," the warden said.

"Nothing ever will."

Amos looked away. "I know."

The warden smiled then disappeared, leaving Amos on the road. Alone. He looked down at his hand holding the sword. Its skin covered in blood. It was trembling.

He smashed the hilt into the wagon, cutting his hand on the wood. The trembling stopped.

He took a breath. Just focus, he thought to himself. I can't stop now. I'm not done.

Not yet.

He still didn't understand what had happened with the old man, but now he knew one thing.

His father was here.

He closed his eyes. Focus. As he took another breath he realized there was something in the air. Something he'd been too distracted to notice before. He opened his eyes. I know that smell.

He walked back to the wagon, stepping over the old man's corpse. Where is it? He rummaged through the crates, taking a swig from a bottle as he sniffed the air again. It was a faint scent but distinct, a little foul and bitter but with an odd twist. Maybe underneath? He moved some crates out of the way, exposing the wagon bed. He started to knock on panels. Left. Right. Bottom. Middle. Hang on, he thought. That knock was different. He knocked on the middle ones again. It wasn't a fluke. The space was hollow. Amos smiled. Found it.

Using his sword he pried off a few panels until he found what he was looking for. Dark brown blocks, almost like tar and a bit smaller than bricks, wrapped in a thin waxy paper. The food and wine was a good distraction, and it might've worked, but not on Amos. Opium, he thought to himself.

It was the main import the city got from the plains, and probably half the reason the war was still going on. After all, what's a few years of bloodshed when there's good coin selling plain's flower?

World's still run by a bunch of greedy—

Amos suddenly coughed up blood, falling to one knee as his stomach lashed out in pain. He snarled at the wound. Not yet. He took another swig from the bottle, brought his hand to the wound, and channeled the Reema.

He grit his teeth, fighting back screams as Reema burned his wound. Not yet. He had to hold on. He needed this to heal. Blood hissed and boiled. Smoke drifted through the air. Not yet! A moment longer. A second more.

Come on!

He gasped letting the Reema fade as he caught himself on the wagon. Panting, he lifted his hand. There was a scar but the wound was closed. He'd done it, but this wasn't over yet. He brought himself to his feet.

He went back over to the old man, took off his cloak, and put it on. Most of the blood stains blended with the dark fabric, and what didn't wasn't too odd for a poor traveler. He then went back over to the wagon, tore off more tarp, and tied it across his chest into a makeshift sack. Wait, he thought. There was something else. Something between the crates. He moved them around until he saw it.

A hatchet, small and worn, with leather coiled up its wooden shaft. He picked it up and tested the weight in his hand, taking a few small swings. It's light, he thought, but it's good enough for now. He cut more tarp, wrapped some around the handle, then tied the rest around his waist. He glanced at it again. An axe and a sword. Just like he'd first been taught all those years ago.

He filled his makeshift sack with some food and a bottle of wine, before taking a couple extra apples and walking over to the horses.

The fighting had unnerved them, but it wasn't anything a soft voice and sweet apples couldn't fix. Once he calmed them down he cut one lose and hopped on its back. Someone would come looking for the wagon before long, and he needed to be well on his way before then. He pulled up his hood.

There was only one operation in the city with enough muscle and money to hide opium under crates of food and wine.

The one he helped create.

Amos sighed. I can't believe no one's killed that over-fed rich boy yet. He wasn't looking forward to the conversation but this still worked for him. If Gad was still trading plain's flower, then he'd know something about his father. Now all he had to do was get his attention.

And he knew just where to start.