They kept riding. The sun rose. The winds picked up.

Through horizons upon horizons, he went – his raincloak tucked away in his pack, and his cowl drawn over his face. Up golden crests and shaded troughs, under the suffocating blue sky and its unforgiving sun. They rode. They stopped. They rode again. For hours and hours, as the sun climbed and then fell.

The wind swam across the desert sand – rippling the bluffs, kicking up dust and haze. The light and heat pooled along the desert floor, simmering in a woebegone mist. To the east, a sandstorm spun and sifted up, roaming as a traveler on the waves.

At sunset, Heror drank his canteen dry – and his throat still longed for respite. He found a small, shaded hollow protected from the gales, underneath the half-collapsed marble roof of a temple. He dismounted and led Shaadur inside. Then he tended to Shaadur, and they rested in the shadow. Heror slept on the sand.

In the deep of night, Heror woke and stirred his horse. He found the north star just above the crescent moon, and they picked up where they left off. In the dark, it was cool and silent. The way forward was clear.

Heror didn’t stop again until dawn. The sun returned to greet him with a solemn amber glow. Stopping atop another dune, Heror dismounted Shaadur and landed hard in the sand, wincing at the aches in his joints.

By now, the wind had chafed his face, and sand caked his brown curls of hair. He sat down to rest for a moment, crossing his legs, and he tried to assuage the dry skin with his fingers. As he ran his hand across his chin, he felt a thin beard hugging his jaw – patchy at the cheeks. He sighed; it had never grown in this much before. The elves would’ve cursed at the sight.

Now Heror leaned back, letting his hands dig into the sand. And he cast his eyes out over the desert ahead of him.

It was going to be another clear, sun-cooked day – as if there was any other kind of day in this forsaken place. As the sun slowly rose from the east, the underlying layer of brown haze was visible to Heror again. The haze blocked his view perhaps ten miles out, and before it, there was nothing but sand.

Heror frowned. By his estimate – traveling in the desert for nearly 36 hours, with few stops inbetween, at the speed Shaadur was running – they’d covered over 200 miles. The ground was not level, which made it more difficult. But even after all this time, Heror couldn’t be sure if he’d moved at all. All this time, and the great desert Sparhha still had no end.

His mind went back to his dwindling supplies, but only for a moment. There was no use worrying. The only option was to keep going. If he was ever going to punch through the desert and emerge on the other side, there was no time to feel uncertain.

And so he mounted Shaadur and started once again to the north – faster this time. Over the dunes, they pressed on – past discarded stone slabs and temples and blackened wooden chariots half-buried in the sand. Past lonely wayshrines and windblown rubble. And then, as the sun reached its apex at midday, Heror saw it at last.

He only caught a glimpse at first, as he crested and then descended a dune. And so he waited until he crested again to get a better look. And when he summited the next swell of sand, he indeed saw what he had hoped.

The brown haze still refused to part – but this sight was so brilliant it pierced through the dust. It stood far in the distance to the northwest: A massive, snow-capped mountain towering over the land, its icy peak shining brightly in the sunlight, as glaciers flowed down its creviced walls. In the foreground before the peak, rows of stony badlands and foothills lay marking the edge of the desert. At last, Heror could see the dunes’ end. And the true Kingdom of Pylantheum waited beyond.

Now Heror smiled. He gave Shaadur a firm and warm pat on the side, tousling the horse’s hair.

“We made it, Shaadur,” Heror marveled. “You did so well…”

Shaadur sang lightly. Heror smiled for a moment longer, before focus returned. He took a deep breath, then tightened his grip on the reins again and ventured ahead.

Soon, the soft plush of sand gave way to the crackling of brittle rock beneath Shaadur’s feet. And as the sands receded, Heror entered the badlands. Dry and pale hills striped with reds and yellows rose and fell and stacked, all the way to the horizon’s edge. Canyons and gullies outlined steep faces and flats, speckled with golden poppies and aloe vera leaves and sage plants and dry grasses. Alongside a stream at the bottom, a herd of mule deer grazed on the greens. Across the way, a horned goat climbed.

Heror rode atop a ridge for around an hour, and as quickly as the badlands appeared, they too faded. And Heror and Shaadur wandered into a vast open plain with long golden grasses – winds washing through the fields as thick, white tufts of cumulus drifted overhead. At the northern foot of the plains, Heror saw the mountains. The low-sloping highlands were densely packed with dark green forests – an inexplicable gap in the rain shadow. And beyond, the snow-capped sierras stood, dominating the Aelyum – a central peak towering above the rest.

Heror still felt the dryness of the desert on his back, but the air was noticeably cooler and lighter in the northern plains. He looked to the west, and in the far distance, he saw more mountains appearing across the horizon, layering and layering until the eye could see no more. The cold air from the peaks drifted east and dulled the heat of the sun. He had never seen mountains so large, so white, so numerous, or so captivating as these. The Mides had paled in comparison.

In the middle of the plains, deer and elk and buffalo populated the expanse by the hundreds. As Shaadur rode, he carved through the clans and crowds, galloping gallantly against the wind. Buffalo gave him acknowledging yet indifferent glances, and the deer lifted their ears with curiosity. Shaadur greeted them in passing, while Heror kept his eyes ahead.

As they rode, the sun fell. Afternoon became evening, and evening warned of dusk. The red sun set in the west, in a golden skyflow, beneath an iridescent halo of saucer-shaped lenticulari hovering over the heights. And by lightfall, Heror and Shaadur finally reached the base of the highlands. It was here that Heror found a sign of civilization: A matted dirt road, circling the verdant edge of a crystal clear lake.

The lake – small and confined – was backed by sloping rocks – fed by a glacial melt system that trickled down the mountains, fueled by warmth of Kynvalen. And all along the edges, thick and dark pine trees stood in communion, their arms folded in stoic silence, and their needles intertwined.

At the sight of clear water, Heror’s parched and dry throat suddenly became drier, and he clamored off his horse. He ran to the water’s edge and dropped to his knees, and then he cupped his hands and drank and drank, and washed his face until his lips were cold. For a moment, he sat back on his knees, closed his eyes, and breathed – when he heard an impatient whinny from Shaadur behind him. Heror smiled small and let out a sigh.

“Hang on, hang on. I’ll be right there.”

Heror went and grabbed the horse’s canteen, and he gave Shaadur water. Then he filled both of his canteens to the brim from the freshwater lake, and he stowed them away. He ate a bit of dried meat, and picked the strings from his teeth with his Midan toothpick. And then his eyes went back to the water, and an image reappeared in his mind.

Seeing the water against the rocks, Heror instinctively pulled his kinship cloth from his pouch. He unrolled it and spread it out between his hands, and he studied it once more.

It was an intricately-woven cloth, made of Pylanthean designs and weaving patterns. Stitched along the edges, blue waves rolled and rolled, and on the left side, a jagged cliff lay. On that cliff, a lone wolf stood, stray fletchings of cloth acting as fur, dangling in the calm air of dusk. At the center of the cloth, the name ‘Heran’ was stitched in dark gray thread.

Heran.

Heror looked at the cloth, and then he looked up again. The rocks were smooth, not jagged. There were no waves in the lake. There was no wolf perched atop the stones. But he was getting closer. He could feel it on the air.

He glanced to the east. Then he glanced to the west. Perhaps it was the color of the sunset playing tricks on his eyes, but the way looked greener to the west, and so he mounted Shaadur and started off in that direction, traveling along the dirt road.

In his head, as Shaadur’s hooves clopped beneath him, Heror thought over his options. Finding civilization was the first step toward accomplishing both of his current goals: To resupply, and to find information about his family. There was little he could do besides ask around – and deep down, he still wondered if it was an entirely futile pursuit. But someone had to know of them. Someone had to.

He pressed on to the west. To the north, the highlands climbed from the land and reached for the snow-capped crags. To the south, the plains rolled and rolled, all the way up to the southern horizon – a vast and flat precursor for the brilliant rises northward.

As Heror rode, the dirt path skewed farther into the plains, and the northern mountains receded just a bit, giving way to thick pine forests dotted with boulders. Ahead, the western peaks still towered over the Aelyum, and eventually, they blocked the light of the falling sun, leaving the land awash only in afterglow. The golden sky turned orange. Orange turned red. And red faded into blue and black. And still, Heror rode.

The stars were out when Heror saw the first light in the distance. He had seen the glow and the dance of torchlight too many times to mistake it for anything else, and so he quickened his pace, urging Shaadur onward with a nudge of his shins.

As he grew closer, the source of the light was revealed to him. At the base of an encroaching rock slope, with thick forest on either side, a small and peaceful village sat. Still far away, Heror estimated around three-dozen buildings – crude, steep-roofed cottages made of wood, and lit in the front by torches. There was a housebarn on the eastern side of the village, lined with rows of winter wheat. And toward the center, a wooden tower house stood – perhaps a watchtower, a lodging house, or a place of worship.

Heror was roughly two hundred yards away now – and it was here that he slowed down and ushered his horse to stop. Doubt crept into his mind. It was almost the dead of night now; would he be welcomed in to stay? Who would have the information he sought? Would they even help him? Or would they turn him away? Would they recognize he was half-elf? Of course they would…

It was through this anxious thread of thoughts that Heror realized how new all of this was. He had never traveled on his own to an unknown village, in an unfamiliar place – and even less sought out knowledge in these places. Where would he even seek out this knowledge? He remembered Ucankacei’s stories of traveling in the west, and how he’d asked for directions and general information at taverns and visitor houses called ‘inns’. Perhaps Heror could start there.

Just as he began to brush away his concerns, however, another flared back to face Heror. He thought about Ardys, and how unwelcome he’d been in the Jeweled City. Why would it be any different here?

But then Heror took a deep, calming breath, and his eyes dropped down to the road beneath him. By now, they were dried and fossilized in the dirt – but hidden in the hard-packed grains beneath him, in the dim light of the stars and crescent moon, he saw dozens of horse hooves and footsteps. These roads were well-traveled. One more traveler wouldn’t make a difference.

After another moment of thought, Heror dismounted. He went to his pack, opened it, and pulled out the rolled black raincloak. He’d stowed it in the desert, but now he needed it again. The night air was cool, but he was not using it for warmth. He pulled the cloak past his head and shoulders, and then he drew up the hood, over curls of brown. The hood would cover his ears, at least. Maybe now he could pass for a pure-blooded Pylanthean. He hoped his bright eyes wouldn’t betray him.

Now Heror stepped up to the stirrup and mounted his horse again, and they trotted onward. As he neared the nightswept village, he ran through his plan. Again, again, and once more in his head. His eyes trained on the tower house tucked behind the cottages. His mind silently raced, as his thumbs pressed into the reins.

Find the inn, ask about the Heran family. Find the inn, ask about the Heran family. Find the inn, ask about the…

A flash of orange disrupted his mental ramblings. He halted in his tracks.

He was about one hundred yards away now – and one of the northern cottages caught fire. At first, he thought he was imagining it through exhaustion; perhaps it was just the torchlight pooling in his sight as he approached. But then another caught fire. And another. And another – ravenous flames climbing the walls and lighting the hay insulation ablaze.

And then came the screams. And the war cries.

From a mountain pass hidden past the slopes, dozens of shadow warriors sprinted into the fire’s glow, swords and axes flashing in the light. Women and children ran from the homes, and armed men came out to fight. A chorus of metal clashes crescendoed. Shaadur let out a low cry. Looking on with eyes of concern, Heror squeezed his shins and pulled the reins to the left. He thought it best to get off the road.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Heror steered into the forest lining the road, and he approached the village from the side. Keeping a wide berth, he watched as the fires overtook the houses one by one. Through the trees and the leaves, he could see warriors on horseback torching the houses, as more and more women and children were drawn into the open, screams echoing in the night. They were tied up and taken captive, while an unarmed elderly man was slain where he stood. Many of the men had already been cut down. Several laid down their weapons in surrender. As soon as the fighting began, it was over.

Heror furrowed his brow, squinting in the low light. And just as he trained his eye on the fires, something else caught his eye. Out of a bush in the shadow, he saw a young woman emerge from hiding, and she started to run. She sprinted through a small clearing, toward the southern woods – where Heror lingered. She only made it halfway, however, when her eyes rose and widened. And Heror realized that she saw him – the blue glow of his eyes revealing his position in the dark.

Now the woman froze, and Heror’s heart jumped. She stared at him – fear etched across her face. Heror started to shake his head – to try and tell her he wasn’t one of them – but as soon as he did, he heard a shout to the left. One of the horsemen had doubled back, and galloped toward the woman. And before she could run, the horseman swiped her away, as she screamed and dragged her feet in the dirt.

Heror’s eyes bulged in horror, but it wasn’t long before sudden movement from Shaadur brought him out of his daze. Shaadur shrieked and staggered and lurched to the right, and as Heror glanced left, he saw a second horseman streaking toward him. The horseman swung a chained double-club of sorts in his hands, and before Heror could react, the horseman lashed the club toward Heror.

The blunt end of the nunchuck grazed Heror’s forehead, and as Shaadur reared up, Heror fell to the ground and rolled. Shaadur kicked and ran, and just as Heror stood and reached for his swords, the horseman dashed around him and flared the chains again. Now they wrapped around Heror’s neck and tightened. The club slapped the side of his head, and he was violently scraped to the ground. The chain tugged him only for a moment, but it was enough to cause Heror to gag, lose his breath, and coil in pain.

Now the horseman stopped suddenly, and he dismounted in a rush. He ran to Heror and untangled the chains. Then he sat Heror up and pinned his arms behind him. Before Heror could catch his breath again, his hands were tied behind his back. The horseman looped his chain through the rope, and then he mounted and began to ride, and Heror was tugged backwards – forced to follow toward the flames.

As he was pulled away by his bound hands, Heror felt his pulse race. He could only see the orange light of the fires on the forest trees, but as they grew closer, he felt the heat on his back. Over his shoulder, he heard a low voice ring out in the night.

“Take the unfit to the camp for preparation! Gather the men in the town center…”

Heror planted his foot and tried to break free. The horseman tugged the chains tighter, pulling Heror off-balance. He squirmed and grunted and stumbled, but it was no use. And soon, he saw fires on either side of him, as bloodied cobbles crunched beneath his feet.

As the horseman led him into town, the first of his captors came into view. They were crudely armored raiders – with only straps of leather and fur-covered sashes and pauldrons, and long braids of brown and blonde and black hair. Streaked across their faces and arms were designs of red war paint. And on their arms, some markings were joined by thorn-piercing tattoos. Blood dripped from their swords. Some eyed Heror, as his nose curled from beneath his hood.

And then Heror was forced around by the chain. He stumbled, and when he regained his balance and looked up, he was at the foot of the tower house. It itself was untouched by the fires, but the orange glow surrounded them, as the village houses slowly fell to its rage. More slain defenders lay in the foreground, as raiders roamed and loomed above them, some of them carrying loot from the village center.

Heror felt the chain release from his bonds again, and then he was forced to his knees. And as he glanced to his left, he saw a dozen other men bonded and forced down as he was. Some bowed their heads and trembled. Some were bruised and beaten and barely conscious. Some stared ahead, eyes empty.

Now Heror cast his eyes forward, and as he did, he saw a taller man approaching, fur-lined boots trudging in the dirt. The man’s footsteps were heavy, and his figure imposing. His head was shaved, and his brown beard long and thick – save for a bald spot where a scar stretched across his left cheek. A stroke of red war paint dropped from his right eye as if a tear. Similar thorn-piercing tattoos snaked down his arms in scarred laurels. The only armor he wore – aside for strips and garbs of fur – was a dark metal chestplate that bore a strange white symbol, like a bulb and a claw of ice.

As Heror observed the man, another captive at the far end of the row began to whimper and cry out.

“Please… mighty Phrox… please spare us…” the captive managed through gasps. “Please find it in your heart to show us mercy–”

The man called Phrox stepped toward the pleading captive, and without delay, he unsheathed a notched, red-tinted longsword with white markings, and let forth a monstrous swing, tearing the captive’s neck at the base. The captive’s discarded remains slumped in the dirt. Blood spilled. Now the man stepped away and turned to the rest of the row. He spoke, voice heavy with a direct, unflinching gravitas.

“Beg for mercy and you make my decision easy.”

Now Heror saw his eyes in the frenzy of the fires – dark, beady, and bloodshot. The man spoke again.

“You men have dishonored yourselves and shown weakness through surrender and capture,” Phrox continued. “Now a Proving must commence.”

Phrox paused to ensure their attention, and then he went on.

“The Gods are bargaining,” Phrox declared. “This, the motion of fate. Eemoten fayeh skae. The Haakhraath – the Great Upheaval, the End – will soon be upon us. Knepfr promises haven to the strong. Those who survive the trials of the land and give him tribute. Pledge yourselves to Him, and you may purchase your honor back through servitude.”

Phrox stepped to the end of the row again, as raiders stood encircling the captives. The leader knelt down in front of the next prisoner and planted his blade in the ground. Heror watched as Phrox stared into the man’s eyes with his own, with a strange curiosity. His pupils went thin. His thick brows raised.

“What is your name?” Phrox asked the captive.

“B-b… Balor…” the captive stammered.

“Balor,” Phrox droned. “Do you pledge yourself to Knepfr?”

“Y-yes…” Balor managed through shakes and trembles, his nose watering. “I pledge m-myself… to Knepfr…”

Phrox stared at him – studied him – unblinking. A stinging, stabbing silence settled in between the fires. The black air hissed above. Shadows trembled across Phrox’s face in the warping light. And then his lip curled downward.

“I don’t believe you.”

In a mammoth motion, Phrox stood, raised his red sword, and stabbed down through the captive’s head. He lodged his blade and then tore it free, and this captive too melted to the ground.

Heror’s breath retched, and now his mind raced. His wrists tugged at the rope, but it was tough. It only gave so much. He needed to weaken the threading somehow. His heart pounded, in his chest and his ears.

Phrox knelt in front of the next captive, resting on his sword.

“What is your name?”

“Elar… mighty Phrox…”

“Do you pledge yourself to Knepfr?”

“Yes… absolutely. I pledge myself to Knepfr.”

“Mm… I am not convinced.”

Again, Heror heard the rip of flesh against metal. He tugged his wrists harder, gritting his teeth.

“What is your name?”

“Ikard, great Phrox.”

“Ikard, do you pledge yourself to Knepfr?”

“I hereby pledge myself to the God of the Proving Grounds, almighty Knepfr.”

“Your reverence is false.”

Another slice of skin and tendons. Heror gave up on the rope. His thoughts hurried and overlapped and circled back… and then he remembered the Midan toothpick. He’d stowed it in his trouser pocket after picking his teeth clean. He could feel it poking against his thigh.

The fifth captive stood and turned to run, but before he could escape, Phrox slashed, and red droplets flecked above. Heror leaned back on his knees and shook his pockets. The toothpick inched downward, toward the pocket’s lip.

“You. What is your name?”

“Bor sees your treacherous deeds, you heathen–”

Another tear. Another croak. Heror jolted back again, careful not to draw their attention. The toothpick hung out of his pocket now – its wide end snagged on the fabric. He wiggled his right hip back, and the toothpick clattered to the dirt, just below his bound hands. He strained his wrists and reached.

Another inquiry from Phrox. This one went unanswered. There was another swing. The pungence of blood mingled with smoke-husk.

Heror stretched his fingers. His wrists flexed the rope. He grazed the stone toothpick’s edge.

“What is your name?”

Metal and flesh. Heror’s fingers clasped the toothpick. He tried to twist his wrist. He lost his grip, and it fell again.

“What is your name?”

Metal and flesh. Heror cursed silently and reached again. He trained his fingers around the flat ends, and then he pressed down. His grip was stronger this time. Carefully, he twisted his wrist and brought the pick to the rope’s edge.

“What is your name?”

Heror pressed the toothpick inside the rope, and then he chiseled outward, cutting at the threading with the sharp end. Slowly, in the dark, the threadings started to tear.

“What is your name?”

Behind his back, discreetly, Heror sawed with the sharp end. He made an inlet, and he dug into it. He could feel the rope’s knot loosening. He carved into the stitches.

“What is your name?”

That would have to do. Heror dropped the toothpick to the dirt again, and he pulled outward with his wrists. The ropes started to break.

And now, as he looked down, he saw the boots of Phrox enter his sight. He glanced to the left and saw the bodies. His eyes dropped again, his face shrouded.

Phrox planted his sword and knelt down in front of Heror. Heror could feel his bloodshot stare.

“Remove his hood,” Phrox said to a raider nearby. “I will look upon this one’s face.”

A raider came from the right and removed Heror’s hood, and all of his features were revealed to them – his matted and curled brown hair, his dull skin, his angled ears, and his burning eyes of sapphire. Heror looked up with a glare. His eyes met Phrox’s, as the flames raged.

The raider apparently noticed Heror’s elvish features quickly, for he took a sudden step back and let out a gasp of disgust. Heror heard more noises of discontent from the group beyond.

“It’s one a’them knife-eared toffs!” the raider hissed. “Kill ‘im!!”

Several other raiders echoed the command – but Phrox did not move. His eyes trained on Heror.

“The haven of Knepfr is attainable by all,” Phrox reminded his men. “So long as they pledge themselves to Him…”

The dead taunted Heror from his periphery. His eyes fell. He tested the ropes. They would sever with one more tug.

“What is your name?”

Heror readied his wrists. His nose twitched.

“Heror.”

Phrox’s eyes did not move.

“Heror…”

Heror’s foot slid forward, just a bit.

“Do you pledge yourself to Knepfr?”

Heror tore the ropes free and surged to his feet. His hands lashed for his twin swords, and he unfurled them both at once, just barely blocking a heavy slash from Phrox’s blade. The force rippled through Heror’s arms. Sparks flew and fluttered in the dirt. The raiders brandished their swords again. Heror stepped back and readied his stance, dual blades catching the orange glow.

“Dirty halfling!!”

“You’ll get what’s coming to you…”

The raiders started to advance, when Phrox raised a fist and stopped them. Now Heror’s eyes fixed on the leader. Phrox took a step to the side, his face all too calm.

“I like this one,” Phrox commented. “He is strong.”

Heror took another step back. Phrox looked on, and then he nodded.

“You may go, Heror.”

Heror’s mouth opened in cautious surprise. There were murmurs among the other warriors. Phrox nodded again, and then he repeated the word – as if releasing prey for the coming chase.

“Go,” Phrox implored. “Join the hunt. We will see you again.”

Before the man could change his mind, Heror whirled around and sprinted away, brushing by the raiders. He dashed through climbing chasms of wildfire – past scorched piles of wood and rubble – and then he emerged from light into dark.

Now Heror sheathed his swords. With the heat at his back, his eyes scavenged the shadowy corridors of the forest. His breath started to shake. He cupped his mouth in his hands.

“Shaadur!!” he called desperately.

His voice echoed in the night, and soon, he heard the rhythm of hooves. Shaadur rushed to Heror’s side from beyond, whinnying with fright. Heror quickly mounted his horse and gripped the reins, and with a flick, he started off – in no direction at all.

Only away.