By the time they reached the canyons at the foot of the Midan camp, the sun was just starting its ascent in the east. They rode up through the canyon pass and came back onto the red rock flat, and entered the camp grounds.
The last night of travel was all but a blur to Heror. By now, he felt a searing pain all across his back. His breathing had become heavy and labored, and he shivered – his skin cold and clammy. He was dizzy, and he swayed as his horse walked. He’d at first thought it was just the cold of night, but as the air warmed, he felt no relief.
Adjaash led Heror and Brocus to the posts by the river, as the few Midan soldiers awake watched them in silence. She halted Ashanji at the first post, and then tiredly slid to the ground, wincing as her sore feet hit the hardened soil.
Next to Adjaash, Heror filed in, and as his horse stopped, a new wave of exhaustion came over him. He slumped over, and Shaadur glanced back at him with a low whinny. Then he sat up again and went to dismount – when he fell to the ground and landed on his side.
Adjaash saw Heror fall, and her energy returned in the form of fear. She rushed over to him, and as she knelt down in the dim morning light, she saw that his back was covered with chars and burns from the explosion.
“He’s going into shock…” she realized, before rising to her feet again and shouting: “Help! Somebody!”
A Midan came to help Adjaash hoist Heror up, and they took him to his tent at the northern side of camp. There, they laid him down and gave him a blanket. The sun rose, and the day lightened. Raldu soon arrived with another Midan, who wore a braided beard.
Heror drifted in and out of consciousness. He could hear Adjaash trying to speak to him, but he couldn’t make out the words. The bearded Midan fed him a watered powder of sorts. Then Heror sat up, vomited, and laid back down, and his pain and his mind left him for a time. His vision darkened. When it returned, he was not where he had once been.
He was in a strange place – a place where it was dark but light all at once. The sky was a deep dark indigo. A thin amber sunset lined the horizon, but at the sky’s apex, a grand, unmoving solar eclipse loomed over the land, its coronal ring bathing the landscape in an ethereal glow.
Hills and cliffs jutted out in the distance. On the cliffs, shadows of men walked against the red horizon, large and small – too far away for Heror to see or hear, or to call to. And in the foreground, underneath a sprawling tree at the foot of a shimmering spring, a giant red fox stood, peering out at the men who walked. But when the fox turned and looked at Heror, it had eight spider eyes – wide, unblinking eyes that bulged and stretched from the back of its snout to the top of its temple, seeming to see all.
Heror felt a tinge of fear as the fox stared at him, but his attention was drawn away as he saw something in the sky. From the black horizon, past the fox and the shadow men, spiny legs towered up into the expanse, climbing and swirling as they reached toward the eclipse – claws and tarsi stretching wide. Two legs grabbed the moon from either side, and all at once, the moon was pulled down from its throne. There was a blinding flash as the sun returned – but then it extinguished, like a flame without oxygen – and from the circular void, a dark shadow poured down the sky.
The shadow loomed larger and larger, until it blotted out all of the light, and this vision dissipated. But soon after, another came. There was a spark, and then, from a prism of light and color came the burning imprint of a phoenix, spreading its wings and unleashing a spire of flames. And the phoenix flew over the lands, leaving a plasmic trail in its wake. Over desert sands and waves, over grand mountains and valleys and fjords. Over vast oceans and whirlpools, over jagged cliffs where thunderheads loomed and lightning struck.
And then the phoenix flew over open fields with cobble roads, toward the Crystal Tower in the far distance. Under the Tower’s shadow, crops burned and smoke billowed. And as it swooped down toward the ground, Heror heard voices calling for help among the fires – pooling together in a chorus of cries. He heard Thaeolai and Ucankacei, as the fire grew hotter and the smoke grew thicker, darker, heavier. Adjaash called his name, as smoke turned to dust…
And then he jolted awake.
It was evening. He was lying in his tent with a blanket overtop him. His feet were elevated by a small linen roll. Through a thin gap in the tent flap, he saw a sliver of darkening blue sky to the east. A gust of wind rolled through, and the tent walls swayed ever so slightly. Not too far in the distance, he heard a bird’s call. Crickets chanted.
Delicately, Heror sat up in his bedroll. He slid the blanket off his chest, crumpling it in his lap. Then he folded it aside and took a deep breath, crossing his legs. The dirt and grime was gone from his eyes and face. As he looked down, he saw that his upper body was wrapped in bandages below the armpits. There was a new bandage over the cut on his palm, with a stain of red in the middle. He tried to close his hand, but he felt discomfort, and so he stopped.
Now Heror slid his right hand back, and he carefully rose to his feet. There was a rickety pain in his back and abdomen, and he grimaced at the feeling. But once he gained his balance again, he started toward the tent flap. He brushed through it and stepped out into the open, and felt a shiver as the cool air of dusk came to greet him.
His eyes went north. He saw the sands of the desert, catching the last orange rays of the day. Wispy, feather-like cirrus clouds wandered the skies like nomads far above, reflecting and refracting the evening blue and gold.
Heror felt a shiver again, and he was about to go back inside – when from the east, toward the river, he heard footsteps approaching. From around the tent, Raldu suddenly appeared.
“Heror!” he exclaimed, a bit surprised. “I was just about to come check up on you. How are you feeling?”
Heror winced at the pain in his midsection again. He wasn’t sure how to answer honestly.
“Better, at least,” Heror managed before glancing away. “Where’s Adjaash?”
“Once she knew you were alright, she went to rest – which, I’m sure you understand,” Raldu informed him. “She told me what happened. It was very brave, what you did.”
Heror only half-acknowledged him, still tired and groggy and sore. For a moment, it was silent. Then Raldu spoke again, gesturing to the east, strands of loose silver and gold hair dancing in the breeze.
“I have a fire ready by the river. Come join me. You can warm yourself up.”
Heror followed Raldu to the riverbank, stopping along the way to visit Shaadur. At the river, Raldu led Heror to a metal fire pit with several tree stumps circling it. Inside the pit, it was not a real fire, but instead flames of keatuu plasma that emanated warmth and golden-orange light without smoke. Raldu sat on a stump, his back to the stream. Heror sat across from him. Once Heror sat, Raldu reached into a satchel that hung at his side and pulled out a metal flask of water.
“Here,” he said, tossing the flask to Heror. “You should drink.”
Heror caught the flask and cupped it in his hands. At the thought of water, his throat went dry, and so he unscrewed the cork and took a swig. Then he set the flask on the ground and leaned forward, blue eyes catching the flamelight.
“Your back was covered in burns,” Raldu told Heror. “We had to treat it with cold water and aloe vera cream. Our doctor administered peyotie to help with the pain. It’s a cactus plant that grows in the canyons nearby. I would’ve used keawal, but my healing skills are not as developed. I didn’t want to do more damage.”
Heror said nothing. His worn eyes were stuck to the flamelight. He thought about the dream.
“The Midans value peyotie’s capability as a pain reliever,” Raldu went on. “But it is also a powerful dream agent. A hallucinogen…”
Raldu eyed Heror. The young man did not look up. Raldu could tell his mind was clouded.
“I do hope you saw nothing too troubling,” Raldu offered.
From the tone of Raldu’s voice, Heror sensed a willingness to talk and listen, and so he spoke.
“I saw a fox.”
“A fox?” Raldu echoed, his eyes intent.
Heror nodded.
“Someone… once told me that… they guide souls to the afterlife,” Heror went on. “But this fox was different. It was larger, and it had… it had eight eyes. Like a spider. It stood at the bottom of a tree, next to a spring. There were silhouettes in the distance, and it was watching over them. There was an eclipse. And then… there was a phoenix. There was fire…”
Heror trailed off. Thaeolai’s cry for help echoed in his head. Raldu watched the young man from where he sat.
“What else did you see?” Raldu asked.
Heror’s expression was one of pain.
“I heard my friend calling for help.”
Raldu looked at him but said nothing. Heror thought for a moment, then sighed and shook his head.
“I said some hurtful things to her before I left,” Heror admitted. “I… I’m worried that…”
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Heror went quiet for a moment longer, then tried to force a short laugh. It wasn’t like him to dwell on dreams.
“I’ve had dreams and nightmares before, when I was younger,” Heror rationalized. “It doesn’t mean anything… does it? What could this even mean?”
Now he looked at Raldu, seeking advice from the old man. Raldu eyed Heror with a stern, contemplating look. Then he let out a long breath.
“That’s up to you,” Raldu replied. “People have taken inspiration from dreams and nightmares since the dawn of the elesvium. Some worshippers of the Al-Ra believe them to be forewarnings of things to come, or signs of what may pass. Some accuse the Parvan Gods of Dreams and Nightmares – the twins Tamayre and Raateym – of toying with humans and haunting them with visions that might mislead, disillusion, or frighten them. Some think it to be Ikiaote’s doing – the God of the Mind – to surreptitiously meddle in realms that aren’t his, as the Par-va are said to delight in so well…”
Raldu’s voice faded, and he pursed his lips. Then he looked at Heror again.
“But then there are those who are not spiritual or superstitious,” Raldu continued. “And there are those who see no significance, or decide for themselves what the significance is. Many random dreams have been had. Not everything in life has a distinct meaning on the surface. And some meanings themselves are misjudged. All this to say…”
The old man paused again.
“It’s up to you.”
Heror looked at the ground, deep in thought. He leaned down, winced, and picked up a twig from the riverbank. He bent and spun it between his fingers, picking at the fibers.
“That thing… in the desert,” Heror recollected. “It wasn’t a nightmare, but it was something out of one. If…”
Heror stopped again. The flamelight crackled.
“You asked me what I believe in,” Heror remembered, looking ahead at Raldu. “I’ve never known. Maybe I’ve never thought about it as much as I should. But if I don’t believe in the Gods… how can I explain what I saw? What I’ve seen?”
Raldu offered the boy an understanding smile.
“For many people, the purpose of the Gods is to reconcile things they can’t explain.”
“But what does that say about the Gods?” Heror asked with agitation. “Are they just ideas that we created to help us sleep at night? To help us feel better about the unknown, or how insignificant we truly are? Or is there something more to all of this? What is the answer?”
“You’re asking yourself questions I asked myself a long time ago, Heror.”
“Alright…” Heror scoffed with a shake of his head. “And what did you decide?”
Raldu was silent for a moment. He eyed the young man, smokeless firelight catching in his sharp eyes. Then a small, reserved, fragile smile appeared.
“I never told you how I ended up here, did I?” Raldu inquired. “You must’ve been curious… given our similarities…”
Heror answered only by giving Raldu his attention. The young man sat up and dropped the twig to the ground. Raldu nodded and started to speak again. His skin and hair shone gold in the luminance.
“Close to the border wall in Ardys, in the northeastern corner – nestled between the wall and the ocean, there used to be small villages in the swamps,” Raldu began. “There’s actually a way past the border wall on the eastern shore – an area where the wall does not stretch, and Ardys and Mide are connected. It’s impossible to use for armies; the bog soil is too wet and soft for large armored groups to walk through. And even then, the Ardysan khilung is well aware of the passage. Cephris Khi Thung sits not far south of the gap – one of the largest fortresses in the Kingdom. Anyway, I digress…”
Raldu paused and recollected himself.
“This gap of swamps and bogs is forgotten in Ardys. And this is where I grew up. A long time ago, in a small village called Varesis. In this small village of stilted wooden houses and bridges and paddle boats – perhaps of around 80 people – Opelites and djauuls lived among one another. It was mostly djauuls from Mote, but my father was an Opelite who fell in love with a djauul. And I was the product of their union.
“When I grew older, I would help the men of the village travel west, to trade in a neighboring village maybe 15 miles down the way. This was a larger village, of only Opelites – and they did not like us. But they wanted our fish, basiisk and gator meat, peat for farming, and medicine herbs, and we wanted their grain and livestock. And so we traded – but things were always tense. Sometimes there were fights and brawls in the market. Sometimes we came back bruised and bloody, with threats that next time, it would be worse.
“I wed an Opelite woman from the neighboring village, and she came back to Varesis with me. And we had two children. But every time she went back down the way to her old village, to visit her family, she would hear threats and warnings from the village folk. Branding her a traitor, a disgrace, a jhuhk. That she would get what was coming to her for marrying someone who was beyond Opela’s grace. For spurning her God and her people. My parents had taught me to pray to the Gods, and so I prayed – that no harm would come to us. Every time she came back, and the others came back, the threats grew more and more real. And each time, I prayed. That we would be safe…”
Now the old man trailed off. His breath wavered. He let out a surrendered sigh.
“… but one day they came down the way and slaughtered everyone. I was fishing farther down the shore, and when I came back… it was all gone. And the smoke…”
He lost his words again.
“I barely had enough to bury.”
Silence came again. The old man glanced up at Heror, then shook his head as his eyes fell back on the flamelight.
“I fled to Mide,” he finally carried on. “I heard stories from the Midans not far apart from my own, passed down from generations. And I wondered why the Gods would allow these things to happen. And then I realized… maybe it’s because we leave it up to them. This is what I decided, Heror…”
Raldu paused, then continued.
“Whatever Gods you do or do not believe in… in this world – the world that we can see and hear and touch – we make our own fate. We are at the mercy of ourselves and the humans and creatures that live among us, and many are cruel. Maybe the Gods’ will is giving us a life we can use to make a change. But they are not the ones who will make changes for us. It’s up to us to conjure that power. It’s only up to us.”
Raldu’s face was one of conviction, and his eyes went back to the solemn sparks. A feeling of sadness came over Heror, and he dipped his head in the shadow. Then he glanced up again, as the keatuu flames danced.
“So you want revenge,” Heror deduced.
“I don’t want revenge,” Raldu shook his head. “I want recompense.”
Raldu could see that his answer to the grand question was not completely satisfactory to Heror. The young man leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His brow lowered in contemplation. His thoughts still ran.
“We can’t explain everything that happens, or everything that is… because this world is cursed by us that live,” Raldu conceded. “All we can do… is choose to act with what we are given. To grab hold of that power, and use it to make things better. To me, there is only one God I can see and feel and interact with… and that God is power.”
Now Raldu eyed Heror again. The young man was still not convinced – half-listening as he stared into the heat with a pensive expression. Raldu sighed.
“Heror… you’re looking for me to give you an answer,” the old man went on, softening his tone. “To impart decisive wisdom upon you. But I’m not going to tell you how or what to think. What you believe about the world, and how you piece it together, is one of the central aspects that defines you as a person… and it is something you have to find on your own. I won’t deprive you of that. And it will take time. You’re young. You’re in no rush. At least here… you finally have the freedom to wonder.”
This answer, at last, comforted Heror some small bit. The young man offered a considering glance in Raldu’s direction, then nodded, let out a long exhale, and dropped his eyes again.
It was quiet for a time. Night fell. They listened to the crickets and the crackles of the rune flames. Raldu watched the young man’s rumination with hawk-like eyes. And then after a while, Raldu let out a silent breath and let his eyes drift around. He looked past Heror, toward one of the nearby tents. Nestled between the tent poles, glinting in the flamelight, he saw a large spider web strung across with a small spider resting in the middle, as the webbing fluttered in the calm breeze.
Raldu let out a small chuckle. Heror glanced up at him, then followed Raldu’s eyes to the spider web behind him.
“It has all of these trees by the river,” Raldu noted, eyes casting up at the leaves that whispered. “And yet it chooses to build its web here.”
Heror thought for a moment, then blinked and turned back toward the fire.
The young man observed: “It sets its roots where the ground is stable.”
Raldu looked at the spider, and then at Heror. And it was silent for a time longer. The night deepened. The flamelight rippled. The river waters hummed. Crickets.
Eventually, Raldu asked Heror: “How much time do you think you need before you’re ready to return to the desert and help find the Sword?”
Heror glanced at the old man, then rolled his shoulders to try and dull the pain. The image of the desert creature flashed in his mind.
“How much time do you think I should take?” Heror deflected.
“Well…” Raldu thought. “Does it hurt to walk?”
“It’s mainly soreness in my legs. I think that should fade within a day or two. My back feels the worst… but it feels better now than it did.”
“Would four days be enough?”
Heror thought for a moment, then eyed Raldu and nodded silently.
“Four days, then,” Raldu concluded. “Do you want something to eat? I know it’s late, but…”
“My stomach is still settling, I think.”
The young man glanced back toward the camp, before turning to face Raldu one last time.
“I’m going to go try and get more sleep,” Heror said, gingerly rising to his feet as he took the water flask with him. “Thank you for the fire.”
“Of course,” Raldu said with a smile.
And then Heror turned and walked back into camp, leaving Raldu alone by the blaze.
As Heror left from view, Raldu’s eyes dropped to the flames. His expression hardened. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned in toward the heat, clasping his hands together – when suddenly, the flames crackled wide, and a plasmic spark snapped at his left wrist. Raldu winced in pain and recoiled back, and when he turned his forearm, there was a burn mark where the rogue keatuu magic had struck him.
Raldu sighed and scrunched his nose, and then he lifted his right hand toward his left. He held out two fingers – his index and middle – and pressed them onto the small burn wound. From his fingers, the subtle sea green light of a vitality spell seeped out. In only a second, the burn wound was gone, and his wrist was clear.
Now Raldu sat back and slid his feet forward. He frowned for a moment, and then his face leveled out. He stared into the darkness of the camp, sharp violet eyes unflinching against the warping flamelight – to the sounds of the night.