When Ako arrived, her camel huffing and blowing as if it had just finished a race, Marek had been concerned. His concern quickly turned into alarm as Ako rushed to him, her soft voice loud and panicked as she had described what she had seen: a large force of riders that would be hitting them within the next few hours.

She had arrived in the mid-afternoon, and after a furious debate that had left Talon fuming, they had ridden hard for three hours trying to escape. At the time, they didn’t know how far they were to the edge of the Huzha. It had been decided that they would ride as hard as they could. Hopefully, they could lose their pursuers in the forest that grew along the edges of the desert.

“How close?” Marek called. Up until now, they had traveled in silence, which had only been broken whenever he had asked for updates. “Less than ten minutes,” Wyatt called. Marek had placed himself at the front of the caravan, while Wyatt had been stationed at the back with Ako and Anton. “We won’t make it, Marek.”

At Wyatt’s words, an unconscious shudder passed through the caravan like a cold wind. They’re moments away from panicking, Marek thought dispassionately.

Three years ago, he had been in their place, but now was not the time for nervousness.

Talon was among the worst, as the Caravan Master was visibly shaking atop his mount.

“Fighters with me!” Marek called. He drew his sword and waved it above his head. They had twenty-four fighters in the caravan, if one counted Talon’s contributions, which Marek definitely was. Another glance at the man and Marek saw that Talon was in no shape to help, so he kept shouting for the fighters to follow, which they eventually did as Marek rode to the back of the caravan.

“Anton,” Marek said, and within moments the youth was beside him.

“Yes?” Anton said. He was scared and shaking, but he was putting on a brave face. Good, he’ll need that bravery.

“I need you to tell Talon to stop the caravan,” Marek said. Anton had already changed into his armor, a mixture of leathers and an old helm that Wyatt had given him. It was slightly too big, but an arrow through the eyes would be more inconvenient. “We won’t be able to make it to the forest, so we need to stop and have the caravan gather close so that we can properly defend it.”

“Yes, sir,” Anton said, snapping out a crisp salute before he rode to Talon, telling him what he wanted. There was an outburst of swears, but Marek put it in the back of his mind as he checked his fighters over. They were well-equipped, with nineteen spearmen in the front and five archers in the back. It was difficult to remain calm and present an uncaring façade, but it was something that needed to be done. The increasingly loud noise made that more difficult by the moment.

When the Kuloks arrived, it took Marek by surprise even though he was watching them. There were no dunes nearby, an unfortunate reality on the outskirts of the desert, so they wouldn’t have the higher ground to ward them off or shoot them from. They had stopped almost as one as the man in front raised a fist.

“Outlander!” came a familiar voice. It was Yarran, which made Marek feel cold despite the blistering heat. “I would speak with you.” Wyatt made to follow Marek, but he was cut off.

“Just you,” Yarran snapped. “You will not be harmed while we speak. You have my word.”

Marek looked over at Ako to make sure, and Ako inclined her head. “All right,” Marek muttered, nudging his camel forward. He rode to Yarran, who was now dressed in the same type of armor that Wyatt favored: light-brown leathers that would allow the fighter to move swiftly. He was carrying a spear, which glinted in the dwindling sunlight. He also wore a metal mask on his face, a light thing with a sneering expression on it. Suits him.

“Yarran,” Marek said, stopping his mount well out of range of Yarran’s spear. He didn’t bother bowing his head or going through any of the Kulok niceties. “Why are you here?”

“I told you,” Yarran said. His voice was thick with rage and something like fear. “I told you not to come this way, Zak. You did not listen.”

“And I told you that unless you were going to fund our journey to Ghada and pay for a ship that we had to go this way,” Marek said. He looked over Yarran’s shoulder and did a quick count of the men that he had brought. At least two score, heavily armed and ready to fight. Velaire damn him.

“My tribe cannot afford such an expense,” Yarran said. His voice was muffled beneath his mask. He raised an armored hand and flicked his mask up so that Marek could see him. He was glaring at him, and Marek forced down a shiver at the malevolence contained within his eyes. “Turn around and go back, Outlander.”

“Why?”

Yarran opened his mouth, went to speak, and then closed his mouth. He shook his head. “We do not speak of It,” he hissed. “It knows. Do not go to Ashenstead.”

“We can go around,” Marek said, confused at the man’s vehemence. “We won’t go within the fortress. It’s abandoned anyway.”

“Someone of your power not going within Ashenstead?” Yarran asked, scoffing. He raised his spear so that it was pointing at Marek’s chest. “Turn around. This is your final warning, Zak.”

“We will go forward!” Talon shouted. Marek closed his eyes. Now he decides to grow a spine. “I have many goods to sell, and you are in our way. Turn around, or my guard will kill you all!”

Shouts arose along both lines of warriors. Marek opened his eyes to see Yarran shoving the shaft of his spear beneath his armpit.

“Die, Outlander!” Yarran shouted, urging his mount forward. Behind him, the rest of his men charged. Velaire, guide me, Marek prayed as he fully opened himself to his magic. Until he closed the connection to his magic, he would be on a hair-trigger and a danger to friend and foe alike.

“Loose!” came Wyatt’s cry, and a half-dozen arrows flew toward the enemy at point-blank range.

That was the last thing Marek saw before he was enveloped in a storm of madness. He brushed aside the tip of Yarran’s spear with his sword and kept going, smashing into the enemy line. Once there, Marek slashed at a screaming Kulok’s throat, then another. Both went down.

“Keep firing!” Wyatt roared. Marek didn’t know where the voice came from. “Keep—”

Marek heard a bellow from behind him. He whirled and saw a Kulok charging toward him, his spear aimed at Marek’s throat. Again, he managed to brush away the spear, but the man kept going, slamming his mount into Marek’s.

Marek was thrown from his mount, hitting the ground face-first, hard. His head ached, his vision swam, and his pendant felt as though it was on fire. He struggled to move but couldn’t rise. Get up! Get up now! a voice shouted in his mind. He didn’t know where it came from. Marek mentally swatted it away but managed to shakily rise to his feet.

A vague mass made its way toward him. It had four legs. Marek swung his sword haphazardly, hitting nothing and staggering. By some miracle, his wand was still in his other hand and wasn’t broken.

The shape turned out to be another mounted Kulok. Marek shoved his wand forward, growling. He pictured nothing in his mind, nor did he channel his magic correctly. He just wanted the man dead.

A strong wind coursed from Marek’s wand. It was all he could do to keep his arm straight. The wind sent the Kulok and his mount flying, flipping both through the air. Both struck multiple foes, and they all went down in a heap.

Marek staggered toward them. He blinked as his head pounded in pain. It felt like someone was using it as a drum. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and it came back bloody. It was hot, and he was covered in sweat and blood. There was also blood on his sword. He flicked it, sending gobbets of it flying.

A man fell in front of him, and Marek lurched toward him. When he was above the man, he heaved, slamming his sword down and through the man’s chest. The man gasped, his eyes widening fearfully as they met Marek’s. He died moments later with a shudder and a curse on his lips. Marek spat in his face and moved on.

“Marek!”

Marek ignored the shout. He flicked his wand at another mount coming toward him. The camel slowed as if stuck in a bog. Dipping beneath the spear, he slashed its legs. It went down with an agony-filled cry. Marek slit the man’s throat as he fell.

“Marek!”

Marek whirled. “What?!” he screamed, looking for the source of the shout.

It was pandemonium. There were dead and dying men everywhere. Dozens were still fighting, cutting into each other ruthlessly.

To his side, one fell, blood pouring from his throat as he slid off his mount. It was too early to see who was winning, but the fact that they hadn’t lost yet was good. Marek narrowed his eyes and almost stumbled in pain. His head was killing him. It was hard to think. He tightened his grip on his wand and took another step forward.

“MAREK!”

Marek turned again. In the corner of his eye, he saw someone sneaking up on him. He swung, using his speed to help strengthen his blow.

Wyatt blocked the strike, wrenching Marek’s sword to the side. After a moment of realization, Marek lowered his weapon. He winced at the movement. He could feel the blood flowing down his neck.

Wyatt also lowered his sword and took a step closer to Marek. “We have to go!” he shouted then gestured to the fighting around them. “We’re going to be overrun!”

Marek narrowed his eyes and looked again, struggling to ignore his pounding headache. There were Kulok fighting, just as before, but they were mostly people he didn’t recognize killing familiar faces. Marek felt a chill run down his back. We’re about to be overrun.

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“We need mounts!” Marek shouted back. He looked around for anything that they could use. Bodies were everywhere. They were in a pocket that contained no fighting, but that could change at any moment.

“We’ll worry about that back at the caravan!” Wyatt yelled. He began running back to the untouched caravan. Talon’s archers had circled it, their arrows aimed towards the melee.

Marek followed behind, looking over his shoulder at the fighters. It seemed to be dying down now, with Yarran and his men killing most of his and Talon’s. Fuck.

“Retreat!” Marek shouted. He redoubled his pace so that he was now just behind Wyatt. They were less than a minute from the caravan at the rate they were going. “Regroup at the caravan!”

Only a few mounted men immediately peeled off and rode back. They went straight to the caravan, forming a line in front of it. Some kept fighting, still engaged, but they were immediately surrounded by Yarran’s men. Marek cursed. Six. I have six riders left.

“Less cursing, more running,” Wyatt said, panting. Marek shook his head at him, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“You just said more words than—” Marek began before he stopped himself. I’ll make fun of him later. If I survive, that is.

They made it back to the caravan, both Marek and Wyatt gasping for air. Marek wanted nothing more than to find ten water skins and drink them all, but instead, he searched for Talon. As he searched, he saw that there were a few bodies near the caravan. He could see some fell to Ako’s arrows, but others had been slain with a sword.

The caravan master was in the middle of his herd of camels, shouting at Anton, whose sword and leathers were both bloody. When Marek and Wyatt neared, Anton turned, his sword immediately in a defensive position. Upon seeing them, he relaxed and lowered his weapon.

“My men have all fallen!” Talon shouted. His face was the reddest that Marek had ever seen, looking more like a tomato than a man. Anton turned back to listen, stone-faced. Ako was on her mount still, her bow aimed at the fighting. Next to her, one of Talon’s remaining guards stared in wide-eyed horror at his friends being cut down. “They are all dead, and more are coming! We are all going to die, you useless boy!”

“Say another word to Anton, and I’ll kill you,” Wyatt rumbled. He stomped next to Talon and placed a hand on Anton’s shoulder. “Get on your mount, Anton. We’re leaving. Good work on defending the caravan.”

“Sir!” Anton said, stepping back and saluting. Blood from his sword sprayed onto Talon, who spluttered as it hit his face. He turned and ran toward the camels, selecting one and hopping on.

“Talon,” Marek said, waving away the man as he started to shout again. “Take a mount and ride,” Marek said. He jutted a thumb over his shoulder back to where the fighting was still ongoing. “We don’t have any time.”

“We had a deal!” Talon screamed. “A deal was struck, Outlander! You were to protect my caravan!”

“I did!” Marek shouted back, shocking Talon into silence. “Leave now while you can,” he said, forcing himself into a semblance of calm. “Your goods aren’t worth your life. Run, and I will cover you with all my strength.”

Talon’s anger vanished at his words. His eyes moved down to look at Marek’s wand. “I see,” he said. “I will go, but you will reimburse me for my loss, Zak.”

Marek’s hand clenched around his sword, and for a moment, all he wanted to do was cut the idiotic man’s head off. Yarran might be doing that soon enough, Marek thought. He almost laughed, but he stopped when his headache made its feelings known at the aborted movement.

“Just go,” Marek said through gritted teeth. “I’ll hold them. Run to the forest—Wyatt will guide you from there.”

“As you wish,” Talon said. He bowed his head respectfully. “Noam guide your wand, Núwek.”

Marek nodded and turned to go but was stopped by Wyatt. “Marek, this is suicide,” he said. He was also covered in blood, giving him a feral look. “You’ll die out there.”

“Take care of them, Wyatt,” Marek said. Then, he grinned. “Looks like you finally have command of the Company.”

Wyatt didn’t smile. There was a deep pain in his eyes as he swallowed and clapped Marek on the shoulder. “Diev bless you, Marek,” he croaked, invoking the Creator’s blessing. Such words were only uttered at significant moments in one’s life. Like my impending death, Marek thought, amused despite himself.

“Good luck,” Marek said. He looked for Ako and locked eyes with her. Her face was calm, but her eyes were full of tears. “Help him. Help them all, Ako.”

“I will,” Ako said. Marek smiled at her and then left. He walked away, ignoring the shouts behind him as the caravan prepared to leave.

On the battlefield, the fighting had all but concluded. Marek flinched as the last of his men still fighting was cut down. Almost as one, they all turned to the caravan. Judging by the shouts behind him, they would need five to ten minutes to flee.

Once again, Yarran trotted out on his mount in front of his men. He was splattered in blood nearly from head to toe. His spear was gone, and he now bore a scimitar with a red jewel in its hilt. Even in the fading light, it shone.

Yarran mimed a clap. He was smiling, but it looked more like a snarl.

If I buy them enough time, they should be able to escape, Marek thought warily.

“You and your men fought,” he said. As the man continued to speak, Marek let himself fall deep into his magic. The pendant on his chest burned painfully, and images flitted through his mind. From a third-person perspective, he saw a man channeling a great amount of magic until he eventually unleashed his fury. With a start, Marek realized it was him.

Yes, Marek thought as he closed his eyes and began to channel. Yarran stopped talking, and for a moment, all was still. Marek broke the stillness by dropping his sword, gripping his wand in both hands and holding it above his head.

He felt the air grow colder, and his body shivered as dark storm clouds formed high above them. Somehow, he could see outside of himself, which only happened when a Mage was fully immersed in his magic.

Good. It was the same voice that had whispered to him mid-battle. He couldn’t tell if the speaker was man or woman, but it sounded eager. Kill them. Kill them all.

“Kill them all,” Marek repeated, murmuring the words. I can do that.

“Kill him!” Yarran screamed, his voice high-pitched in terror. No one moved. “Kill the Zak now!”

Marek seized the heat that he had gathered from on the ground and in the air. Like an artist painting bold and deliberate strokes with a brush, he molded the heat to his will. He guided the gathered heat upward until it hit the fully formed clouds thousands of feet above them. Marek strained, sweating even as he felt chilled to the bone. He was both on the ground and in the air, freer than any bird. He pushed more magic through, feeding his power and rage through his wand. In response, it grew hotter in his hands.

Marek opened his eyes, and the world shattered.

Before he struck, the surroundings were pitch black. Marek blinked as a massive white bolt of lightning struck the ground right next to Yarran, who screamed. His mount reared, and he tumbled off his camel. He hit the ground hard, where he lay unmoving. Another bolt struck in the middle of his gathered men, scattering them.

KILL THEM! the voice boomed. Release your wrath! Slay them all!

Marek opened his mouth and roared soundlessly. Lightning sizzled and cracked, smashing into the ground repeatedly as his headache grew to new heights. He had never felt so powerful, so vengeful. He was a god, and these were simple objects to be brushed aside at a whim.

An arrow bloomed in Marek’s shoulder, sending him to the ground. It was like a wave had crashed into him. He tried to rise, but his legs refused to move.

No! Rise, Marek!

Marek threw himself back to his feet, snarling. His chest felt as though it was engulfed in flame. He was burning, inside and out.

Marek gathered all his energy and power to him as he sent one last bolt to where another group of Yarran’s men were gathered. It was bigger than any previous strike. Marek threw up a hand as he was thrown off his feet.

Marek screamed in pain as he scrubbed his eyes, trying to see. Everything hurt. Everything burned. He couldn’t see, and he couldn’t hear. There was a keening whine in his ears, probably from the last bolt. His chest burned hotter, and Marek smelled burning flesh.

Marek then tried to get to his feet, but then hesitated. My wand is gone, Marek thought desperately. It’s gone, and I need it.

Pushing himself to his knees, Marek blindly scrabbled around, looking for his wand. He found bits of wood, and they felt much different from the smooth and polished wood that he had previously used. There was a stinging pain in his hand, but Marek ignored it as he kept searching.

“I used it,” Marek said. He couldn’t see or hear, except for the ringing in his ears. He felt tired as if all his actions were hitting him at once. “I used my wand and used my own energy to fuel my magic.”

The knowledge hit him like a brick, and exhaustion quickly settled deep within his bones. To use one’s own energy was dangerous because it usually meant that the Mage had aged himself beyond recognition while trying to maintain the spell. Desperate, Marek slapped a hand on his pendant and saw Ako walking toward him tremulously.

He couldn’t see the battlefield in front of him. Ako could. She looked horrified as she slowly made her way to Marek as if he were a wild beast ready to lash out. She wasn’t wrong.

It’s never shown me current events before, Marek thought, amazed but too tired to care. Something was different about the pendant now.

“Ako!” Marek tried to shout, but it came out as more of a whisper. “Ako.”

There was no response. Instead of hearing Ako’s reply, Marek passed out, hoping that Ako heard him. In his mind, he heard laughter, faint and cold. His last thought was wondering who it was and why he could hear it.