Mazin baked under the oppressive humidity of the midday sun. His shirt clung to him; his pants were a second layer of skin over his legs. The shoulder length hood around his neck was soaked in sweat, sucking in the salty streams flowing down his brow. He ruffled his sticky curls and enjoyed the moisture his fingers found.
Since leaving the lynx road, the journey north forced him to toil upon uneven soil. It couldn’t decide between hard soil caked by heat or dusty soil sinking every step he took. His thighs seared with burning exertion. Dry and yellowed tall grass crunched beneath his stomping strides. The Sank’Ta Province was dry, hard brown. Anything meant to be green was yellow, or joining the brownness of the soil.
Prince Mazin adjusted his bag, shifting the straps onto a more comfortable place on his shoulders. The humid breeze dried the sweat with only a hint of passing coolness. He massaged the ruby pommel of his khopesh on his waist, savouring its chill on his fingertips.
The third day since he sprinted out of the lynx gate of Bil’Faridh, and the Sank’Ta still surrounded him. His guide, the dark Bagha, directed him north east through the void only. It never showed its silver striped self beyond it. Not even at night when he camped under the stars. This was a shorter road, according to the dark Bagha, Mazin was too tired to complain.
A stifling gust filled his nose with sour sweat, stilling his march. His head rose from the energy sapping monotony towards a surprising amount of green nearby. Bright fern trees rose beside a towering palm with yellowing leaves, shading the sparkling pond below it. Green grass spread past the shade of all the trees, though it was an island of green amongst endless dryness.
People lounged in the shade, laughing, chatting and fand themselves with leaves. Mazin sighed, stuffing his ironvine ring into a pocket. He dug into his back and pulled out a stretch of silk and his two water-skins. They were far from empty, but it never hurt to fill them whenever he could. The silk was for his ruby eye. It was improbable that people beyond Bil’Faridh’s walls would recognise him, but there was no need to attract their fear.
His fingers fidgeted at his side as he approached the oasis. He kept his head low and eyes fixed on the ground. There were more people than he thought. Mazin’s heart trembled. A pair of children chased each other around the palm, skipping over the stretched legs of lounging elders. Their cloth was poor, but clean. Vests and skirts covered little of their sun darkened, taut umber skin, exposing their lean limbs.
“Beast’s blessings to you all,” Mazin said as he arrived. Most waved in reply, others grunted.
“Greetings,” a woman said with curious eyes, beside a rather wide man beside her.
Mazin avoided them and the giggling children paused to watching him. It was cool in the shade, as if it barred the humidity from entering. His mind raced for more words, anything while their eyes lingered.
“Slow day?”
“It’s winter boy, the weather might be slow to change, but the crops know it,” a man with a greying beard and bony torso laughed. A stick of dry grass protruded from his lips. “You from the city?”
Mazin grunted and knelt beside the clear water, seeing the stony bed below. He nudged away the floating lilies and cupped his hand to taste the cool water.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the woman said. He turned to face her and her eyes narrowed. “It gave this one a runny morning.”
“It wasn’t the water, Ma,” the burly man beside her moaned. He didn’t look youthful, perhaps she aged well. “Don’t listen to her.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to boil it first. There’s no need to risk it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mazin smiled, enjoying the coolness running down his throat.
“That’s a fine khopesh, my daughter’s a smith in An’Shar,” the bearded man chimed in.
“Here we go,” moaned the woman.
“Fine woman. I’m sure she could match yours with something in her shop. My Saida knows how to put those scratchings on weapons, for strength, she told me once.”
“Don’t boast about things you know nothing of, Omar,” the woman groaned.
“You’re all farmers?” Mazin asked.
“On Lord Geb’s land south of An’Shar. You going to the Dhaar to fight?”
Mazin grunted, he thought it safer than lying. Though he soon realised none of them would smell it.
“You better kill many Tigers, boy!”
“Omar!”
“There’s trouble with them. My Saida says she’s received grand orders and works day and night. A battle is coming Bisma!”
“Don’t listen to him, he enjoys,” Bisma rushed to silence Omar. There was no deceit on the man’s scent though.
“I should get going. May the Beast watch over you all.”
“Kill those Tigers, boy!”
Mazin re-entered the realm of stifling humidity.
“Strange boy, that one,” said Bisma. “Rich cloth, jewelled blade, what’s he doing out here?”
“Probably a runaway noble, seems the type,” Omar muttered before their voices faded.
Prince Mazin quickened his pace, ignoring the rushing burn returning to his thighs. The terrain remained unforgiving, energy sapping, but he jogged anyway. Omar’s words echoed in his mind still.
Bisma tried to play his words as gossip, but the man’s untainted scent didn’t help. Threats of war were common. Since he could remember, there were always mutters of large armies moving around. Jun Da making a move, Da finally mustering an army, but they often remained mutters. Maybe she was right, Omar believed the gossip he spoke, but Mazin’s mind wouldn’t let it go. It fit well with the dark Bagha’s warning in the palace.
The sun slowly fell into the west, draining the oppressive humidity away. It was still warm though, sweat streamed down his face, but the cool breeze became more frequent. Green coloured his surroundings, fragmented and sparse, but any change to the brown monotony was welcome. Thorn trees stood naked in the fading light, distant farms in the east quietened. Ponds sprouted up, with many people gathered around them.
Dishevelled travellers made camp, fires sparked up, despite the clear blue sky. Many remarked at his passing, pointing fingers, snatching excited children and hiding them when they noticed his khopesh. Mazin kicked his legs into a sprint, hoping to spare the campsites of his presence before the fire in the sky fell off into the west.
He would have continued through the night, but he wished to speak to the dark Bagha in the void.
The sunset eventually coloured the sky, taking the last warmth from the day as well. Gold, lavender and red danced amongst the fading blue above. His sprinting kept him warm as the weather turned chilly. Noises of lesser beasts waking with the sunset filled his ears when he slowed. Birds ceased their daytime singing and squawked their warnings, the nocturnal hunters awakened.
The darkness comforted him, with sparkling stars shining through the sporadic clouds. He enjoyed the fresh air, expanding his lungs, which already forgot about his sprint.
Mazin broke his stride and made for a thorn tree, dead like the others, but swarmed leaves as dry as dust. The lights of distant villages brightened the east behind him, along with other campfires. He threw off his bag and khopesh to gather leaves and twigs for kindling.
Sparks took to the dry foundations and a wall of fire rose. Helped by the wind, and the few snapped branches he tossed in. Mazin sat crossed legged before the flames, nibbling on dried spiced meat and clutching a handful of dried fruit. Flashes of red and gold in the darkness drew his eyes away.
Wild Felines.
Despite the wind, stifling warmth returned to spoil the night. Mazin wiped his hands on his pants and focused on the flames again. The dark Bagha told him it took concentration, and peace of mind, to ender the void. Sleep was the easiest avenue, but also more volatile. He watched the heat dance like ochre silk, sparking when it gorged on the wood.
His solitude made it a challenge, funny enough. He listened to rumbling beasts, gusting wind, and feared the unknown of his surroundings. Mazin sighed, all he achieved was sleep. He laid back and rested his head on his bag, after softening the uncomfortable bulges. One hand gripped his khopesh beside him while he watched the clouded stars above. There was peace beyond the ancient stonework of Bil’Faridh. Far from everyone, even Ma and Zaki.
Guilt soon tainted the peace.
He gasped awake in pitch blackness. The frequent brisk wind turned into the eternal whispers of the void. Mazin lifted himself and stood on impatient feet. Instinct made him snatch for the khopesh he knew didn’t travel with him.
Mazin’s fingers became restless while he waited, trying his best to ignore the unrelenting whispers. The incoherence made them insufferable, always on the brink of sounding familiar, but never becoming more than mumbled nonsense. The blackness would have been better without it, but this was mostly his eagerness speaking.
The whispers focused ahead, and his anxiety ceased. His mind pictured the whispers as dead leaves swirling to form the monstrous dark Bagha. He saw nothing but its glowing red eyes, not even the silver streaks of lightning that sparked its black fur.
“Your course remains true, boy. By midday, cross the borders of the Sank’Ta. Stray east and cling to my homeland.”
“May I join the road now?”
The dark Bagha blinked a few times in silence.
“I will be quicker, avoiding trouble will be my priority.”
The dark Bagha remained silent, but this time Mazin recognised its confusion.
“You seem to imply I barred you from taking the road. It was a mere warning.”
“Ah.”
“Have you anything else to discuss? Best not to waste your strength in the void with the great distance still ahead of you.”
He had spent many years listening to Ma complain about Pride’s stinginess with knowledge, the dark Bagha was anything but. Perhaps Taming a Feline made them stingy.
“No,” Mazin said.
The eyes disappeared before his echoing words faded. He sighed when the whispers surged back to swarm his surroundings.
His shoulders sagged. He laid on his back, rested his fidgeting hands on his chest, and closed his eyes. It made the fall manageable. Mazin willed for the voice to end, for the whispers to vanish, for his mind to return. He calmed his fingers and tensed his body in preparation. A flash of colour forced his eyes open. It was gold, but the ground beneath him vanished and his lips parted for a silent scream.
Mazin gasped awake, clawing fistfuls of grass and soil. The night sparkled with clouded starlight still. He blinked until his vision cleared. His campfire burned low. It took some time to adjust to the deep quiet, and the distant slumbering. Growls from distant beasts accompanied his crackling campfire.
He watched the flames on his side, head resting on his bag. His heart drummed; the flash of gold was familiar.
Mazin snorted at himself, when was gold not unfamiliar to him?
The prince turned away once he calmed down, allowing the fire to warm his back. His eyelids weighed heavy, with his hand back on his khopesh, sleep took him.
He rose with the sun, eyes refusing to stay open, torso complaining about his hard bed. Mazin washed his mouth and kicked away the ashes of his dead campfire. A mini loaf in hand, khopesh strapped to his waist, and bag on his back, the prince resumed his journey at a jog, straying west in search of the lynx road.
Cool air moistened his tongue while he nibbled on his bread. He sipped his water without breaking stride and reminded himself of his silk eyepatch. A buzz filled his ears when the last of night’s darkness melted to the morning’s strength. Ma used to call the sun and moon the Great Beast’s eyes. An added detail she threw in whenever she read her favourite stories to them. Atum Ra’s Rising, Aten’s Loyalty, The Tenth Medjay, and The Spotted Lion, those were the ones he remembered. It seemed so long ago now.
Mazin’s creeping joy faded when he neared the lynx road. The movement back and forth on the stony road reminded him of Bil’Faridh’s streets. He ensured silk covered his eye again and raised his hood. The ironvine ring returned to his pocket, then he joined the flow of movement.
No one paid him any mind thankfully. Most were burly workers pulling carts on their own, turning off the wide stone road down onto narrow gravel roads towards farmsteads in the west. Many carts travelled south, ladened with an assortment of supplies. Pulled by a pair, or more, of muscled Lions. Aromas of barley, wheat and slaughtered lam, beef and poultry filled his nose. Alongside sharp smelling casks, ruining it all with sourness.
He enjoyed the cheese and fresh milk sloshing within sealed jugs. Hints of fruit and vegetables struck him last. Mazin’s mind churned. Harvest season was long gone. A few guards marched alongside the procession of wagons trundling southwards. Sinha roared on their scaled breastplates, judging by the growing murmurs amongst the other travellers, this was as out of place as he assumed.
The guards’ eyes wandered, scanning the masses travelling north. Daring any of them to approach their caravan. Their eyes fell on him soon, undressing him with guarded curiosity, penetrating his hood. Mazin adjusted it often, turning his head away and raising his shoulders.
A new stink ravaged his nose, growing fast, which made him widen his strides. It quickly stifled him, sour and bitter all at once, drowning everything else in his vicinity. Mazin’s eyes watered, Great Beast, it was awful.
“You look suspicious, boy.”
A stranger clasped his shoulder, Mazin flinched late. The stink stole his senses from him.
“Jumpy, aren’t you?”
Mazin snarled at the stranger, catching a hint of surprise from the aged man looking down at him. He swiped the stranger’s hand away and continued ahead, wishing to stay unnoticed from the last guards around the caravan heading south.
“Keep that up and they might take you for a thief,” the stranger continued, every word tortured his nose with his rancid breath. Mazin hurried while keeping his face from convulsing. How no one else complained about the stench was a mystery to him.
“What’s the hurry, boy?”
Leave me alone! The prince begged in his mind.
Every word the stranger exploded from his lips, attracting so much attention. Mazin would have run, though he feared the reaction of everyone else, let alone the stranger. His skin prickled, his fine hairs stood upright like soldiers awaiting orders.
The rotten stench lingered; the stranger was breathing heavier.
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“I don’t have the legs, boy, slow down!”
He stumbled, Mazin’s ears overheard more mumbles from others on the lynx road. A few of them chuckled. Thankfully the guards were long gone, along with the caravan.
“I won’t bite.”
“What do you want?” Mazin asked. Anger bubbled in his throat before the question escaped his lips. He sounded very much like a boy.
“Awfully rude of you,” he was definitely a Lion, sun darkened. “Not how a boy should speak to his elders.”
His skin was taut, unblemished beyond age lines. The stranger’s short coiled hair was unkempt and greying. Two heads taller than Mazin, with sparkling hazel eyes.
“That’s a fine khopesh. How did you steal it?”
“What?” Mazin squeaked, resisting a shudder when the stranger chuckled and released fouler stink. “I’m no… I didn’t steal it.”
“So, you’re an affluent boy then.”
Fool!
Mazin tried to hurry again, but the stranger caught up. The man popped a cork on his waist and the rotting bitterness almost made Mazin gag. The stranger gulped his rank brew with pleasure.
“Want some? Brewed it myself, mixed some ingredients from the Chhaa and Gaur Provinces, with a drop of something special. Potent stuff, it keeps me going.”
Mazin turned away and shuddered. How did he keep it down? The prince struggled to keep track of anything besides the stink. He didn’t notice the sun was close to midday. There was no humidity, which would have been a relief were it not for the stranger’s brew. He struggled to smell his own sweat.
“Where’re you off to thief?”
Mazin clenched his fist and bit his tongue. Perhaps he would move on if ignored.
“Far from Bil’Faridh, no doubt. That is the fattest ruby I have ever seen,” the stranger laughed, which turned into a hacking cough. He took another swig of his rancid brew.
“Bag is full as well. Oh yes, Bil’Faridh cannot be your favourite city at the moment.”
Mazin’s chest tightened and burned. The stranger’s voice boomed, those close enough to hear, which was everyone, gossiped about the strange pair on the road.
“Lost an eye as well, are you cutting your losses?”
“Please!” Mazin hissed. The stranger laughed, then coughed again.
“All right, all right boy, I’m only teasing. Travelling is a tiresome thing, especially in one’s mind. Entertainment to pass the time is scarce.”
“I’m no minstrel, leave me be.”
“Oh no, no at all, far from it. I know the look of minstrels, and you are far from it. Myself, however, well, you’re in luck. For it is your journey that has become dreary no more.”
Mazin sighed to himself.
Why did I come to the road?
The stranger’s stink made it impossible to smell the man’s scent. He couldn’t tell if he was honest or mocked him, for he hadn’t the voice of any minstrel he heard before. His voice was rough, either from overuse or suffering his rancid drink.
“What do you say, a companion for the road?”
“I… I have no coin.” Mazin grimaced at himself.
“Oh, I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement. Besides, who said I need coin?”
Mazin didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t run. With all the attention on him, it seemed foolish to worsen it. If that was what the man wanted, perhaps he would quieten, lessening his stink.
“What do I call you?” Mazin asked.
“Ammon, and you thief?”
“Ma… huh?”
“Your name, thief?”
The prince berated himself for the near slip, his heart quivered.
“Why should I name myself? I am a thief after all.”
“A thief able to leave Bil’Faridh, so you mustn’t be one of great notoriety. A Tamer would have put an end to you if you were. If it is your fear of being caught that keeps you ill-mannered, allow me to put an end to it. I don’t care.”
“What if… what if my anonymity is the reason why I walk this road at this moment?”
Ammon guffawed, drawing more eyes.
“Okay, okay! Enough,” Mazin begged. He paused as his mind raced. “Galel.”
“Galel?”
Mazin grunted, his throat lumped when Ammon fell silent. The collective crunching of loose stone from all the travellers filled the quiet between them, along with the occasional murmur. Ammon gulped another mouth mouthful of his rotten brew.
“A pleasure Galel, the thief.”
Mazin’s back was drenched, not from the weather. The prince fixed his gaze upon the horizon ahead, wishing for the end of this trouble he brought upon himself.
Mazin’s luck changed nearly in an instant. His silence achieved the impossible. Ammon said nothing. He did little more than keep up with him and sip his horrid drink.
The sun reached its zenith, with non-existent warmth, compared to what he was used to. A change of scenery came. Dry, hard, and cracked soil gave way to rolling plains. Not exactly green, but better than the dehydrated and lifeless brown patches of yellow that dominated the Sank’Ta. Mazin tasted moisture in the air, and not because of the coming of rain. Ammon’s stench had lessened, trickling into the prince’s nose rather than forcing its way in now.
Palisades rose ahead, ringing around the town of Char’Bhom. Mazin ensured his ruby eye was still covered as town guards came into his view. Ammon yawned and took another sip from his skin before stretching. He pulled out his dried spiced meat, fruit and bread. To Ammon’s credit, he declined his initial offers to share, but the man eventually snatched his offered food by the end, mumbling his thanks.
Mazin chewed, eyeing the guards in ordinary brigandine before the open wooden gate. She fingered the flanged mace on her waist. The battered buckler on her other arm completed her sorry appearance. A Jaguar from the Boor Province in the northwest, perhaps, though her leather helm threw him off.
From what he knew, Char’Bhom sprouted where the borders of the Gaur, Dhaar, Sank’Ta and Boor Provinces met. Each clan sent levies to safeguard the town and its people. Char’Bhom was a bustling town at the best of times, according to what he had read. A stopping point on your way south towards Bil’Faridh.
Ma said there was a time when Tefnut governed with other nobles the Tigers and Jaguars sent. Before the current civil war, now he doubted whether any clan but the Jaguar sent governors to the town. Da refused to send more than fresh recruits, Mazin remembered a fight he and Ma had about it.
The pale, freckled westerner eyed Ammon with sky blue attention. Then she fixated on Mazin when they arrived at the gate. Ammon greeted boisterously; the westerner didn’t react to his stink.
Curse my senses.
The prince grunted at her, and she glared at him. Her eyes seared into his back as they joined the chaos of the town.
A miniaturised effort of Bil’Faridh, sandy brown homes with obelisks and poorly carved hieroglyphs in one corner. Darkwood homes with yellow cream paper walls and coloured tiled roofs in another. Quaint cottages with minimal vinewood wrapping around plain stone below thatched roofs filled the penultimate corner. Bland crabby white and grey stonework, to match the neutrality of the palace in Bil’Faridh he guessed, dominated the architecture of the last corner.
Clan architecture did mingle beyond their designated corners. Sandy stone rose beside vinewood and darkwood alike, on the main gravel street. Inns, taverns and businesses, rather than homes.
Mazin paused before getting swept into the crowd, admiring the poor imitation of the capital with open awe that amused Ammon.
“You act as if you’ve never left the capital, boy.”
“Huh?” Mazin blurted. He cursed himself and cleared his throat, pretending the noise distracted him. “I avoid towns.”
Ammon hummed.
You need to do better than that, much better.
“The Smooth Cactus is a wondrous establishment. I know the innkeeper, Nadja.”
“No, I cannot stay.”
“Nonsense, you cannot travel by road and not enjoy its comforts.”
“I’m not one for comfort,” Mazin smile, then allowed Ammon to drag him through the bustle. Hawkers screamed their wares to everyone passing them.
“Perhaps you should stay, Ammon.”
Ammon spun around, for the first time Mazin picked up a scent from him. Through the horrid stink, which he finally accepted was his alone to suffer, fear wafted in his nose. The man blinked at him a few times. He stepped closer and bent over until their faces were far too close.
“Galel, I will be honest. I fear travelling alone. The civil war has made Ko’Eri dangerous. You may be capable, you may not. What matters is with you at my side, the chance for trouble is low.”
Mazin twitched under his pleading gaze. There was sincerity amongst the stink, but he couldn’t shake his own regret. Which then led to guilt. Ammon sensed his hesitation.
“Galel, I’ll leave whenever you need to. I will pay you, I have the gold, but I must meet with Nadja. She has my supplies. At least wait for me outside her inn, please.”
Mazin nodded and followed, after a warm and thankful shoulder tap from Ammon. He fingered his ironvine ring in his pocket, but his discomfort lingered.
They didn’t go far, pushing through crowds milling about merchant stalls. Voices drowned each other out, warring through the excitement.
The Smooth Cactus stuck out amongst the bland grey buildings on either side of it. Sandy stone exterior, with hieroglyphs carved onto it, ringing the windows and the entrance. Smoke filtered out of the windows and open double doors. Pipe weed, nothing as sweet as Kumkani Lihle’s honeyweed. Mazin lingered on the gravel main road, watching Ammon walk on the paved path towards the inn. He glanced back at the prince as if he feared he would run. Mazin nodded his encouragement, then squirmed.
Just run!
Mazin glanced north and followed the gravel road, right until the palisade at the other side. It wasn’t busy on that end, but more levies patrolled the wooden walls. Not only from the Jaguar Clan, he spotted bland lamellar and iron scale amongst the brigandine. Mazin raised his hood and checked the silk over his ruby eye.
“Back so soon, Ammon?” A stout woman grunted at Ammon at the door.
“Not for long,” Ammon said, after suffering a thumping greeting from her. The club hanging on her waist seemed a twig. Mazin wondered why she bothered with her column thick arms. Her wood-coloured skin glistened under the sunlight, perfumed with sweet oils.
“Who’s the boy?” Another brute asked at a whisper. Mazin pretended not to notice their eyes.
“The roads are dangerous these days Djet, doesn’t hurt to have a sword close.”
Djet appeared to be the stout woman’s sibling, though Mazin turned away when their staring continued. He feigned interest in the town’s business, suffering their eyes on his back. The prince kept his head low as he shifted his feet. Strangers passed and a few took notice of him, muttering about his appearance. They judged him a mercenary behind their hands. Mazin felt naked in his woollen shirt, he didn’t smell the best either. One night in the inn might have served him well. The thought of a bed, even a straw filled mattress, tempted him.
Mazin kicked a few stones as he paced, his thoughts drifted onto Ma and Zaki. He hoped she wasn’t worried, hopefully Zaki wasn’t disappointed by his sudden disappearance. The dark Bagha’s actions at the lynx gate couldn’t have helped the low reputation of dark Felines in Bil’Faridh also.
He never asked the beast how it escaped. Did it wound the guards? A heaviness landed on him. Why didn’t I leave as planned? Whatever attack or skirmish occurred couldn’t have been as bad as the Bagha suggested. Dread inked its way through him, his return atop a dark Sinha to Bil’Faridh wouldn’t be a joyous one. Mazin shook himself before it took hold.
The prince fought his abhorrence when Ammon’s repugnant stink washed over him. Somehow worse than when he first suffered it, as if he bathed in it. Ammon emerged from the Smooth Cactus with a bag of his own. He wore a thin, weathered, hooded cloak. Mazin eyed a knife shaped bulge on his waist as well.
Ammon spoke his farewell to the stout siblings at the door, dodging the woman’s attempt to thump him again. There was a noise of wealth about him as well.
“Sorry for the wait Galel,” Ammon said. Then dug for the gold in his cloak. Mazin took a step back from his stink, hoping he didn’t notice. “Consider this an advance.”
Mazin eyed the pouch. It bulged with more than he expected. His discomfort stayed his hand.
“Keep it, I… uh, my duty has just begun. Pay me when it has ended.”
“Duty? You talk like a Tamer.”
“No, well, I’ve spent many years around them. I must have picked up a few habits.”
Ammon’s eyebrow rose. It was unnerving. He appeared to see through his words. Mazin knew the man wasn’t a Tamer, though one didn’t need a Tamer’s nose to spot lies.
Ammon smiled and forced the coin purse back into his cloak. He straightened himself, uncorked his rancid skin and sipped.
“Shall we continue then Galel?”
Prince Mazin kept his head low while they marched along the gravel road. Ammon was well known, nodding and waving at the may greeters along the way. Most inquired about appearance, or they complained about his departure. He offered nothing more than idle replies and loud laughter.
Mazin’s skin crawled with every soldier he passed. Their eyes were glued to him. His shoulders rose and his head lowered further. Ammon grunted his respect at them at the northern gate. It took some time after departing Char’Bhom for his anxiety to fade.
“You really fear capture, don’t you?” Ammon asked. Mazin whipped off his hood as the sun rushed towards the western horizon. “Your desperation attracts their eyes. Lowering your hood is a good start. You’re a handsome man Galel.”
“That sounds like a sure way to draw more attention.”
“The right sort of attention. No one sees a handsome man and assumes thief. With your hood and lowered head, you only feed their assumptions.”
Mazin grunted.
The gravel road widened further, turning back into sun baked cobblestones.
“Confidence is key, appear purposeful and calm.”
Ammon took a swig from his skin and coughed before corking it again. Mazin caught additional sloshing from the man’s bag. Amongst other things the smell wouldn’t allow him to smell. He stifled a groan.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You’re a strange thief Galel.”
“Have you met many thieves?”
Ammon snickered at the retort, Mazin smirked at his boots.
The pair continued their journey in silence. The lynx road was quiet north of Char’Bhom, with greener surroundings. Trees rose at random, naked, with piles of dead leaves swarmed around their thick trunks. He was beyond the Sank’Ta now.
Under dying light, the lynx road drifted into the east. The cobblestones hardened, becoming organised and compact, turning grey. Ammon sipped his drink often, but it failed to hide another scent growing beneath it. It coincided with the coming darkness. Fear again.
Ammon’s pace rose, forcing Mazin to keep up with him for once. The man’s eyes darted around as the darkness deepened. The fire above faded quicker, and the stars were shaded by thick greyness. It turned into a chilly night, after the last light withered away on the western horizon. Mazin wrapped his arms around his chest while he walked.
There was hardly a speck or a flicker of light in their surroundings. No sign of a homestead or farm with life. Mounds sprouted around, turning the landscape bumpy. It was green and slick under his boots. Trees rose tall, sparse between and amongst the mounds. Their branches were nude and thick, sturdy in the darkness. Fallen leaves marred the lush grass with crumbling brownness.
Ammon shuddered and gulped a mouthful of his foul skin, stumbling on the road.
“We should make camp before you hurt yourself in this darkness,” Mazin said. Ammon grunted.
He led him towards a pair of naked trees surrounded by lush grass. Mazin narrowed his eyes and grumbled at the darkness. A spectacle to hide his Tamer senses. Ammon was far away however, muttering under his breath. Mazin left him to tremble beside a tree while he snapped branches for kindling.
Ammon’s fear eased when sparks sprouted from the dead leaves and small twigs. His courage rose with the flames and Ammon knelt beside him, frowning at the fire, then at the stones Mazin tossed aside.
“I’ve never seen kindling take to fire like that,” Ammon said, then suckled on his rancid drink.
“I learned from my mother, there are ways,” Mazin said, cursing himself. He was lucky he didn’t crush the stones into dust.
Ammon left it alone. Once again, Mazin offered his dried meat and fruit. They ate in silence, Mazin watched the growing fire while Ammon’s eyes searched the darkness. He searched for his fears in the shadows, and ruined his scent with the stink after every sip.
“Shall I take first watch?”
“First watch,” Ammon scoffed. He jumped at every sound of distant Felines. Their eyes sparkled in the distance, like red and gold torches. “Those who wish us harm will do it whether our eyes are open or closed.”
Mazin watched the man glare at the flames. Ammon was glued to them for some time. The man jumped at Mazin, and the prince’s hand surged to his face, fearing the eyepatch slipped. Ammon belched and took another gulp of his drink, then his shoulders slumped.
“Watch if you must, I won’t be relieving you,” Ammon whipped out a thick woollen blanket from his bag and lay at the foot of the tree behind them.
Mazin watched him force himself to sleep. Ammon twitched and squirmed, mumbling. He tossed and turned, punching the grass beneath him. Ammon calmed when his muttering faded, and his breathing became uniform.
The night entered a deep quiet itself, with the waking grumbles of wild Felines long passed. Their glowing eyes vanished in the darkness. Sleep didn’t come easy for Mazin either. It felt days away, and the night proved to be an unexpected challenge.