Cross-legged in pitch darkness, within the all-encompassing comfort. Mazin neglected the void since joining Ammon. There was no need to watch over the man. Mazin was relieved he didn’t have to hide so much from the man anymore. A weight lifted from his shoulders, after his disappointment and shame faded.
The swarming whispers were a chaos that failed to spoil his peace. Flies buzzed around his shielded serenity, unable to penetrate it. His mined emptied, with nothing to see or smell, only the ground below him and the whispers surrounding him. Hands resting on his knees, still like the rest of his body. A statue of unquestionable concentration.
Mazin didn’t enter the void to empty his mind, however, nor did he remain motionless without reason. His arrival always hammered him with heart racing shock, disorientating him without fail. By his own volition or not, it refused to end until he fought for calm. Then the comfort of the eternal blackness arrived.
He broke his stony stillness and rose to his feet. His blinking changed nothing, but keeping his eyes closed was disorientating. Mazin stretched as if he awoke from deep slumber, allowing the whispers to swarm him. Indecipherable nonsense, he reached for his non-existent khopesh then groaned in his mind.
The whispers screeched behind him, warbling, as if their incoherent mutterings were natural. Mazin turned towards a spark behind. A breath of fiery warmth fingered at his face and he flinched. As he neared the light, the warmth strengthened. It shed its yellow and turned gold, expanding into an orb, then became a figure sprouting limbs.
Fire billowed into Mazin from the golden figure grovelling on the ground. It crawled and rumbled, dragging itself forward like a snail. Mazin raised a shielding hand against the warmth, forced to halt his approach. The struggling figure kept his attention, whoever it was. Another figure behind Mazin, collecting the whispers.
“You have made significant progress.”
The prince jumped and spun around as the Beast Tongue danced around the void, echoing against unseen walls. He craned his neck up towards the pair of glowing redness glaring down at him.
“You are being followed.”
“Where have you been?” Mazin asked.
“Following.”
“Who else follows?”
“Friend and foe boy, quicken your pace, for the snows fall in the north already. They will drag your feet and fight your journey, quicken your pace.”
The eyes vanished, and the whispers dispersed. Mazin turned back around towards the grovelling figure of gold, but the ground disappeared. He didn’t scream during his endless fall. Frustration kept his tongue, he ground his teeth until morning light pierced through the unending darkness.
The prince blinked awake to subtle peace. Ruined by Ammon’s growing foulness. He scurried around his corner and rushed to roll up his bed with a stick of dried meat protruding from his lips. Mazin snatched at his face to ensure his eye remained hidden. They didn’t share a word as they rushed to break camp in the early morning. Yellow green sickly rays pierced through the ringing darkwoods, bringing no warmth, only colour to the comforting heat of the springs.
Prince Mazin scrambled to roll away from his makeshift bed. His spirits were high, despite the awkward silence between them. He stuffed his mouth with dried fruit after splashing his face with the bubbling water. His fresh cloth caressed his cleansed skin, the weight of the grime and sweat built up from days of travel washed away. He savoured the fruit, flexed his shoulders and strapped his khopesh to his waist.
Mazin strode behind Ammon as they broke the warm spell swarming around the springs. The early morning attacked his cheeks, his choice to don extra layers proved a fruitful one. He still wrapped his arms around himself. The cold bit through his layers, slicing beneath his skin to ice away at his warmth.
Their road was slick with mud as it wound away from the hot springs. Tall green grass brushed his knees while he strode, slicking his pants with fresh moisture. Mazin raised his hood when the spitting from the bright gloom above turned into drizzle. Hushed brushing atop his hood, a harmonious pitter patter to accompany the squelching mud below.
The muddy path returned to the pebbled road they left. Squelching turned to crunching and grinding, but Ammon slipped more often, and their journey slowed. Despite the harmonious drizzle, freshness filling his lungs, the warning from the dark Bagha danced in his mind. Mazin’s neck was lithe and working, looking at all corners of the greenness of the Dhaar Province. Searching beyond and around the sparse darkwoods dotting the lands, lingering on the faint structures far off the eastern horizon.
His fingers tingled, the fine hairs on his body rose in anticipation. There was nothing his eyes saw however, his nose and ears sensed less. Mazin stretched and felt for the damp hilt of his khopesh. It wilted his fine hairs, but the tingling remained. This was his torture for the wet morning, coupled with Ammon’s constant sipping of his horrendous smelling drink. Silence, rain and stink, until the drizzling finally ceased, allowing the gentle piss yellow sun to glow upon the land.
Mazin ringed his hood and wrapped it back around his neck. He ruffled his damp curls then spread his arms for the minor warmth to wash over him. The morning flew by without event, thankfully. Nothing changed in the surroundings beyond the odd remnants of ruins. Flattened foundations and indentations in the yellowed grass. Old ash flirted with his nostrils, but thankfully no rot and decay. Flashes of the Tiger girl and her shredded face, with the battered man who held her returned. No amount of wiping could clean his spotless palms.
Mazin nibbled on his not so dry meat, and for once Ammon rejected his offers. He chewed on some soggy bread and sipped his vile drink to wash it down. The cold worsened, but clouds were still a world away. It gave him an excuse to raise his mask, not that it made much of difference against Ammon’s stink. He lifted his hood again when moisture filled his senses. Not long after, the sky rumbled with approaching darkness, hours earlier than the night.
Globs of clear water splashed down from the dark sky, which he sidestepped at the last moment. Then another, and another, Ammon cursed after one splattered atop his head. It didn’t worsen beyond fat globs thankfully; he continued avoiding them with ease.
“Shouldn’t we find some cover?” Mazin inquired of the wanderer.
“It’s only rain boy, we push on. When the snows come, then we might talk of taking cover.”
There was an added chill from him that fought through the stink to ravage through his mask. A surprising one, which made Mazin wonder if he might have offended the man. His recollections of the night before didn’t hint at much, so he remained silent. The chill sapped his courage, snatching it from his cold limbs and through his damp clothes.
It was difficult to tell where the sun was in the sky, even for his enhanced eyes. A shred of fire glinted beyond the grey darkness above. The search was in vain, for Ammon grunted at him, pointing towards a small gathering of darkwoods the east. The globs of rain became frequent, water flooded the shin high green grass off the road. Their boots squelched when they rushed for cover.
A moss swarmed rock in the centre greeted them as they crossed the threshold of the dry interior. Rain drummed upon the dark leaves without a droplet of moisture piercing the remarkable shelter. Mazin almost thanked the Great Beast, but whipped off his hood and an extra layer instead. Ammon shuddered and huffed, frantically rubbing himself with his hands. For once, his drink hung on his waist.
Mazin ringed the rain in a corner and returned towards the rock. Ammon’s teeth chattered, and the prince bit back a question. The urge to poke at him was tempting, but he still sensed the coldness from the wanderer.
The prince gathered the driest moss nearby and snapped the lowest branches of the surrounding darkwoods. Mazin hid his attempts to light a fire at first, but one of his stones crumbled in his hands and he remembered there was no need to hide. He glanced at the wanderer and caught his eyes linger on his khopesh.
Sparks danced amongst the dry kindle, and he breathed life into the infant flames. They both knelt before the cracking fire, tossing twigs and branches until it lit up their shelter. Mazin dug into his damp bag. There were only soggy meat and fruit pieces within. No amount of drying above the campfire made them less chewy. He was grateful he finished his bread before all this wetness.
The music of night drowned in the constant drizzle outside. Fat globs splattered upon the dark leaves above. Chaotic but calming, he needed it. With his fine hairs returned to their upright alertness. He felt watched by eyes beyond his enhanced vision. Mazin sucked his teeth to shove the discomfort aside, but it pricked at him on the edge of his attention.
Mazin ground through a soggy, tasteless peach piece and glanced at the lounging Ammon across from him. The man had his back against the rock, one hand strangling his smelly beer skin, the other hovering close to the flames. He seemed relaxed, open once again. Mazin clenched his teeth when the prickling threatened towards the fore of his attention again.
“Don’t you find it strange that we haven’t come across any soldiers, Tigers or Lions?”
“Soldiers, why soldiers?”
“The war Ammon, skirmishes, marching soldiers.”
“We should be thankful we haven’t run into worse. With the emperor’s numbers he hasn’t been able to do much beyond the interior of the Dhaar.”
“Worse?”
“Bannerless, they terrorise these parts, especially when soldiers are few.”
“Bannerless,” Mazin snorted, then tittered. Ammon didn’t share in his humour. The prince faded and cleared his throat. “They’re gone, scattered into the wind.”
“Perhaps for your ilk, city folk wouldn’t be their targets.”
“But their captains and generals are dead?”
“Would the Lion Clan end if Atum Ra died?”
Mazin turned towards the flames, avoiding the vigour surging from Ammon’s hazel eyes. He feared saying more, lest he gave away something dangerous.
“The Bannerless ravage towns and villages without the towering walls that spare you all their horror. These same walls that keep city folk safe ensure our plight is easy to ignore. All to play games in a war to soothe the egos of monarchs.”
Ammon took to his skin and gulped greedily. Wrapping himself tightly with his threadbare cloak, suckling his skin like a thumb.
The morning was wet. Not so bad to seek shelter again. They rushed through the slick grass and soggy mud, dampening their pants right up to their knees. Even Mazin stumbled when they re-joined the pebble road. Ammon cursed, then scraped the mud from his soles. The prince’s fine hairs remained upright, the eyes, the unseen eyes lingered on him. No matter how much he searched, nothing revealed themselves behind the sparse darkwoods.
It was gloomy but warm. He couldn’t tell if it was his own blood or the weather. His fingers twitched, yearning for the leather grip of his khopesh. Instinct bred into him from years of Kumkani Lihle’s training.
Ammon belched his strengthened stink to suffocate Mazin’s nose. It lingered around him as the gloom faded as the hours passed. Rays of warmth pierced the pale greyness above to colour the Dhaar in pale fire. Warming the smouldering ruin sprouting on the eastern horizon. Messy piles of scorched wood were impossible to name. He clenched his fists to keep himself from drawing his khopesh. The threat of the unseen eyes peeled back his clothes.
Prince Mazin suffered his soggy preserved meat and fruit. His food hadn’t tasted appetising since Ammon joined him, but this rain somehow made it worse. The inedible food was far from the fore of his mid when a familiar noise struck him.
It struck his ears in a manner that reminded him of Char’Bhom. After a few more strides, a hint of chaos entered his nose. The baking, the frying, the closeness of sweat squeezed together. The wooden palisades came into view.
“Another town?” Mazin asked.
“Hmm? Oh yes, yes, Kan’Shaar, don’t worry though, I have no business within. We can pass through without delay.”
Mazin’s heart sank. The winter and rain took its toll, he yearned for shelter and a bed, any sort of bed that wasn’t the ground. A pile of straw even, it didn’t matter. His strides widened now at the possibility of rest. Just one night.
“Is there an inn in Kan’Shaar?”
“Nothing you’re used to, I’m sure.” Ammon chuckled. “I hope you don’t intend to spend my coin.”
“You think a Tamer hasn’t any coin of their own?” Mazin’s heart wobbled, foolishness once again. There was no coin of his own. He felt at the ring-shaped bulge in a hidden breast pocket.
The palisade ringing the town arrived, and seemed sturdy enough. Its foundations were made of stone. Darkwood sprouted out of it and rose high. Abandoned watchtowers filled the walls at regular intervals, showing signs of neglect that were absent on the walls.
Ammon fumbled through his bag as they neared and produced another one of his reeking skins. The man had less strength in his hands as he opened it. It splashed on his hand with a clearness that Mazin didn’t expect. The prince grimaced at the smell. This one was sharper, like rotten peppermint, if such a think existed. He didn’t bother lifting his mask, there was no respite from the rancid odour.
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Soldiers in crude armour relaxed before the open wooden gates of Kan’Shaar, wearing stained cloth over poor iron plates. Scrambled together pieces, splintered spears with rusting blades completed their awful appearance. They could hardly be called guards, and it seemed they didn’t care for their duty. None glanced at them, let alone question their entry. He noticed additional shreds of cloth over their chests. Strange enough, none of them were Tigers.
The squalor of Kan’Shaar was in full view. The pebbled road turned into muddy slush within, with rotting rushes worsening it. What beauty and sturdiness the walls possessed was non-existent within. Not one shanty appeared to possess any darkwood that ringed around the town. They lashed together splintered wood to form rickety structures that looked one powerful gust away from collapsing. Thatched roofs were damp and mouldy, emanating a strong mildew stink.
“Not what you expected?” Ammon laughed, pausing with Mazin at the entrance. “I did say we should be pass through.”
“Such poverty,” Mazin mumbled. Not even the rusty sunset, with hints of lavender, could beautify the town. The odour of sewage, hidden to his eyes thankfully, overpowered Ammon’s stink. All his desire to rest vanished.
The prince walked along the main road, stepping away and around the townsfolk, who went about their approaching evening with monotonous lifelessness. Bowed heads without a care for others. Mazin and Ammon walked amongst them like ghosts, eyeing the unusual number of smithies and bakeries. Ragged guards were the only ones paying attention to them. They too wore patches of cloth over their crude breast plates, at least some of them were Tigers.
A few bony straggles sparked torches and thrust them into sconces on the main street. Sturdier buildings overflowed with gloomy patrons, grumbling, sloshing and drunk. There was a sombre buzz amongst them. No one was louder than a grunt, even if they swayed with drunkenness. The inns were far from appealing, what little desire for rest remaining in him twisted into the need to leave. Something was off about the place, but he felt guilty about his discomfort.
Ammon’s hands trembled while he drank, his shoulders raised and tight. The stink kept his scent from Mazin, but he didn’t need it to know the wanderer’s anxiety soared. He expected a surprise from the shadows, reminding the prince of his own discomfort, irritating instincts warning him of unseen watches.
“I’m sure there’s better shelter in the wilderness.”
Mazin glanced at Ammon, who avoided his gaze soon after his insistence. The man was more eager to leave than he was. He shifted on his feet; he sipped often and wound himself tighter than usual. More of those cloth wearing guards watched as they passed them on the quiet road.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
Whatever anxiety on Ammon’s shoulders cleared. Enough for him to drink more.
They continued north, following the winding road descending into darkness. The road was dry, yet Ammon clung to him for balance. Kan’Shaar faded away in the darkness behind, save for the rush swarmed road. The shacks gave way to tight-knit formations of darkwoods. He hadn’t noticed the walls ending, Kan’Shaar simply ended. Mazin glanced back to ensure it wasn’t an illusion.
The unseen watchers strengthened their boring gaze on him and he clenched his fists, fighting the urge to draw steel. Mazin’s eyes darted around in the darkness, surveying the tree line on both sides, catching glimpses of light, but nothing to cause alarm yet.
A commotion turned his attention to the end of the road. Bright torches flickered around a camp, squashed between walls of darkwoods on either side of the now pebbled road. An argument ensued amongst a smattering of travellers and some armoured blockers.
“What toll? How can there be a toll? We haven’t heard of a toll?”
“Now you know. Payment is required. Or would you like to meet the business end of one of our blades?”
Mazin frowned at the reply. There was a gruffness in his voice, as well as a familiarity. He sounded like a Lion, though one who hadn’t been home for some time, and as they neared, his sun scorched umber skin confirmed it.
The prince stepped away from Ammon’s attempt to snatch him. He paused and turned towards the narrow-eyed wanderer.
“What is it?” Mazin asked.
“Brigands, there are no tolls here,” this time an overwhelming fearful ooze filled Mazin’s nose. Streaming through Ammon’s odorous drink, though not entirely unpleasant, it still shocked him enough to flinch. They stopped, lingering in the darkness, hidden from the brigands.
Mazin counted them. There was the Lion that spoke, clad in armour above his station. Grander than the crude iron of the guards behind them, but still plain. He also wore that strange cloth over his chest. A pair of archers stood behind him, beside another pair of spears, all wearing the same cloth.
Something isn’t right here.
Another pair lingered in the shadows, avoiding the light of the torches. It was difficult to make out faces, but their armour was bulky. Near Jaguar style, but not quite, also marked with those small cloths.
Seven total, excluding the three travellers forced to pay. He had a chance if he dealt with the archers first. Mazin’s hand hovered of his khopesh as his mind found calm. Discipline in all things, as the kumkani always preached.
“Wait,” Ammon reached for him again. “There is no need for violence. Perhaps we might talk our way through.”
He ruffled into his bag and revealed a coin purse. A nervous smile followed his display.
“Don’t worry, I will have enough to pay you still.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Follow my lead, we will be fine.”
Mazin hesitated when Ammon continued. For the first time since the wanderer joined, he caught deceit on his scent. It trickled through his fear and rancid odour, but it was there and unmistakable. The prince followed, heeding his instincts.
They arrived at the brigand’s toll with only one traveller left to pay. Mazin’s eyes jumped from each brigand, ready to act. Ammon wrapped an arm around him while they waited for the traveller to pay. The man grumbled and sighed as he sifted through his coin purse. Ammon trembled, but beamed, while Mazin eyed the archers and their crude bows. Script strengthened arrows nocked and ready to draw, eyes watchful.
“You two wait your turn!” The gruff Lion said without glancing at them, licking his lips at the coin.
There was an agelessness about him. He was bald and dark eyed. Rather stocky and growing stubble that favoured salt over pepper. Mazin turned towards the pair in the shadows, leaning against a darkwood. They were Jaguars, if their bulky armour wasn’t clue enough, their pale skin confirmed it. Tanned by the sun, but still pale.
The man was blue eyed beneath his full helm, and wearing a smug grin. The woman beside him was ghastly. One eye was pale, the other was milky white. It moved as if she saw with it well enough. Her neck length, stringy grey hair failed to betray the youthfulness on her gaunt face. But her face, well, if there was any beauty, the cacophony of scratches and scars buried it. Her lips were a mess, which she constantly licked.
“Bastards,” the traveller before them whispered after thrusting his coin into the Lion’s palm, dragging himself ahead.
“Pleasure, hope we meet again!” The Lion bowed and turned towards Mazin and Ammon. “A couple, lovely.”
“My son,” Ammon corrected, and squeezed Mazin’s shoulder. “My son and I don’t want any trouble.”
“Good, very good, pay up and trouble won’t arrive. Five pieces should suffice.”
“Each!” One Jaguar blurted before stomping into the light. The scarred woman followed, still licking her lips and focusing on Mazin.
“Now good sir, we don’t have the means, we are of low,”
“You don’t have the means? Have you seen the rock on the boy’s khopesh?” The Lion laughed. “Yours might be poor, but the boy is clearly stealing from you.”
“You’re a pretty one,” the scarred woman wheezed at Mazin. It sounded as if every word pained her, yet she licked her lips at him. “Why’s your eye covered?”
“Fuck the five pieces, we’ll take the khopesh,” the blue-eyed Jaguar spat.
“No need for greed, Jag. Five, sorry, ten pieces is more than enough.”
“Fuck’s wrong with his eye!”
“A condition, an ill omen to some, why he hides it,” Ammon said in a hurry. It took all of Mazin’s self-control to remain still, his heart drummed beneath his chest.
He knows, of course he knows. He knew I was a Tamer, Mazin panicked. What else did Ammon know?
“Let’s see this ill omen then, boy.”
“I don’t think that’s uh… a good idea,” Mazin said. Ammon’s grip tightened on his shoulder.
The Lion reached for him and Mazin stepped back, dragging Ammon with him. Tension sparked, and the archers stretched their bowstrings when the Lion laughed.
“Quick one, aren’t you?”
“Enough games, King,” Jag said. “Take the coin, or khopesh, and let’s move.”
Mazin eyed Jag, and the scarred woman’s hands, rest on their swords on their waists.
“I want to see his eye. The boy covers too much of his pretty face.”
“Keep it in your pants, Iset, or you’ll have King all hot and bothered,” Jag snickered.
Her lip licking unsettled the prince.
“Coin man, your coin, maybe a glance at your eye will save your khopesh for you boy hmm?” King snapped his fingers.
Mazin glanced at Ammon, the man nodded at him. His heart screamed; this was very wrong. It wouldn’t end well, but he wouldn’t be the one to break the peace first.
The prince raised a slow hand towards his eye, while King’s hand dropped to the axe on his waist. Mazin hesitated, but Ammon encouraged him with a squeeze, dropping his grip down his forearm. Mazin revealed his ruby left eye and Ammon’s nails dug into him. Jag and Iset cursed, stumbling backwards, but it was King’s lack of a reaction that sank Mazin’s stomach. The look shared between King and Ammon chilled Mazin.
The world froze, and the prince finally acted.
He flung Ammon into King before they knew what happened and drew his khopesh. Jag managed a whistle while he drew his sword, but Mazin charged him down with his shoulder. Denting his breastplate and knocking him off his feet. Mazin kicked Iset out of his way before her sword was free from its scabbard.
The pair of archers were still raising their bows when he flung his khopesh at the furthest one. He didn’t wait to see if it struck its mark, charging the closest of the spears instead. She yelled before thrusting at him. Mazin snatched the shaft below the blade, snapping it off with his forearm. A yelp and crack preceded a nasty crunch, then a thud. Mazin glanced at the archer, his lifeless body lay flat on the ground, with his khopesh protruding from his chest.
A second spear whooshed passed the prince’s head, before the remaining archer unleashed a wild arrow over everyone. Mazin thrust the spearhead through its bewildered wielder. Metallic warmth sprayed onto his face from the torn gullet.
He parried the other spear with his forearm. The blade sliced through the cloth and tore his forearm open, but he saved his chest. Icy fire seared his arm, and Mazin yanked the spear from the remaining brigand with a growl.
Another drawn arrow tickled his hearing. He yanked the disarmed brigand by his collar, shielded himself with the squealing fool. The arrow thrummed into him and the man’s head snapped back. It tore through the man’s skull, spitting flesh and blood onto Mazin. Another whistle screeched behind him.
Mazin dropped the lifeless corpse and twirled the stolen spear above his head before tossing it with a roar. It bore a hole between the archer’s breasts while she drew another arrow, then clattered to the ground behind her. She collapsed slack-jawed, eyes wide in shock. Her arrow flopped down. A whistle screeched again.
The prince rushed for his khopesh, wrenching it out from the other archer’s chest. It squelched free, the pristine, script strengthened blade came out wine red. He spun around to face Iset charging at him, her blade in the air. Mazin swatted her aside with a flick, her sword clanged out of her grip, then he dented her back with another kick.
Jag’s fingers were in his mouth, whistling again. Mazin charged and the man almost pissed himself.
“Where are the rest of you?” Ammon roared on the ground at King’s feet, who just recovered his footing.
“They’re not answering!”
Growls and wailing sounded in the distance, along with the clashing of steel. Mazin hesitated before Jag. The blue-eyed man managed a pitiful swing, which Mazin sidestepped. A freezing ocean surged through the prince’s body. His khopesh slipped in his sticky grip, and bitterness dripped onto his lips from his nose.
“He’s a fucking Tamer!”
Jag’s wild swings resumed. King joined in with hacks of his own. Mazin avoided them with ease, but his arm refused to counter. Despite the many openings, he couldn’t react. His stomach churned while he back-pedalled and sidestepped. Though his mind begged them not to, his eyes dropped to his gloved hands.
They turned into bloody globs, dripping onto the pebbles below. He tore his eyes away from his sticky eyes and saw the horror of his making. Redness pooled around the ruined corpses littering the road. Blood gushed out of one of them, squirting out of his neck while he twitched with the last throes of life. Bile surged up Mazin’s throat.
What have I done?
Iset limped to join her failing companions, the trio did their best to worry him. He didn’t need to lift his khopesh to keep them at bay, but he couldn’t use his murderous weapon again. King, Jag and Iset were tiring. Their eyes were wide and sweat poured down their faces.
“Mazin, Mazin please stop! Prince, please,” Ammon begged as he staggered to his knees. Mazin glanced over his attacker’s shoulders and his eyes welled.
You fool, you absolute fool!
King’s axe almost kissed his jaw, and Mazin jumped awake. He shivered when adrenaline drained from his body. His khopesh rose and pinged every time his attackers thought they struck true. Mazin wanted an end, but his arms refused to budge. The trio wheezed as their attacks slowed, but still pushed with all their might.
“Mazin!”
The prince wailed at Ammon’s call and shattered Jag’s sword. He ducked down and hooked Iset’s leg while the shock took all three of them. Mazin yanked her balance away, and she cracked her head on the road. King flew back after Mazin stomped his chest; crunching is breastplate. Then he hammered Jag’s face with his ruby pommel. It folded, shattering his nose beneath his dented helm.
Jag’s broken sword rang on the pebbles as he dropped to his knees, bubbling, moaning, while clutching his face. King grasped for air as he scrambled from his back. Mazin stood over him, his khopesh at his side, watching the man’s eyes bulge.
“Please Mazin, spare him!” Ammon begged.
Mazin strangled his khopesh.
He stomped down on King’s head instead, holding back his anger, ensuring the Lion only lost consciousness. Mazin spun around and ran north, fighting the growing stink of emptying bowels. His vision blurred, but he didn’t care, he just wanted to run. Far away until he forgot, until foolishness was left behind. The pebbles softened to lush grass, but he still ran, ignoring the pounding bounce of his bag on his back.
Mazin ran until his feet ached, until the taste of salty iron dried and caked his face. His grip slackened on his khopesh, but the congealing blood glued the blade to his gloves. His mind rang with the echoes of Ammon wailing his name. A dagger to his heart with every sounding, earning fresh tears.
What a fool I am, a murderous fucking fool!