Blood slipped down over the vagabond’s cheek, and he could feel the wind cast down into his skull, like a crude tongue of heat and gritty sand licking out the socket. The man behind him struck him again, smashing that club between his shoulders, sending him stumbling a few steps across the sand. His legs almost gave out this time. If they didn’t kill him on purpose, they’d do it on accident.

Well. Better than he deserved.

Ahead, the light of the stone seemed to have vanished, but something beautiful had replaced it. Life. Tall, soft grass surged across the sands, and small hills of stone held together by the roots of plants dotted the earth, marking out the shadow of the old tower. And within, held in that shade, was a glittering ocean; or what he imagined an ocean must look like.

An impossible wealth. Just the sight of how a few stray beams of light glittered on the surface, tracing out the crest of small waves in gleaming gold, was enough to break his heart.

This was all his people had ever needed and more. Water enough to feed his tribe, to let them grow. Water enough to keep the children from growing with the same beaten, leathery skin as their forefathers, hanging loose around starved bones. It was the curse of old men to remember that life could be different, but not the precise details; to remember how good lying in grass as younger man had been, long after the actual sensation had slipped away from him.

He thought he remembered how fruit had tasted, but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a trick of the mind.

It was strange how, in his final moments of life, he could only think of the past, or his distant family. The present moment - the pain in his body, the weakness of his limbs - seemed terribly dull and uninteresting. He would walk a little ways more - so much of his life had been walking! - and die soon after.

That was the way it was.

If he had any regrets, it was being too weak to take the secret of the oasis to his grave. These bastards would live off its bounty and grow fat. They would escape the life he had lived, the hardship and struggle his children would inherit.

The club whipped into him again, and this time he wasn’t strong enough to stay standing. His legs dropped out from under him and his whole tired body went rolling down the slope of the dune in a wild tumble.

When the world stopped spinning, his mouth was full of dust and blood. The bandits stepped over him, some pausing to get a final kick in, as they walked towards the island of green. He thought he was done, but one grabbed his hair and hauled him up, dragging him forward.

His feet stepped onto the grass, feeling the rich, wet soil beneath.

This place had changed. Grown. The shrine to the faceless goddess hadn’t been here before, and he looked up at his benefactor knowing he had failed her. Repaid her mercy in weakness.

A knife hung from the elf’s belt. He was tall and thin, built with wiry muscle and long, straight hair of a fiery red color, falling down his bare back. A son of bandits grown strong on the meat of the weak. The knife was hanging loose, and the vagabond thought-

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Maybe. Maybe he could take just one with him.

The others were watchful, eyes sweeping their surroundings for some trap, some catch. They’d yet to accept the miracle they had found. This one was younger and a little more trusting. He was in awe, staring out at the waters.

Fuck him. There was something sick in that naivety coming from a bastard who’d grown gnawing human flesh of the bone.

The vagabond went for the knife.

---

I saw the old man’s face draw into a feral, angry sneer, and knew what he would do a second before he threw himself against his captor, hands grasping for the knife as his shoulder knocked into the boy.

Go.

The water exploded as Ramses surged forward, airborne droplets catching sunlight, becoming a spray of gold and jewels as the enormous beast surfaced. Its jaws snapped open, baring long curved teeth so thick they were like pillars of bone.

Ramses’ howl shook the earth and made the ruins above tremble, stone breaking away to crash down on all sides. The sound was like a great bronze bell - an endless deep ring that resonated through flesh and blood alike.

Two elves stared in horror and simply broke. Fell to their knees, clutching their ears, screaming. Even the stronger ones were frozen for a brutal moment. The young red-haired elf never even had a chance- the vagabond was unaffected as he ripped the knife free and slammed it up into his captor’s jaws, arms still bound at the wrists.

Ramses slammed his goliath foot into the rock-shelf I’d prepared, shattering the earth beneath them and sending them down into the depths. And do you know?

Not a single one of them had learned to swim.

Hitting the water knocked them out of their stupor, but they were clumsy, kicking bundles of limbs. Ramses kicked forward and hit the nearest one like an avalanche, enormous jaws smashing closed as his head whipped back and forth to swing the unfortunate elf like a ragdoll.

One was close enough to the edge to have grabbed a hold, fingers clawing at grass, tearing it up by the roots in his fear and confusion. A claw snapped shut around his leg, a black guillotine sealing his fate. The bone snapped and his cry of pain was drowned as Lazarus dragged him in.

Blood surfaced as the water frothed and churned, and then the surface burst open, Ramses dragging himself ashore carrying a bedraggled heap of limbs in his mouth.

He held the vagabond as delicately as the mother fox had held her cubs. Setting him down on the sands, my guardian turned back as three of the elves broke above the water, clawing their way out.

Three, including the old man who was their leader. Below, a fourth struggled, desperately trying to kill Lazarus with a bone axe. Even if the water hadn’t slowed his movements, he would never have managed to crack the lobster’s shell.

The old man was speaking in elvish, calling to his companions. Language mattered very little to me. “Spread out! Fence it in, strike at the legs, keep it encircled. We wear it down with the spear and finish with the axe.”

But his own weapon was… unique.

A broad curved saber made of silver, but almost completely covered by ugly patches of green-yellow rust. It made an evil sound as it hissed free from its sheathe. I felt the magic in the air bend, forming a small vortex as the blade drank it in.

This was a thing of power. An artifact. Even the old man seemed surprised as the rust began to melt away, falling free. It was possible it had been dormant for years, passed down until the knowledge of its power faded and it was only a good sword that kept an edge well.

But I had given it what it needed to awaken, and now the silver edge shone like a crescent moon.

The light shone over the old man’s face, and his skin tightened, his skinny form filled out. Second by second the age fled from him, his posture straightening as his white hair filled up scarlet color.

He laughed like a madman, unable to believe his luck.