It is the fondest dream of children across the expanse of Okkorim to find the gift awaken inside them. To rise from poverty and obscurity and become one of the legendary Cultivators. To wield the powers of Creation and perhaps, one day, ascend and stand among the noble aristocracy of the Xenoch Council. The reality for most of those poor unfortunates—those who have the gift of magic, but not the gift of noble birth—is more often the stuff of nightmares...

— Serdar Eren Aydin, 9th Overseer of the Exalted Cultivator Akademy

***

Torrick clung, delirious, to his thornback mount.

His muscles trembled from the strain of hanging on for a moment longer and he’d stopped sweating hours ago. Perhaps that was because the sun had finally dipped below the horizon, banishing the blistering heat of the day, or perhaps it was because he’d already consumed most of his water reserves and was badly dehydrated. He was in trouble either way. The sharp bite of the night air was already nipping at his exposed fingers and now the wind sliced through his robes with a chill that cut to the bone.

Worse, the distant howls of hunting beasts carried across the dunes.

Whether those howls were from natural creatures or the Nightmare Uzra, Torrick couldn’t rightly say. He doubted the distinction would matter much if whatever was making the terrible racket caught him. He would wind up as food for something much bigger and nastier than anything he’d ever seen back in Telrala. Still, better dead and lining the guts of some monster than to return home in shame and failure.

If Torrick were smart, he would’ve turned back for his village hours ago. Back when the wandering Cultivator, better known as the Bastard Son of Blood and Sands, had used his magic to crush Torrick against the earth like a bug. But he hadn’t retreated. Torrick had a stubborn streak to rival any ornery mule. A fact his father had told him once or twice a day.

Thinking about his father cut the soul in the same way the icy wind cut through his robes.

In his mind, Torrick could see his slumped form lying in the dirt. A pool of crimson spreading out around him like a halo, while his decapitated head lay four paces away from the rest of his body.

His lips pulled back in a snarl.

They would pay. He would get justice. That or die trying.

Which is why he hadn’t turned back. Not even after feeling a fraction of the Cultivator’s magic. If he’d had power like that, Torrick would’ve been able to do something. Would’ve been able to protect the ones he cared about. Would’ve been able to stop that monster before he’d cut his father down like a rabid dog. And so, Torrick continued on, clutching the reigns of the thornback in fingers that were already numb, as the scaly beast tracked its prey across the sands.

Though Torrick was a farmer by trade, he was also an excellent hunter.

He’d spent time with his father and uncles out among the sands, hunting nimble Sunskirter Oryx or the aggressive, sheep-sized Mirage Hares. Tracking a man across the vastness of the Scorch was a different matter entirely, though. The whipping winds erased tracks in minutes and could reform the landscape over the course of hours. Entire dunes could vanish or appear with the onset of a dust storm.

The thornbacks, though, could follow the scent of an errant breeze over a rockface if they had a mind too. The great lizards were known to run themselves to death in pursuit of prey. The man called Rift had left behind more than enough blood for Torrick to get a sample, and now the scaly beast would follow the trail until the ends of the earth. Which was precisely how far Torrick was prepared to go if it meant convincing the outlaw to take him on as an apprentice.

The thornback trudged on for another hour undeterred, continuing its relentless pursuit while the oranges and purples of twilight gave way at last to the deep darkness of the desert night. As the light from the sun fully dwindled, the stars peeked out overhead. Thousands of brilliant pinpricks of white and cold blue, scattered across a field of black like diamonds on velvet. A crescent moon illuminated the dunes but did nothing to vanquish the cold.

Torrick had swaddled his hands in another layer of fabric, but the numbness had already set in, and he couldn’t feel his fingers at all now. He couldn’t feel his toes or ears or nose for that matter. His limbs were like lead weights attached to his body with lengths of rope and staying awake was an effort of extreme will. Of greater concern even than the lack of feeling was the encroaching howls and cries of desert creatures.

As deadly as the blistering temperatures of the day were, at least they kept the things that called the Scorch home at bay. Now those terrors were hunting.

The howls came again, closer this time.

The hairs on the back of Torrick’s neck stood to attention as he caught the subtle scrape of something along a nearby stone. Gritting his teeth, Torrick reached for the sword strapped awkwardly to his hip. He was well versed with sling, spear, and staff, but had never used a sword before. Swords were weapons of war. They excelled at killing men, but against Scorch wolves or the massive hawks that could carry off a sheep? Both spear and sling were better tools.

Torrick wasn’t hunting wolves or hawks, though. He was hunting men, which is why he’d picked one of the prismatic curved swords from the butchered corpses of a scout.

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

As Torrick gripped the unfamiliar weapon in fingers that refused to close all the way, he was deeply regretting the choice. The Cultivator’s words had cut particularly deep because he had indeed felt like a hero from a story, setting off from Telrala with a soldier’s weapon strapped to his hip. In that moment, he’d felt like a man and not the boy he was in truth. Now he only felt like a fool. One about to suffer a quick and rather gory end.

Torrick grimaced and slipped from the back of his mount, sword raised high in what he hoped was a defensive position. It was too late for second guessing himself now. As little he knew about fighting with a sword, he knew even less about fighting with a sword while mounted.

He figured he stood a marginally better chance on foot.

Torrick heard the faint rustle of shifting sands then something moved unseen, just out of sight.

“Well come on then!” Torrick bellowed, as though challenging the dark itself. “If you want a piece of me, I’m going to make you bleed for it.”

A chorus of howls answered his challenge followed by another lightning-quick flash of movement in his peripheries. Here then gone, just as quickly. Heart pounding in his ears, Torrick spun and lashed out at the encroaching shape with all the strength he could muster. There was no grace or elegance in his strike. No technique whatsoever.

Just fear and the desperate need to live a moment longer.

The blade screamed through the air in a wicked arc—

Then stopped short with a sudden jerk. Caught in a spectral hand, like a ghost emerging from the night.

It was the blue man from the village.

“You have some heart to you,” the man called Idwan said. Then he paused, appraising Torrick more closely. Weighing him. Judging him.

Torrick took a moment to study the blue man, in turn. The man who so casually had caught the cutting edge of a prismglass without even flinching.

Living on the edge of the Scorch and far from the Xenoch controlled coastal cities, Torrick knew more about the Muzhry than most. Even that amounted to almost nothing, however. The Muzhry were a secretive people and the last true holdouts on the continent against Imperial rule. There were whispers that they were cannibals. Others said they were the spawn of Uzra; the terrible union of monster and man. Even more said they worshiped dark and profane gods and hated all of mankind.

Torrick doubted those stories.

Many of those same rumors were murmured about Torrick’s own people, the Sawakin.

The Muzhry were elusive, though. That much was true, at least. What he did know, certain as sand, was that the blue men were wary of outsiders. No one was permitted entry to their cloistered sanctuaries, buried beneath the sands. Muzhry merchants would pass through Telrala from time to time, carrying wonderous wares, strange roots, and restorative tinctures that could cure sickness just as surely as a Cultivator on a healing path.

Torrick also knew that some of the Muzhry served as valets, manservants, or bodyguards for the wealthy aristocracy of Chentoufi, Bel-Adia, Tamra, and Dowia. The Untethered, they were called by those who lived in the Scorch. At least, that’s what his father had told him. Torrick was not well traveled, had never left Telrala, but his father had served as a conscript for the Auxillry a decade before finally being allowed to return home.

That had been long years before Torrick’s birth.

Still, in all the stories, Torrick had never heard of any Muzry like this one. A Cultivator in the company of foreign outlaws and mercenaries? Never.

Finally, Idwan pushed away the curved edge of the blade and nodded. There wasn’t even a scratch on his palm.

“There is fire in your belly, boy, even in the face of fear.” The man had all the expressiveness of a stone. “That is good. You will need fire to survive Rift’s instruction.” He paused, lips pressed into a tight line. “He is not a gentle teacher.”

Idwan turned away, offering Torrick his back, and grabbed the reins dangling from Torrick’s thornback mount. “Come,” he called back over one shoulder, “our tent is just a little way further.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he clucked his tongue and coaxed the great lizard into reluctant motion.

The blue man led Torrick over the ridge of a dune and to a circular leather yurt the same color as the surrounding sands. At first glance it almost looked like a boulder. A curling plume of smoke, drifting upward gave away the illusion. Torrick had watched the travelers load their mounts up before departing and had seen no sign of the tent.

Where had the thing come from? Truly, the magic of Cultivators had no limits.

Torrick was equally shocked when Idwan ushered him through the thick flaps and into a lavishly appointed interior.

Colorful carpets decorated with intricate knitted patterns covered the cold ground and they’d erected a wood burning stove in the center of the yurt—a smokestack shooting upward like a tree, then disappearing through a hole in the top. The woman, Chains, lounged amongst a stack of colorful pillows while she idly plucked at a pear-shaped lute. She wore garments so sheer and thin they revealed every curve of her shapely form.

A faint blush crept into his cheeks, and it was all Torrick could do to keep himself from openly ogling her.

The Bastard Son of Blood and Sands sat stone still and shirtless on a simple meditation pallet in the corner, ignoring the woman completely. He spoke without ever opening his eyes.

“Why, Id?” The words were direct and informal.

“Because I cannot bear to see him die, old friend. Not when he can live instead. Doing so would cause me to incur Tazimat.” He paused, letting the word hang in the air. Tazimat was the Muzhry word for shame. Incurring it was to lose face before the people and before the Gods. From the little Torrick knew, the Muzhry took honor very seriously. “Please, Rift. Do it as a favor to me.” The blue man didn’t beg, but the words also didn’t sound like a request. “You owe me this much.”

Torrick held his breath. It felt like his fate was balanced on the edge of a knife blade.

Finally, the Outlaw Cultivator grunted. “For you, Idwan, though I make no promises to be gentle.” The man cracked an eye and turned his squinted gaze on Torrick. “You should’ve listened to me, boy. Should’ve turned back. But I suppose if you’re too stupid to listen to common sense, then we’re going to have to make you tough. That’s what my old master always told me. If you’re going to be dumb, then you’d better be strong.”