The blood in his cup was rich and sweet, the thick nectar still so warm it was almost hot. It enveloped his tongue like an embrace, and he knew it came from a man who had given the gift with a glad heart, a craftsman of fine jewelry that was father to twelve and provider of work for twice that many. Tarek lifted his heavily-ringed hand and pointed the man out unerringly in the crowd of thousands. The jeweler raised his hands in worshipful salute, one arm freshly bandaged, tears in his eyes and a smile on his face. Tarek touched his forehead, a sign of gratitude and respect. It was the least he could do.

He heard singing, a joyful sound from countless throats. He could feel the jeweler’s contentment alongside that of hundreds of others from whom he had taken the gift. The warmth of unalloyed happiness filled him, and all was right with the world as he sat his great stone throne. He could have basked in this moment for eternity.

A stern buzzing in his ears marred the perfection. He looked to his queen and found himself face to face with Yaretzi. His heart leapt with a painful mix of joy and fear. He loved her with an intensity that rivaled his blood hunger, but the last time he’d seen her, she’d tried to put an arrow through him. She had that languid secret smile that only he knew, but when she opened her mouth, all he heard was a dry whisper like a viper’s passage through tall grass. It joined the noxious buzzing that had no source, an alien susurrus that filled him with anxiety. He rubbed his ears, but the sounds continued. “What are you saying?” he asked her. Her mouth was open as if she were singing a pure tone, but all he could hear from her was that snake in the grass.

Looking around the dais, he saw attendants, servants, and others dressed like nobles, but none met his eye. “Does anyone hear that?” No one seemed to hear him. The insectile buzzing was almost like an arrow in flight with a loose feather, and it made him want to duck for cover.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, turning back to Yaretzi. But instead of his estranged love, the queen at his side now bore Zulimaya’s face. She scowled and opened her mouth, the slithering whisper of snakes issuing forth just as it had from Yaretzi. His heart was speeding, and he gripped the arms of his stone chair, reaching for an anger that he didn’t feel. “Stop all this,” he told her, but her mouth simply hung open, the awful sound filling his ears alongside the sourceless buzzing. He stood abruptly. “Stop all this!” he yelled to the crowd. They gazed at him with holy fervor, singing their songs that could not cover the twin sounds filling his heart with dread. No one seemed to mind or even notice that he was upset.

He knew something was wrong with what was happening, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His mind felt slow, trapped. He knew this wasn’t how things were supposed to work, but he couldn’t quite muster the why. He turned once more to his queen, determined to find answers, but now she stared back with a smooth, unbroken face that had no features. No eyes, no mouth, just an expanse of rich brown skin. Revolted, Tarek turned to those closest, hoping someone might have noticed that the woman he was married to had no face. Everyone kept had their heads bowed and nothing seemed amiss.

Spinning around, he saw one person at the edge of his mass of attendance with his face raised. He was stick-thin, robed, bald, and bearded. It was Xochil, and an ugly smile painted his face. He opened his mouth, and the slithering-snake sound doubled. He pointed a finger skyward, and when Tarek tracked his vision upward, he saw Shaka, the green moon, hanging perilously low in the sky, ten times larger than it ought to be. He could see the cratered surface clearly, the bare rock more gray than green, a wasteland in the sky. Even as he watched, the dry land of the moon split open, a dark crevasse into the heart of Shaka opening as the great sphere shattered into three pieces.

Tarek gaped, his insides clenching. The moon was going to fall and kill them all, and all the idiots around him just kept singing! The only one who would acknowledge him was Xochil, and he just grinned wider and pointed skyward again. A mass of dark shapes was falling from the exposed center of the moon, tiny strands that unclumped themselves to writhe on a non-existent wind. He stared, not comprehending what he was seeing, until a few moments later the growing objects began to fall among the crowd. They were snakes, every last one. Shaka had broken open like an egg and poured out all the serpents a world could hold. They fell on his subjects, biting and hissing, and people fell while still singing, never acknowledging the creatures that killed them even as their limbs arched and their mouths foamed. “Why are you doing this?” he screamed at the old man. Xochil’s smile split even wider, and a pit viper burst out of his mouth, slithered down his front, and sprang toward him with fearful speed. Shuffling back, Tarek tripped on his faceless queen’s feet and went sprawling. The angry buzz still filled Tarek’s ears, but the whispering of slithering now filled the whole world. The viper lunged, and its fangs sank into the meat of his chest.

Tarek stiffened and jerked, and the movement woke him. A blur of vibrant color filled his eyes as they opened them, but he was so relieved to find that he’d been dreaming that it took a moment to focus. The awful sound of snakes was gone, but he still heard the buzzing. There was an uncomfortable poking in the center of his chest right where the dream-viper had bitten him, and he batted at it in half-waking confusion.

His hand hit something hard but light, and the buzzing increased. The pain scraped along his chest, and the blur of reds, oranges, and yellows receded, resolving itself into a butterfly as big as a hunting raptor. It bobbled in the air, monstrously oversized and still beautiful, a creature almost as impossible as the dream he’d been having. It wafted away from him on a light breeze, unwilling to take any more abuse from this human who hadn’t the sense to let it perch where it wished. It was a riot of color against an endless blue sky.

Tarek let his head fall back, rubbing the skin of his chest where the great butterfly’s insectile legs had perched. The woman with the changing face had been disturbing, and so had seeing the moon break open and spew snakes, but neither was half so frightening as seeing Xochil. He’d kept himself from worrying about the empty, molted snakeskin where the old man’s body was supposed to be, mostly by not mentioning it to any of his friends and choosing not to think of it as they trekked up into the mountains, but obviously his sleeping mind was not satisfied. The spiteful elder that might just be Tarek’s brother from another life probably wasn’t dead, and hiding from the fact was a recipe for disaster. I need to tell the others.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

That was when he realized that Pahtl and Kanga were nowhere near. In fact, his sense of them was so fuzzy and indistinct that he wasn’t even entirely sure he felt them. Sitting up in sudden concern, he looked around for where the others had lay down around their dying campfire the night before.

What he saw instead was a grassy expanse that stretched as far as the eye could see. He wasn’t on the mountain where he’d fallen asleep, and his friends – his brother – were nowhere in sight. His heart clenched, and he felt that same horror from his dream all over again. What is this?

He leapt to his feet, turning in a circle. “Tavi!” he cried. “Pahtl! Zuli?” The grass was as tall as his waist, the heads of the pale green stalks heavy with silvery seed. He was on a sloping hill, and he could see forever in the distance. There were no cries in return. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and the two of his friends he could feel through his blood magic were impossibly far away to the south. Kanga’s not my friend. No matter what the man was, he wasn’t here, and that was a problem.

A warm breeze washed through the grass, making a sigh as wide and deep as the sky, and it brought him a scrap of sound that might have been a voice. Desperate, hoping against hope that he’d just gotten turned around somehow or that Bachi was playing a prank, he dashed off through the grass toward it. The blades lashed against his bare legs and arms, the leather shorts he’d made from Bachi’s cape not enough to shield him. “I’m here!” he shouted. “Bachi, did you do this? It’s not funny!” He pelted down the hill, the ground hard and dry underfoot, long stalks of grass catching at his ankles and resisting him at every move.

He definitely heard voices as he rounded the hill. There was a thin rope of smoke reaching into the sky not too far in the distance, and the murmur of people rose and fell with the breeze. His anxiety eased just the smallest bit, and he pressed toward it, imagining Bachi’s laughter when he rejoined them. He was going to shave the stupid boy’s mustaches off for this. “You shouldn’t have left me!” he called when he got close. He could hear them talking now. “Where have Pahtl and Kanga gone? I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Then he stumbled out of the grass and onto a beaten track, and less than a stone’s throw away he saw a wide clearing that held a wheeled cart with metal bars making a cage of its top. It was attached by ropes to two four-legged beasts with backs as tall as his chin. Several people were slumped on the floor of the cart, and one of them was crying. He couldn’t understand the sight. Were they criminals? Who would put someone in a cage, and why? Two men stood beside the cart, long spears in hand and leveled toward him. Another was kicking dirt over their fire, apparently breaking camp.

He held out his hands to show he held no weapon. “I’m sorry, I thought you were my friends. Have you seen a fat boy and a woman with red hair? Maybe a boy who looks a little like me? He has a scarred leg. Or a big guy? White teeth? Sounds stupid?”

Their faces were hard and their eyes distrustful. He was reminded of the Iktaka, and the scar on his back itched. Maybe I should just back away. If they know anything, they’re not telling. He edged back toward the grass at the edge of the road.

Then the man by the dying fire spoke, coming up to stand by the two spearmen. “Andaka mi puso, pentillay. Gesh im harka, ba indi?”

Tarek goggled at him. The sounds had the cadence and tones of language, but he’d never heard anything like it before. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’m looking for my friends.” He took another step back into the grass. They’re not here. Something’s gone wrong. It’s not just Pahtl and Kanga that in the south; it’s all of them. I’m the one that’s far away somehow.

The man didn’t want him to leave. He stepped forward, a hand extended peaceably, a smile creasing his sun-weathered face. “Harbo, pentillay. Ba yermpop, ba deshpop. Heka, heka. Na gimmer sa indi mo naggaltowet.” He nodded confidently. “Andaka mi puso.”

Tarek heard a rustle in the grass behind him, and a third spear-wielder jumped forward out of the brush, swinging the haft of his weapon overhand at Tarek’s skull. With a yelp, Tarek lunged to the side. He wasn’t quick enough. The wooden shaft, as thick as three thumbs together, glanced off the side of his head and raked over his ear before cracking down on his right shoulder.

He grunted and went to one knee, his vision blackening and exploding with stars, his shoulder screaming at him. His right arm didn’t want to hold him up, and he rolled away to one side, scrambling back to his feet. His thoughts were coming slow, but he knew that away was where he needed to be, so he let his legs do the thinking. He wasn’t terribly steady as he lurched back out into the sea of grass, but the men, their spears, and their wagon full of sad people were all firmly behind him, and that was good enough. He’d run all the way back to Tavi if he had to. These people made no sense, and he wanted nothing to do with them. His legs grew firmer with each step, and his head was starting to clear. They were a good ten paces behind him now.

Then something punched him incredibly hard in the back just below his left shoulder, and he stumbled to his knees again. An odd weight was dragging at him from behind, and his left arm felt funny when it moved. Looking down, he saw a pyramid of metal jutting from the spot where his chest met his shoulder, just below the breastbone. It was covered in blood. His mouth didn’t water at the sight at all, and that was how he knew the blood was his. He could feel the spearhaft dragging on the ground behind him. One of them had thrown their spear at him. Hit me from ten paces, he thought muzzily. That’s a good throw.

The man walked up and wrenched the spear out of him, and the world shook apart into fiery gouts of agony. He was on his back and he didn’t know how he’d gotten there. He was screaming. He was sobbing. He wanted to clutch at the blood welling from his chest, but he couldn’t make his arms move. The man wiped his bloody spearhead on Tarek’s shorts dispassionately and made no move to help. The short man with the weather-beaten face came up, his smile still firmly in place. What is wrong with these people? Why are they doing this?

“Mi puso, pentillay,” said the short man, latching an iron collar around Tarek’s neck. Tarek thought back on the one in the rolling cage that had been weeping, and he thought maybe he was starting to understand.