by D. Moonfire
cutting across the dunes to cut down on the time for others waiting on him.
He was a few chains away when a third runner sprinted away from the rocks. He frowned and glanced at the two other dust clouds. Chimípu and Desòchu were circling a few leagues away from the rocks. Their bodies were invisible in the plumes of sand and flashing feathers, but the brilliant light at the tip of the clouds marked their presence.
Rutejìmo turned back to the rocks with growing curiosity. When traveling with such a small group, they usually didn’t let more than two runners relax at a time.
To his surprise, the runner was coming for him. He stopped in shock and stared until he could identify the figure. It was Mapábyo.
He was still staring when she slid to a halt next to him. The cloud of dust rolled over him, peppering his face with sand and wind, before blowing past. He blinked to clear his eyes and stared at the rod-length furrow that her braking created in the ground.
“Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo? Are you okay?” Mapábyo wore dark red trousers and a white top. Both the shirt and the pants were cut tight to her body to avoid resistance from the wind. It also revealed a generous amount of her dark skin from her wrists and ankles. Small triangles of sweat darkened the fabric underneath her arms and between her small breasts. She had left her travel pack behind and her slender body seemed to waver in the last of the dust cloud.
He wiped the grains clinging to his sweaty forehead and shrugged. “Yeah, just needed to walk a little.”
“You fell,” she said. She stepped out of her trench and up to him. “I saw you.”
Rutejìmo gulped. “You were watching?”
She smiled and her teeth flashed. “Why wouldn’t I? Aren’t we supposed to watch out for our clan?”
“No one ever does.”
She looked sharply down at the ground. “They should.”
“They don’t have to. I know the rules, last runner in serves everyone. It doesn’t matter if I run or walk the last few chains.”
“But, Jìmo… Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo,” her voice cracked, “I know that I’ve never run with you before, but every night on this trip you come in last. We’ve been running for three days and no one questions why.”
He nodded and sighed, his eyes rising to look at the jagged rocks ahead of them. He still could remember Pidòhu falling from the tallest of the Teeth.
“Why?”
Rutejìmo couldn’t answer. He didn’t want to tell her how slow he was or how weak. He shook his head and walked toward the rocks. His bare feet left a trail in the burning sands.
A few seconds later, Mapábyo rushed up and matched his pace. Her dark skin seemed to flow through the heat shimmers as she walked next to him. A loose part of her shirt fluttered against his arm, tickling his skin.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Rutejìmo tried not to think about the twisting in his stomach or the sick feeling that rose up when he contemplated the rocks. He wanted to keep running past them, but being alone in the desert was suicide, and the others wouldn’t follow.
“Why?” she asked again, breaking the silence.
He closed his eyes and slowly opened them. “I’m not the best or the fastest. I never will be. You, Chimípu, even Hyonèku will always outrun me. So I don’t really worry about coming in last. It’s a constant, like Tachìra rising in the east and Gemènyo teasing me.”
“So? Generations ago, Great Shimusogo Tsudakìmo was the slowest. And then he had to outrun the sun to save Myobùshi’s spirit from the scorpion clans.” She smiled and tapped his shoulder. “Maybe someday you won’t be the slowest?”
Rutejìmo shivered at the sudden electrical touch. He cleared his throat. “But that was his ryodifūne, his final run. When he stopped moving,” he sighed, “he died.”
He gave her a playful grin. “I’m pretty content with living slowly.”
Her hopeful smile faded. She pulled her hand back, her fingers leaving trails in the dust clinging to his sweat. “I don’t want you to die.”
He bumped her. “Me either. Breathing is good.”
She pushed him back with a soft giggle. Her hand was soft against his, though he knew she had a mean right hook when she needed it.
“Besides,” he nodded toward the rocks, “have you had your father’s cooking?”
Mapábyo pulled a face, the bridge of her nose wrinkling. “I think he poisons us on purpose. At least Mama is a good cook, though,” she bumped him again. “You are too.”
“I’ve been cooking out here for ten years.” Rutejìmo reached the top of a dune and straightened. “I’m probably the best travel cook there is. I do it enough.”
Mapábyo giggled and stopped next to him. She pushed her long hair from her face and behind her ear. “Then why don’t I cook tonight?”
Rutejìmo stared at her with surprise. “Really?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Yeah, but you’ve to run to the camp.”
He shrugged, but when she beckoned to him, he froze.
Mapábyo smiled and gestured to the camp. “You run, I cook.”
“What?”
“Shimusògo run,” she said in a whisper. And then she jogged down the far side of the dune. He held his breath while he waited for her to accelerate in a flash of air and dust, but it never came. Instead, she ran down the slope of the sand without magic or speed.
Rutejìmo let out his held breath with a rush. He swallowed to ease his dry throat and raced after her.
Wamifuko City
The Wamifūko established Wamifuko City as a place of barter where the intricate dance of clan politics is encouraged but magic is forbidden. Wamifūko will defend their neutrality with brutal and unending violence.
—Wamifuko Gidorámi, Chronicles of the Wamifūko
Few remembered Wamifuko City for the rich architecture or feats of engineering, though the city had both. Instead, the oral tales passed down about the city focused on its stink. The smell of sweat, urine, and countless animals had stained the stone—and no amount of wind or magic could erase it from the senses or memories of those who visited the city. The twenty thousand people who called the city home were the lucky ones; the constant stench eroded their noses until they could no longer smell. Guests like Rutejìmo weren’t so lucky when they were reintroduced to the odor of the great city.
The Shimusògo slowed when they reached the shadows of the city. Ahead of them, jagged walls of the mountain rose out of the rolling hills and towered over the surrounding lands. In the late afternoon sun, the tips of the walls cast claws of shadow across the haze that hung over the city inside. A low rumble shook the ground from the din contained within.
Walking toward the city, looking up at the jagged walls, Rutejìmo felt very small. Even rebuilt, Wamifuko City dwarfed anything inside Shimusogo Valley. Forgetting where he was, he sniffed and then gagged on the overwhelming smell of sewage and animal waste.
“It never gets better,” said Mapábyo, “does it? The smell?”
Rutejìmo shook his head.
“I keep hoping that it rains, just to wash it away.”
He grinned and leaned over to her, the heat of her skin brushing against his senses. “Me too.”
“Quiet,” snapped Desòchu.
Mapábyo gave Rutejìmo an exaggerated look of horror, but it dissolved into silent giggles.
They amused themselves by making faces at Desòchu’s back while they joined the line heading into the nearest gate, but their entertainment faded quickly when the line came to a halt and he stopped moving. Running all day had sapped Rutejìmo’s strength, and he could feel the throb of fatigue tugging at his joints. He wanted to crawl into a bed and sleep.
The closer the runners drew to the city, the more they began to fidget. It started with Chimípu and Desòchu when they scratched at their wrists and joints. A moment later, Chimípu tugged on her hair while Desòchu rubbed his side. Rutejìmo knew it wasn’t the run that caused them discomfort, but the presence of the other clans. Resonance, it was called, and it aff
ected those with the strongest magic first.
Rutejìmo rarely felt resonance, his powers were too weak, but it didn’t take long until even Mapábyo scratched herself with every step. She gave Rutejìmo apologetic looks while digging into her wrist with her fingernails. In a few days, they would be raw and scabbed.
He had to look away briefly. They reached one of the inward gates to the city a few minutes later. Nestled between two of the jagged walls towering above them, the gates functioned as a choke-point for defense and a place to exact taxes and enforce laws.
Two Wamifūko guards stood at the entrance in their heavy steel armor. Rutejìmo recognized the guard on the right by his armor. The helm, shaped in the form of a snarling horse with wide-open muzzle, revealed a man with a strong jaw and a crooked nose. Rutejìmo grinned at the sight of him and then forced the smile from his face when he saw Desòchu turning to look around.
A few moments later, they were at the gate. To his surprise, the warrior faced Rutejìmo and bowed. “Good evening, Shimusogo Rutejìmo.” He spoke in a rumbling voice, and Rutejìmo’s stomach clenched with a reflexive fear. “I’m glad to see you safe once again.”
Rutejìmo glanced at his brother, the leader of the group and the one who spoke for all of them. At the sight of Desòchu’s scowl, Rutejìmo’s stomach clenched and a burning sensation rose in his throat.
He looked at the others. Chimípu shook her head with a grin. Mapábyo looked back and forth between him and warrior. There was a curious smile on her face.
Rutejìmo turned back to the