Sand and Ash

by D. Moonfire

hard to think past the aching of his manhood and the painful thudding of his heart against his ribs.

  As much as he wanted her, he also knew it was wrong. Mikáryo was from a clan of the night, a warrior that fought against all of the day clans including Shimusògo. Every story about the sun and moon said she should have tried to kill him, not bed him.

  Slowly, he closed his eyes. He should have accepted Chimípu’s or Kiramíro’s offer. He could have spent the night with one of the many other warriors who saved him over the years. Then, he would have been ready for the woman of his dreams. Instead, he didn’t know what to do.

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” she said quietly.

  The fabric of the tent slipped from his fingers and settled back into place. In the sudden darkness, he pulled back and turned around.

  Speaking for Shimusògo

  “I speak for” is a powerful phrase in the clans because it means the speaker’s words have the full weight of the clan behind them.

  —Rapinbun Finol, Politics of the Desert

  Rutejìmo woke with the rising of the sun for the second time since he entered Mikáryo’s tent. The power of Shimusògo and Tachìra woke inside him and his bones tingled from the energy. It seeped through his skin and he let out a soft sigh of pleasure. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t running or even jogging, but the feeling that magic was now possible sung to him.

  The tent around him smelled of sex and sweat, a heady combination that had become as familiar as his own body’s scent. He thought he would be a different man after losing his virginity, much like he once thought that finding Shimusògo would change him, but he remained the same man who left his home cave less than a week ago. He stretched, burrowing his hands through Mikáryo’s black armored fabric. No, he did feel different. It wasn’t magical; it wasn’t a new body, or new powers. Just a sense of awareness, of a world he never imagined before Mikáryo.

  “It is morning, and the moon is sleeping,” said Mikáryo. She crawled into the tent. She wore nothing but her underwear, a black band of cloth over her breasts and her loincloth. Now, he intimately knew what lay underneath the fabric and the difference was like night and day.

  He reached over to stroke her thigh.

  She set down a tray of roasted meats and pushed his hand away. “Not now. Those damn scorpions are about ready to move, and we need to follow. I’ll be glad when this trip is done; I’m tired of chasing after those things with wagons of wood. But we’re leaving in an hour.”

  Rutejìmo sat up. “Now?”

  “Yes, now.” She sat heavily down next to him.

  “You have to go?”

  “Sooner or later, the jobs always call. I can’t stand the cities.” She scratched her ribs. “My joints always ache even this far away from those damned walls and their warriors.”

  It had been two days since he entered her tent. He only left briefly when nature called and each time he couldn’t wait to return to find what new things Mikáryo would teach him. She was a humiliating teacher, one who berated him as much as she taught him, but every time she called him “pathetic,” he found himself craving more of the her sharp words and soft body.

  Mikáryo stuffed a hunk of meat into her mouth and smiled. “Time for you to go back to your world. I need to return to mine.”

  “W-What?”

  Mikáryo pointed toward the entrance of her tent with her chin.

  He scrambled to his knees, the blanket sliding off his naked lap. “Just like that?”

  She reached over and kissed him. The taste of meat wafted around him. “Yes. I have a job to do.”

  Rutejìmo froze and struggled with the sudden change of emotions. He stared at her, working his mouth silently. He wanted to stay with her and even Tsubàyo. He hungered for the feel of her body and the warmth of her skin. He reached out for her, but she ducked her shoulder out of the way to pull her black cloth from underneath his other hand. The fabric scraped against his palm, the wires sewn into it tugged at his fingers until she yanked it free. He jerked back.

  Unsure of what to do, he watched while she dressed and ate.

  She didn’t offer him her plate or water. Nor did she say anything else as she busied herself with packing up.

  Rutejìmo glanced down to see his clothes scattered on her blankets, a stark reminder of the sudden withdrawal of her affection. Baffled and heartbroken by her coolness, Rutejìmo tugged his clothes on and crawled out of the tent. He hoped she would call him back, but there was nothing. He sniffed and stood up.

  Tsubàyo stood a rod away, folding the last of his tent into a tight bundle. He stood up while Rutejìmo did the same. Tsubàyo’s glare burned Rutejìmo with its intensity.

  Rutejìmo looked around at the shifting patchwork of camps and tents. Every time he staggered out of Mikáryo’s tent for food or to relieve himself, the layout changed. Along the south side were clans of the night, but it didn’t look any different than those who followed the sun spirit. People came, people left, there were fights and laughter. It was the same as every other clan in the desert.

  Over his shoulder, the air around the three mechanical scorpions wavered with heat from inside their hard shells, hotter than the wood fires that had burned at the base of each of their feet. A dozen horses, all black, stood still and silent next to a large wagon of wood.

  He glanced at the tent, but Mikáryo remained inside. Clearing his throat, he looked up at Tsubàyo. “Um…”

  “Time to leave, Jìmo,” said Tsubàyo curtly.

  Tears burned in Rutejìmo’s eyes. He nodded and backed away. Before Tsubàyo could gloat, he turned and stumbled between the camps. He didn’t know where to go, so he headed for the outer limits of the camps.

  As soon as he was free of the crowds, he accelerated into a rush. Peace poured into him and displaced the sharpness of Mikáryo’s rejection. He circled around the city, but not at his limit. It was the Shimusògo’s version of a jog, a rate that would eat away a dozen miles in an hour. It felt good to have his feet pounding on the ground, and he marveled how he had forgotten it while in Mikáryo’s arms.

  Sooner or later, he had to stop. He had to face the fact he had blindly spent two days with Mikáryo. All without telling Desòchu or even Chimípu. His stomach burned and he slowed down to settle it. He imagined Desòchu screaming at him, tearing him down in public. It didn’t matter if it was right or that Rutejìmo had abandoned him for Mikáryo without a second thought, the idea of being castigated soured his stomach.

  He forced himself to stop dwelling on imagined punishments and focused on Mikáryo. The last two days were more intense than anything else in his life. He had been happy. The only reason she would have rejected him was her job and his obligations. He smiled grimly to himself. He should have offered to stay and help; maybe then she would have kept him.

  A flash of movement caught his attention. He looked up to see a translucent dépa fading into the head of a plume of sand over a mile away. Power exploded inside the plume and it accelerated, arcing toward him. The runner came thundering toward him and the plume became a boiling cloud of sand and rocks. It spread out into two wings that were distinctively a bird’s.

  The sick feeling in Rutejìmo’s guts intensified and he stumbled.

  The runner covered the distance between them in less than a minute. He could feel the power rising up front of him, a threat of approaching magic. Along with it was anger, a palpable wave of emotion that bode poorly for him.

  Desòchu appeared in front of him in a rush of magic. One moment, he was a black dot coursing over the hills and, in the next second, he was covering the last few feet between them. His two open palms caught Rutejìmo on the chest and the air blasted around them. The impact brought the full force of Desòchu’s sprint into Rutejìmo’s body, and his world exploded into white-hot pain.

  The ground fell away from Rutejìmo. He tried to reach for the sand, but his left arm refused to work. The pressure in his chest intensified until he thought his lungs would pop.


  He hit the ground with a crunch. His arm caught the force of his landing. Rocks tore at his skin and left gouges along his arm, face, and legs. He caught a taller rock along his hip and the burst of agony ripped a scream from him. He flipped over and landed on the far side. He felt a long gash along his stomach before he slumped on the rocks.

  Rutejìmo struggled to push himself up. Droplets of crimson splattered the rocks underneath him. The splashes were painful to look at in the burning sunlight. The scrapes and bruises began to throb with sharp sparks of pain, but he was still too dazed to know how much damage Desòchu had just inflicted on him.

  “You pile of festering shit!” Desòchu’s yell was Rutejìmo’s only warning before Desòchu’s foot caught Rutejìmo in the ribs. The kick flipped Rutejìmo over, and he landed hard on his back. Sharp rocks pierced the thin shield of his shirt, opening up deep cuts along his shoulders and back.

  Wind blasted against him, peppering him with gravel. He sobbed and tensed, ready for the strike, but none came.

  Just as he relaxed, Desòchu kicked him again in the ribs. The force picked Rutejìmo off the ground in a flash of golden feathers, and he sailed through the air before landing hard again. His head cracked against the ground and stars burst across his vision.

  Desòchu grabbed Rutejìmo by the front of his shirt and yanked him from the ground. “Do you know how frantically we were trying to find you!?”

  Chimípu