Sand and Ash

by D. Moonfire

thrown his necklace and frantically searched the sands. It hadn’t taken long for the wind to almost cover the tooth. He yanked the leather out of the hole and held both teeth in one palm. They were almost identical, except for the ten years that separated them.

  He turned and looked in the direction Mapábyo ran. Biting his lip against the pain, he sprinted after her.

  Darkness

  Decisions of the heart are rarely announced in public.

  —Fakinori Détsu

  Rutejìmo raced across the sands, his heart pounding in time with each strike against the hard ground. Feathers and dust poured around him, solidifying the earth under his feet before exploding into a cloud that stretched for at least half a mile behind him. He knew he was in pain and he would suffer, but he had to catch Mapábyo. He had to keep running.

  Shimusògo, the tiny spectral bird, was always three steps ahead. Unlike him, it ran effortlessly over the sand and rock. Rutejìmo would never catch it, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He knew if he could, then maybe he could finally run fast enough to catch Mapábyo before she ran out of his life forever.

  He ran against the setting sun. He could feel it reaching the horizon. When it sank below, all the power would rush out of him, and he would be forced to run with his own strength.

  Rutejìmo would also suffer the full brunt of his exhaustion and injuries. Over the day, he had felt blood drying in the wind but there was no pain. The power of Shimusògo kept it away from him while he ran, but that would all stop once the magic ended.

  The knowledge that he would be in agony hung over him. Every few seconds of running meant a hundred less feet he would crawl in agony. He strained to keep moving, to avoid stumbling and losing precious seconds.

  In the distance, to his right, he spotted a plume of colored smoke that marked a guarded oasis. Turning toward it, he pushed himself to run faster. His feet flew across red-tinted sand, and he fought back the discomfort beginning to push through the euphoria of running.

  He didn’t make it before the sun dipped below the horizon. Between one step and the next, the power slipped away and he stumbled forward. He planted his feet to come to a sliding halt, his efforts leaving a rod-length furrow in the fine sand.

  Rutejìmo crawled out of the gouge. When he reached the top, a wave of dizziness slammed into him. With a groan, he slumped to his knees. Agony throbbed in his joints, adding to the discomfort of the cuts, bruises, and scrapes that peppered his skin. The blow Mapábyo had made across his back still burned painfully. Underneath the injuries, the burn of torn muscles and the ache of fatigue throbbed.

  He tried to push himself up, but his strength fled him and he fell forward.

  For a long moment, he remained on the ground, breathing through his nose. The grains of sand clung to his nostrils. It would be so easy to remain there until darkness came. But then it would be too late.

  Groaning, he forced himself back to his feet. He trudged along a dune, his bare feet digging into the sand. His entire body shook violently with the effort. Once he reached the top, he looked around for his destination.

  Rutejìmo spotted it a quarter mile away, a glow in a haze of colored smoke. Without his magic, it was an insurmountable distance and one that he would have long since given up. He sighed and looked around for a closer shelter: a rocky outcropping or a cliff.

  Shuddering through the agony that assaulted his senses, he shoved his hand into his pocket. When his fingers caught on the sharp tips of the tooth necklaces, he froze. He forced his fingers along the sharp edges and explored it. He looked back toward the oasis. It was a quarter mile of agony, but there was still a chance.

  He groaned and turned to the oasis. He glanced down to the ground. Shaking, he forced himself to take a step. Agonies reported themselves along his senses, sharp pains mixed with deep aches. Wincing, he gripped the teeth tighter and then took another step. When it didn’t hurt as much, he took another.

  “Please be there. Please, Shimusògo, please let her be there.”

  Exhaustion

  The banyosiōu are dead to everyone, unseen and unheard.

  —Forgotten Ghosts (Act 1)

  Over an hour later, Rutejìmo staggered into the light of the camp surrounding the oasis. His breath came in ragged gasps, ripping from his throat in a wheeze. Behind him, his footsteps formed a ragged line through the smooth sand, leaving behind a wake of disturbed sand and, he suspected, the occasional splatter of blood.

  An armed man strode forward to meet him in the center of a pool of light created by four torches. The dark-skinned man wore a close-fitting shirt that strained over his muscular chest. “I am Tijìko and I speak for Tifukòmi.”

  From underneath boxes and around a wagon, a pack of six dogs came out. They didn’t bark or growl, but Rutejìmo could hear them panting and the scuff of sand underneath their paws. They circled around him, a faint breeze rippling their short, wiry hair and bringing the scent of fur and blood to Rutejìmo. He gulped and waited until they sat down around him.

  Rutejìmo took a deep breath, automatically saying the familiar words. “I am Rutejìmo and I speak for…” His clan name froze in his throat. He no longer had the right to use it.

  He glanced down at his plain shirt, missing the orange and reds he normally wore. His chest ached. He saw the dark bruises on his skin and felt the scratches underneath the fabric. Everything hurt but, somehow, losing his clan stung the deepest.

  “… I speak for no one.” He didn’t really know the proper greeting for a banyosiōu. He sighed and looked up helplessly.

  The warrior’s face twisted into a scowl. Around Rutejìmo, the dogs began to growl in a low, rumbling done. “Then go. We don’t have a place for your kind.”

  Rutejìmo glanced over his shoulder at the blackness around him. Without sunlight, he couldn’t see a foot in front of him much less enough to find a place to camp. “But it’s night, and I can’t see.”

  Wrapping his hand around the hilt of his sword, the guard pulled a few inches of the weapon from his sheath. “Go, before I tear you apart and feed you to the vultures.”

  The dogs stood up, growling as one.

  Rutejìmo clutched himself, careful to avoid going near his weapon. Sweat prickled his skin. He looked out into the darkness and then back to the oasis where an audience stood up to salute a bard who had just finished a story. He cleared his throat. “Could you tell me if Great Shimusogo Mapábyo is here?”

  “Go!”

  One of the dogs charged at Rutejìmo, teeth bared and snarled.

  Rutejìmo let out a yelp and backed away, stumbling toward another dog that nipped at his thigh. The sharp pain of teeth cut across his skin and he backpedaled away from both dogs.

  The pack circled in front of him, growling loudly and moving with disturbing synchronization. He cringed when they completely surrounded him.

  “Go!” yelled the warrior.

  An armed woman joined him with more dogs following her.

  The warrior yelled again, “Go until you can’t see the light! If I see you again, the pack will tear you apart!”

  Rutejìmo continued to work his way back until he no longer stood in the pool of light. A trickle of blood ran down his thigh and he hissed in pain. Bending over, he started to press one hand against it to test the injury when the dogs surged forward.

  Crying out, he turned on his heels and staggered into the darkness.

  As he ran, he heard the man tell the woman. “And tomorrow, there will be one less fool.”

  Waking Up Alone

  Footsteps on a beach are quickly forgotten during a storm.

  —The Shadow King’s Lament (Act 3)

  Rutejìmo crawled out of unconsciousness with a groan. He struggled to place himself, the nightmares still swimming through his head. Gulping, he looked around at the darkness surrounding him and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart. While his hands reached out for one of his lights, he relived Desòchu’s and Chimípu’s brutal punishment and Mikáryo’s r
ebuke. But instead of a blanket underneath his hand, his fingers brushed against cold sand. A sharp edge of a rock scraped his palm and he yanked it back. He rolled away from it, trying to force his mind away from his nightmares and focus on the world around him.

  He cracked open one eye and stared ahead of him. It was morning, a few moments before the sun rose. There was nothing but waves of sand as far as he could see through his bleary vision. He blinked slowly and tried again, his eyes slowly coming into focus. Still, he saw nothing but sand and rock.

  Rutejìmo closed his eye and pried both open. He blinked and stared at his surroundings, hoping to see something besides the desert. When he didn’t, he rolled back over and stared in the other direction, his mind somehow struggling to take in the miles of barren land.

  And then it struck him. He was alone.

  Completely alone in the desert.

  Images flashed through his mind: of Karawàbi with his throat cut, of the bodies he had stumbled on over the years, and the sight of the massive snake that Mikáryo killed when he was sleeping. There were horrors in the sand that preyed on loners.

  His heart began to beat faster and he felt ice drip along his spine. There was no one else with him. He could picture faceless men coming up to cut his throat, or creatures burrowing under the sand only inches away from slaughtering him.

  Crying out, he scrambled to his feet and fumbled for his tazágu. Yanking the weapon out, he spun around and waved it in front of him, scanning the horizon for attackers. He