Kal swung the blunt of his blade and cracked a liathel’s head. The beast took a staggered stance, bobbing its head in place. I jumped. Got on it’s back and dug my blades into its neck. One on each side. The streams shot out and I pushed the creature's head deep into the floor. It muttered. Whimpered. Died. A group of five were behind me, trying to follow me and breathing hard at the attempt. They made it my way. One of them held his thighs and caught his breath and looked up, sweating.

“How are you so fast?” He asked.

I smiled. If only he knew what it took, the vomit and the sweat and the blood Sylas could squeeze out of you.

Behind us. More liathel’s. An entire squad of men shooting arrows from the top of a rock. Spearmen inching forward to injured creatures who pawed at the floor and roared. I tightened my mantle and spun my blades in my hands.

“I’ll clean up the rest. Go see to the right.” I said. “Lead ‘em, Kal.”

“Anything else? Some wine? A cake?”

“Smartass.” I ran towards the fray.

Obrick rode on horseback. He swung his blade and cut a liathel in the back of the neck.

“That makes nine.” He shouted.

“I counted seven.”

“Then learn to count!”

The Silverfangs shot fast arrows from the hinds of horses. The fletchings whistled as they flew.

All in all it was a good day for us. I thought at least, cutting through the animals and feeling the heat of battle. Blood boiling in the desert sun, fumes of sweat rising up. Iron. Musk. Scents of war. It was like that for the rest of the trip. And by its end we had killed a good thirty beasts. A whole day's worth of hunting, scavenging the surrounding areas and finding the desert cats. We stacked them on sleds and carried them into base. A good days hunt, I thought.

Some hours into the evening I looked out on horse back, watching the lugging bodies of the predators on harnessed platforms, the deep trails of sand and the neighing of laboring horses. Obrick approached, leading his horse and wiping his face.

“Twelve. I counted you at nine.” He said.

“Twelve? Half of those belong to the Silverfang brothers.”

“The killing blow is the only blow that matters.” Obrick smiled. “That’ll be ten silver, please.”

He stuck his hand out and I reached into my pocket and gave him his pocket change.

“Good work out there, huh.” Obrick said. “Reminds me of the old days.”

“I try not to reminisce too much. It’s easy to get stuck in memories.”

“That’s all we have left after a certain point, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. And won’t know till I get there, right?” I stopped a sleigh approaching me. He the boy assisting the horse looked back, black underneath his eyes. A haggard look like Vincent’s.

I told him it was a little loose and he glared and let go of the rope attached to the wood and canvas platform by which the liathel laid unto. I tightened it. Rubbed my chin. Pulled on the frame and felt the wooden planks a little loose.

“A little shoddy, ain’t it? Put some nails in this thing when you get the chance.” I said.

The boy glared.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

He stared.

“What’s your name again?” I stood straight. “Are you new?”

“No, sir.” He said. “Been with you for two years.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“Why would you?” He said and grabbed the rope and lifted it over his shoulder. The horse started its slow trot and the boy dug deep into the sand as he inched closer. The sled followed. Slow. Dragging in the desert.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

“Who knows. There’s a lot changing. People are getting uncomfortable with the direction.” He said. “Doesn’t help that you’re the second in command of the fourteenth. People don’t think you’ve earned it, me thinks.”

“I ain’t second in command.”

“No. Of course not.” Obrick said. “It just so happens that when you tell people to do something, they do it. Modesty can get annoying, you know that right?”

“That’s their problem then.” I crossed my arms.

“Your appearances are your problems, Virgil” Obrick said. “But one day they’ll come to respect you. Most of them already do. It’s just the last few, I guess. The last who still remember what you were when you first joined.”

I exhaled. Stuck my head high and rolled my tongue in my mouth.

Obrick yawned. He waved and left, eating an apple as he wandered into camp.

By noon the men were drunk and none of it had done much to ease their growing anger. Not a drop wasted and yet there was nothing of song or dance or play. As I wandered through the small bonfires set across the desert, all I could hear was the mutterings of curiosity. Not necessarily fear either. Just murmurs here and there, whispers.

“What’s the work going to be from now on?” I stopped by a scantleaved oak tree. Below me on a patch of dried crack stone, a group of four men convened around dying embers. They had a bottle to themselves and took sips, shoulders hunched overhead and their shadows growing deeper into the night.

“What the hell is this shit work?” One spoke. “The pays been terrible. Haven’t been in a city for months it feels. We’re just hunters. Where are the whores? Where’s the money?”

“Mhm. And did you hear the pretty boy?” One of them said. I could only see a bobbing head or two, but could not discern their features.

“Ye. The travel is gonna end soon. For good.” One said. “We’re doing whatever Xanthus says. Lapdogs, we’ll be.”

“Aww hell no. Those freaks? Makes no sense that we’re still around then.”

“That’s what’s got me thinkin’.”

I approached. Light footed in the sand dune, my body lowered.

“What?”

A cork pull. A swish of deep red drink between the two. The fires raised.

“We’ll be fighting Kavalians.”

“Shit.”

“Yessir. Vicentius said it, didn’t he? We’s becoming knights.” A sip. “Knights without the dignity of knights. We’ll be getting catapulted into castles. Let me tell ye.”

“Shit.” One spat. “Kavalians, really? Don’t they eat their prisoners?”

“Shit indeed my friend.” He said. “Forget the crow. We’ll be raising Salamanca flags from here on out.”

“Fuck Vicentius and fuck Xanthus and fuck Kaviria.” He said. “Why can’t they give back that dumb fucking city back? Shit, I mean. It’s Kaviria for the Kavalians, right? Try saying that ten times.”

“Ah, you’re drunk, friend. Cain’t be saying that.”

“All I’m saying is what I know for a fact. To the T. And what I know is we’re going to die. I ain’t trained to fight Kavalians.”

“Shit, you ain’t trained to do much but shit and drink.”

It was a conversation that was not strange to any capacity. Not in the least surprising even, it was a conversation I’d heard throughout the night when the men slacked in stupor or sleep. But it was this one that gave me the urge. I stepped away from the tree and started my descent down to the men. Someone grabbed my wrist and pulled me up. I did not turn my head. I just stopped.

“You plan on berating a couple drunks?” Sylas asked. I pulled my hand away from him, my back to him.

“I’m saying my piece, as much as them.”

“They’re drunk.”

“Plenty sober s’far as I can tell.” Said.

“How can you tell? Is it ‘cause they’re talking sense?”

I turned. The stars to Sylas’s back, his coat drifting like one giant wash of green. His thick wave of colored silk superimposed the thin oak tree. It encompassed the horizon at the mound top. A rip in the sky.

“Now I love the niceties of your greetings,” I said. “But I’ve got to retort; where were you in the fight?”

“What? The hunt? You had it handled. I figured you didn’t need me.” He said.

“That’s strange. It seems like more and more often I get your responsibility shoved onto me.”

“My responsibility? You came up with the idea. Vicentius couldn’t stop reminding people.” Sylas said. “’ Sides. Responsibility suits your narcissism.”

“Excuse me.” I stood tall.

Sylas strained in the face and slowly walked from the budding roots of the oak. The earth cracked where the tree ingrained itself into, clawing desperately at the dead white earth. Flakes of bark fell and followed the wind Sylas’ stride left.

“It was always the point, wasn’t it? You trying to get favor with the boy - Vicentius. The boy trying to become more than what he should be.” Sylas said.

“We’re entering the city soon and more importantly, we’re meeting up with King Xanthus. You gotta stop this boy shit, it’s demeaning.” I said. “I’d been meaning to tell you this.”

“Dreaming the boy? In front of who? The carnival show of the capital? Money men and politicians and whores. Heavens forgive me, to insult him in front of those dignified people.”

“Did you come here for anything else besides poisoning me with your words?”

“I’m here to trade posts.” He said, lifting his coat. “You’re keeping watch, aren’t you?”

“I was.” I flashed my lantern hanging by the side of my pants. My coat over.

“Good. Then take over my side. My legs busted. It’s age, you know? Some days you just wake up and parts of you stop working.” He said.

He took out a little moleskin pouch, tear-shaped and drank with long gulps. I just stared. Blank faced. The oaks about me rattling the few leaves they had on them, off. Pebbles shifted below my feet, on the horizon the path of Sylas’s footsteps disappeared, erased with each gust further and further. Little dunes and dimples in the sand cupped the glow of fires. Each hole looked like the post-fall of some tiny and beautiful meteorite collapse. Looking inwards from the edge of the lips though, there was nothing but groups of drunks or sleepy soldiers.

“What are you waiting for?” Sylas asked. “You know I’m the one who gives orders, right?”

“Yes, Sylas.”

“It’s teacher, to you. Youngblood.” He said.

I sighed. “Yes, teach'.”

The men snored deep into the night, laying on their backs or stomachs in cool blankets. Gentle winds covering them with a light coating of sand across their body. I was wide awake, leisure paced into a ridge on a sand dune, staring down at the dug holes and and fire pits and tents. Horses huddled tight in sleep. Some standing stiff with their eyes closed. The cold came to me, a breeze coming fast through the horizon. I covered my neck with my coat and wandered further in. Thinking nothing of the night, really, thinking mostly of the days to come. The banquet. The city, which by then I’d only heard stories of. It was a gentle night I thought. A good night to have a casual stroll and reminisce.

I thought, at least.

Somewhere across the horizon, I spotted a few figures. Figments, I believed. It was a blur of light that’d gone back and forth and which I assumed to be some kind of falling star.

I yawned and looked down to an empty plot in the sand. I stood tall on that ridge, looking at the flaps in a particular tent far off. A tent for two, that was missing its two. I looked up again and stared, the flutter of light. Like fireflies scattering. A quick flash of spinning lanterns. A few sparks. Blur of fire. Blank. Once again, deep dark set on the horizon and I narrowed my eyes. Looking back down, at that now quiet and dark tent. They were just going to sleep? Two men calling it a night? I walked a bit faster towards them. Extinguished embers let out smoke from their fire pit, pulverized wood toasted and split Smoke drizzled into the sky. I adjusted my lantern in front of my face, feeling the heat soured face. I walked fast down the ridge. Two flashing lights once more, far beyond the tent they had just occupied. And getting farther, and farther and rising up the dunes, faster and faster.

I chased. Back up a dune. Into holes, out of them. Running fast and scattering desert in my stampede.

“Hey!” I screamed. I hadn’t even realized that I’d run out of camp. That I was screaming at oblivion. I ran after the light as it went riding into night. And stopped, tired, with my leg hurt and ached. I put my hands to my knees and held myself. A snake hissed to me from the side, like some bodyguard of the riding fire. It raised it’s small body and flashed wide gills. A black streak ran across its yellow body, it’s tail rattled.

“Fuckin’ shit.” I turned from the snake, spitting on the floor and made my way back to the occupations we’d taken. I went back to the third and looked across the little holes, glass littered the sand and I stepped around the dark green, coming to the empty camp. The tent walls half-way collapsed to themselves. Turning the canvas over, I ripped apart the blanket and bedding. Nothing. Not a knife, not a sack of clothes. Somewhere in the corner of the ruined tent a satchel sat half-open.

I turned it over, nothing. I threw the satchel to the side and knelt, scratching my chin.

Two mysterious riders running out their posts and out of camp. Why?

I stepped over to another camp. A fat man slept with his nose expanding a drizzle of snot down his lips. Mouth ajar, a bottle rolled back and forth next to him. I picked it up and threw it. I poked his head with my foot. He groaned and blinked.

“Nine hells. Is that you, fire starter?” He put a hand against his heart and fixed his helmet. “The fuck was that for?”

“I got a question.” I pointed to the camp across. “Got any idea who used to live in that there camp?”

“Why? What’d they do?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious. I saw a happening of something suspicious is all.” I said.

He scratched his head.

“Who were they?” I asked.

“They’s was…” The sleepy man scratched his face. “I think they were skinners. Ye’. Seen them with the small bloody blade. Tanners, I think.”

Skinners? I knew the tanners myself and he was sleeping somewhere in the north side of camp. In a nice, big, luxurious cart. Not in the desert like a bug.

“Remember their names?”

“No.” He said. “Do you?”

He yawned and turned his back to me, laying back on the cool sand and the smoothed blanket.

“God, you are a sleepy idiot, ain’t you?” I said.

“You’re the one bugging me, man.” He said.

“Whatever. You let me know if they come back, alright?”

He waved, I presumed that to be a yes.

I tapped him on the shoulders and started my way down the paths of threaded and chained wagons. Horses sneezed in my direction as I came down, raising my lantern at each little interstice. Tugging at the hooks between cart and reins. I climbed the edges and peered inside. The weapons were in their barrels. The food storages were fine. Old Chet slept with loud snores around the hanging carcasses.

“Only he would.” I said. And stepped down, lantern swinging wild. I stopped a dozen carts down the line. The trunk had its handles and door hinges snapped off. The back door swung and was limp and fell to a ramp with a simple touch. It slammed into the floor. This was where we had kept the leathers. The hides. I raised my lantern.

Four big walls. And a very, very, empty room.

The round knives were stripped off their leather holsters, the tables were barren and turned over. Fur hairs littered.

I checked the barrels. I checked the boxes. One liathel remained. Propped up on the side of the cart. It had a knife halfway down its spine, the coat peeled away and flapped in the air. A naked bottom belly. On its body were foot prints. Dirty prints on its spotted body.

“Fuck me.” I sighed and walked out, lantern high in the air as I checked the horizon once again. Not a hint from the desert. Only wind. And whispers from the few thinning oak trees.

“What am I going to tell Vincent.” I said.

What am I going to do.