The sun, distant as it was to Mars, hung low in the sky when Bors spotted the marauders’ first sign. He’d gone ahead to scout the edge before the dead Northern Ocean shore. The dry, shriveled chasm that had once held water stretched out to the north. His eyes roved over a massive, dry bed of the bleached bones of ancient sea creatures with long-dead patches of seaweed gone to discolored dust. He spotted the distant trails of dust as signs of a coming force. The dust rills grew thicker and wider, speaking of the great number of the coming marauders. Once he spotted the signs of the oncoming horde, he spun to return with swiftness to those who’d hired him.

Unlike the Blue Hand merchants or a majority of those who called Mars home, Bors was able to keep pace with their wagons and scouted ahead on foot. His tribe, the Hidden Mountain, now lost to time, were fleet of foot. It was one of the reasons he had been hired by the Blue Hand. Another was for the fighting prowess he would bring to bear on marauders and cutthroats for the dyed-woad merchants. When he crested the last rise, away from the Northern Ocean basin, he saw that the horde skirmishers had gotten around him to soften the Blue Hand. The battle was already joined by marauding Sharpteeth and those of the Blue Hand who could wield some kind of weapon.

When he saw that it was the cannibalistic Sharpteeth attacking, his rage doubled, fueled by what the villainous tribe had done to his own kith and kin. This spurred him forward. It was a losing battle from the moment Bors joined. Even his skills couldn’t stop the merchant train of ten wagons from being cut in half from the twenty that had hired him. The Soul of the Mother started to sing in his head, though he didn’t wield her, not yet. He did not wish to pay her price if he could help it. The song still filled his eyes with a red haze, making his body thrum with a berserker’s power. While he cut down the first few marauders with his long dagger and axe, he lost himself in the battle rage.

Coming out of the rage, shoving the cracked haft of his axe forward, Bors pushed an attacking cannibal away from him. It gave him a moment to breathe and take in the battle scene. Looking over the broken remains of the caravan, he realized the caravan was lost. The Sharpteeth will kill everyone. Once all the merchants were dead or dying, the three Sharpteeth tribesman turned to focus their attacks on Bors. They laughed, licking their blades to heighten their own rage and bloodlust to overwhelm Bors.

The shove of his weapon also caused the crack along the haft to splinter more, causing the head of the axe to drop to the blood-caked soil. Bors dropped the useless axe haft with a grunt. With the axe gone, the black iron sword on his back was the only weapon left to him. He felt more than heard the singing of the Soul of the Mother in his head pitch lower, thrumming inside his own chest. For a heartbeat, he felt the weight of the sword lighten, desiring to come forth and taste blood. He paused, not wanting to accept more of her help. Before another moment passed, the shriek of an attacking Sharpteeth cannibal bearing down on him drove his instincts. His calloused hand wrapped tight around the age-worn leather of the sword hilt, pulling the Soul of the Mother free with a single, fluid movement.

The Soul of the Mother weighed little in his hands. He sliced upwards, taking the top third of the first attacker’s head off. Her song in his head was forming a full-throated dirge of death. He brought the sword blade down on the other two Sharpteeth that rushed him. The diagonal slash downward clove through one, with the pitted black blade stopping in the pelvis of the other, caught in the bone of the dying cannibal. Even the bone of the Sharpteeth clansmen didn’t stop the Soul of the Mother for more than a moment before the blade bit through the flesh of the dead tribesman with a final flick of Bors’s wrist. Drawing back his blade in a high-fighting stance by instinct, he readied himself for the next opponent. His chest heaved, hair wild and matted with sweat and blood, coating him in a fine sheen of red and pink. His eyes unfocused on anything more than the red haze before him.

A heartbeat passed before he realized he was alone with the dead. The screams and cries of the two clashing clans were gone. Bors was greeted by the silence of the dead and the slight moan of the Martian wind, blowing toward the dead Northern Ocean. Blinking in the wan Martian sunlight, he realized he stood alone. His failure weighed upon him. He was the lone survivor, coated in the gore of friend and foe alike. A cold wind from the cliffs of what once was Olympus Mons rippled over his blood-caked body as the realization that he’d survived snuck in.

The sword grew heavy. Dropping the sword point to the ground, a moment later, one of Bors’s knees followed to the blood-soaked red-orange sand. He looked up at the ancient bone hilt of the Soul of the Mother like an idol to worship. The crossguard was a macabre collection of freely given tribesmens’ fingerbones to protect, in a cage, the small piece of Mother, the last bit of Olympus Mons found by a Hidden Mountain shaman untold years ago. It was Bors’s idol. An idol of death, he thought with a grimace as the song continued in his head.

“Soul of the Mother, I thank you for your help, your strength,” he called out, his voice hoarse and threatening to break. The song faded from his head. “I plead that you return to your home and wait for me to call forth . . .”

A quiver of movement started at the buried tip of the long black iron blade, traveling up the well-worn, pitted black blade before transferring into his hands that clutched the hilt. His stomach roiled, knowing what was coming. Not again. Not the—

Before he could react, Bors felt the soft touch on his shoulder. He choked back an oath. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a shawl-wrapped, hooded form standing behind him, the form fading to nothing from the waist down. The hood revealed only a matronly smile on a youthful oval face with dark eyes. Bors knew the specter well; it haunted his darker dreams and the corners of his mind when he slept. Mother. Her dark eyes looked into him. Through him. A translucent blue glow surrounded the form. A curl of dark hair peeked out from the shawl’s hood, curling over her forehead. The hand she touched Bors with was soft, colored a baked tan of long-time exposure to sunlight. Yet, her face was pale as milk. “What is wrong, my bearer?” Her voice was a melodious song in Bors’s heart and mind. Her lips didn’t move, speaking directly into his mind.

“I am done fighting, Mother. There is nothing left to fight.”

“You may need me. There is always more fighting to be had.” She said this with a placid smile on her face as she touched him.

“I can survive without you for a time,” he said, not looking at her. He didn’t wish to anger her, but he had to sheathe her. If not, she would demand more and more of her price.

The grip on his shoulder grew painful. Fingernails tinged the color of old blood grew longer and sharper, digging painfully into the flesh of his bare shoulder. Her matronly face grew haggard and drawn. Her eyes grew more intense. “You will have need of me, bearer!” The rictus of a loathsome grin appeared on her face. Her other hand grabbed his chin and forced Bors to look at her.