ã€ŠChronicles of the Spiderã€‹


 1.1

    The village stirs at dawn. The rising sun is hidden behind the eastern mountains and the stars still glitter in the sky. The adobe houses sit in the shadow of the cliff, stacked atop each other, seven stories high.

    A young woman stumbles out a doorway, brushing her teeth loudly. In the fading night, she¡¯s just a silhouette, a tall woman in a sleeveless shirt, wearing loose pants tied at the ankles. They swish as she takes light steps to the edge of the roof. Past her toes, on the level below, she sees someone else walk out of their home, stretching and yawning. This child is half her size, small head and thin arms. They reach the ladder to the next level and start to shuffle down.

    She spits in a clay cup, drops her brush in it, then sets it on the roof. All round her are layers of adobe, wood poles, metal pipes, bamboo ladders, and dark doorways. Shadows move to the ground, sliding down ladders, breaking away from the houses to join the breakfast line. The rooster doesn¡¯t cry. The dogs don¡¯t bark. For a while, no one says a word.

    ¡°Light, Malkia!¡± Feet land on the roof behind her. Hakim walks to the edge of the roof to stand by her side, hands behind his head. He¡¯s a little shorter than her. His arms are thinner. He wears no shirt in the cool morning air. He gives a loud sigh and looks at the sky.

    ¡°Not yet.¡± Malkia replies. In the east, mount Makali is framed in red light from the sunrise. The dark sands of the Kuachwa haven¡¯t seen a single ray yet.

    ¡°Soon ¡®nuff¡­¡± Another sigh whistles out of him. ¡°Whassa plan for today?

    ¡°See how it goes, I guess¡­¡± Malkia stares at the stars too, and holds her hands up. By now, she can see the pale of her nails, her palms. ¡°Think I¡¯ll run the grasses. I want to find a tortoise shell.¡± Hakim cuts off his yawn to laugh.

    ¡°Aska¡¯s shield makes you jealous? S¡¯why he made it! Haha!¡±

    ¡°Yat! Shut up. Why don¡¯t you come? Be useful.¡±

    ¡°Got rope to mend.¡±

    ¡°Lazy.¡± She says. As soon as the word leaves her mouth, his finger pokes her cheek, dimpling it. He pulls his hand back slowly.

    ¡°You can fight the giant reptiles. I¡¯ll just rob their nests.¡± He takes careful steps to the wooden, plank bridge to the next roof over. Just as he starts to cross the gap to the other side, she says:

    ¡°Hakim, wait a minute.¡±

    ¡°Oh¡­ no. Sorry.¡± On the other roof he steps to the edge. ¡°You¡¯re it. Gotta go!¡±

    ¡°Aye!¡± Malkia races on the roof, and jumps the gap. She lands on the other side with the slap of bare feet. No shadows show where he is. No one is running or jumping their way down. She lost sight of him.

    She drops down to the next roof quietly, bending her knees. She squats until her hands are presses against the ground. The houses are quiet. The wooden door behind her is closed. She peeks in the tiny window. Nothing is moving.

    ¡°Aaaagh!¡± Malkia digs fingers into her hair. The day she created this game was the greatest mistake of her life.

    ¡°Shhhh!¡± Someone inside shushes her. And she turns away. The desert stretches in front of her. There¡¯s the first glint of the sun on the peaks to the right, bleeding into the sky. If she lets him get away with this, he¡¯ll be talking at breakfast, with his slow, deep voice:

    ¡°Slid right up to Malkia, and got ¡®er. Yep. Slipped away before mornin¡¯ bread was baked. She stood and did nothin¡¯. Like a goat.¡±

    ¡°Bastard boy!¡± She steps to the edge of the roof and looks down over the village. She would know if he ran down. She didn¡¯t see anyone moving quickly, or slipping out of sight. He couldn¡¯t have gotten far.

    Malkia looks over her shoulder. On the level above, someone leaves a house, scratching their ass enthusiastically. Someone else sits at the edge of a roof, kicking their legs. And there¡¯s a tiny shift off to the side. She would have missed it. She could be imagining it. But Hakim plays every game the same way. He tries to be clever, tries to do as little as he can. He¡¯s a hide and wait kind of hunter.

    The dawn sky spreads with bands of red and orange. The golden glow of sunlight touches the cliff above the village and sweeps down. Malkia crosses three roofs in a few seconds. She¡¯s quiet, but Hakim has great hearing. And good judgement, usually.

    She jumps and grabs the edge of the roof, pulling herself up. The sun reaches the roof as she does, revealing pink adobe, a pale, dusty door. She feels its warmth on her skin while she looks for signs of Hakim. A few houses away, on her roof, the clay cup is turned upside down.

    ¡°That¡­¡± Hakim! Make a fool of me?! Me?! She crosses to her house and slips inside. She finds her straw hat leaned against the wall and pulls it over her messy curls. Outside her house, there¡¯s no one watching or waiting. No one moving yet. The oldest like to sleep in and work late.

    She climbs two levels up, to the highest ring of houses. She walks to the only building up there, the only round structure in the entire village, a small adobe dome. She opens the door and slips into the dark. The room has shelves of bamboo and wood hung on pegs in the wall. Scrolls and carvings, pipes and bones line those shelves. She even sees a glass bottle. There are many other knickknacks villagers gathered over the years, symbols from a bigger world. There¡¯s a metal sphere- a holographic projector, interesting but long dead, drained of energy and fried from the heat. A wooden contraption that long lost its strange strings, called a guitar. Malkia was alive when they could still play it, and it was something to behold. A pistol- that¡¯s more familiar- but one that didn¡¯t shoot bullets. They say the hunter who used it burned holes straight through a tyrant lizard¡¯s skull. When the story is told, the lifeless machine is brought off its shell and waved in front of wide-eyed children. So many treasures, retired and waiting for the storytellers to return. We can use some new treasures, Malkia thinks.

    The floor below the walls is stacked with rugs. Malkia remembers the first time she saw her father tackle a sheep. He rose out of the sand like a ghost, and the animal fainted halfway through a bleating scream. They shaved it while it slept, and he told her it would wake up cooler than its ever been, and thank them.

    Malkia snorts and moves to the hole in the floor. It cuts though the floor and ceiling of all seven stories, caged with bamboo poles to prevent the children from falling in. She glances down in the darkness and doesn¡¯t see anyone at the bottom. The wooden pole in the middle is smooth to the touch. The rope hanging all the way down tied in dense knots, for climbing up. She grabs the pole and wraps her legs around it. Her stomach drops as she slides down, the insides of buildings flying past her, rope knots banging on her knee. She hits the bottom with a soft sound.

    The wall behind her is the cliffside. The doors all lead to more houses, all joined without hallways. She walks through door after door, through empty rooms, past sleeping young ones. The door of the farthest house is open to the sands. She steps out under the sun and looks over at Changa. A little taller than her, lighter skinned than most in the village, gap-toothed, and slim for a young hunter, wiry like Hakim.

    ¡°Light,¡± He says, grinning, bumping their shoulders together.

    ¡°Light,¡± She says, then sets her straw hat on his head and leans in to whisper: ¡°Wrestle someone by the totem. Make some noise, but don¡¯t talk. Pretend to be me.¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m embarrassing Hakim.¡±

    ¡°Haha! Yat! You got it.¡± He holds the hat to his head with a hand and makes for the totem, swinging his shoulders with exaggerated arrogance. It¡¯s not how Malkia walks, and she frowns at his back.

    She steps into the darkness of the doorway and watches her people gather. They drop to the ground. They filter onto the sandy soil and trampled grasses around the Web Weavers¡¯ totem. The line for bread is smaller, most gather around a smokeless fire, where a cauldron is cooking porridge.

    It¡¯s bright enough now for her to make out details. Baggy pants tied at the ankles. Tan shirts with wide sleeves, tied at the wrist. Bare feet, wood and leather sandals. Carved bone chokers and bangles and anklets, clacking when they move. Headwraps and turbans. They¡¯re young. A handful are only six or seven years old. More are going through the changes of adolescence. A few hunters right around her age wander around, laughing and talking quietly.

    They chew with their mouths open, cradling bread, or bowls of porridge and desert fruit. Some are still half asleep, mumbled words lost to the wind, blinking eyes closing often. Others raise their voices, laughing and shrieking. A trio of young ones chase each other round and round the crowd, jostling their elders and causing trouble. Drifting, in ones and twos, they gather into groups. They surround the totem, standing to the side, squatting in the sand, wandering about. Many hurry off to the compost pits.

    For a while, Hakim is nowhere in sight. The sky is turning blue, shadows stretching across sand and rock, when someone drops from a roof nearby. Malkia hears them land, and sees Hakim walking to the crowd of people, his shaved head and bandana, shirtless back and pants pulled above the knee and tied there. He¡¯s looking around quickly, trying to spot her. He stops and turns slowly, so she ducks out of sight. When she glances out again, he¡¯s gone.

    Hakim¡¯s the best at hiding out of anyone she knows. He¡¯s patient. He¡¯s calm. But she¡¯s the best hunter, and no one gets away from her. Hakim¡¯s going to get breakfast soon, so she can guess where he¡¯ll go.

    Malkia leaves the house and walks left, trailing her hand along the buildings, ducking under the drainage pipes and supports. She reaches the last house and glances around the corner. There¡¯s a little sliver of sandy, weed-choked dirt between the adobe wall and rocky cliff. A few clay pots and urns sit in the shadows. No Hakim.

    She slides along the rock wall, eyeing the rest of the village, searching. Careful steps take her around the west side. She avoids broken rocks, but grit and sharp edges still dig into her feet. She slides past patches of thorn-grass, moving closer to the miller¡¯s house.

    The light is bright now, the dull colors of the cliff face fading between, brown, yellow, orange and red. The pinkish adobe house seems to light up. Beyond it, the deep orange sands of the Kuachwa glow, at the crests of its dunes. Shadows gather in its valleys and between its rippling waves. It drifts with the wind, shifting like a see of fire.

    Malkia steps over a burnt soldier, the little orange scorpion threatening her from the top of a broken snake skull. She grabs the fence and jumps to the messy yard behind the miller¡¯s house, where the sun doesn¡¯t touch. She eyes the roof as she sneaks through the door.

    The millstone takes up the center of the room, wide pole rising through the roof, and another sticking out the side at waist height, still hanging with the ox¡¯s harness. Clay jars and cloth bags are piled to the right, on the ground, on a set of shelves, on an expensive whicker table. The far corner has empty bags hanging from a peg. Other tools hang from the wall: scoops, a leather funnel, a scale, different sifters- mostly wire meshes bound to wooden frames. The rest of the room is mostly empty.

    Except for Izi, the cook¡¯s helper. Her big eyes look up slowly, and she licks precious jam off her fingers. The young girl has bits of it sticking to her nose. Malkia shakes her head and raises an eyebrow at the stolen loaf, wrapped in a shirt, sitting on a barrel by the back wall. Malkia pulls at her shirt to fan herself while she walks around the mill. It¡¯s hot, and only gets warmer when she gets through the doorway to the baking room.

    ¡°Oi, don¡¯t tell Oka.¡± She hears behind her. The baking room is almost the same, except with less space and smaller doorways. The clay oven burns embers, radiating heat. Oka is tossing a bucket of sand in it, sweating even with her shirt pulled down and hanging over her skirt. She wears a cloth band over her breasts and a snake¡¯s spine necklace. The heat is hard to bear.

    The other helper, Kimbia, sits on a stool, as far as he can get from the oven. A cloth-covered bowl sits in his lap, wider than he is. He licks dough from his fingers.

    ¡°Stop that,¡± Malkia says. Kimbia makes a fart sound and sticks his tongue out at her. He drops the bowl on the stool and darts for the door when she starts walking his way, but she catches him in three steps. Smacks his ass so hard he jumps through the air.

    ¡°Eeep!¡± Kimbia yelps and scrambles into the sunlight, his bowlegs making him look like a sprinting frog.

    ¡°Yat! We¡¯re not done yet!¡± Oka shakes her fist out the doorway, watching her son run away. She¡¯s face to face with Malkia when she turns back around. ¡°Eh?! What are you doing back here, Malkia?¡±

    ¡°Shhh!¡±

    ¡°Shush yourself!¡±

    ¡°Got any loaves left?¡± Malkia asks.

    ¡°Enough for the hunt.¡± Oka grabs bread off the wooden table and hands it to Malkia with flour dusted hands. ¡°We¡¯ll run out of grain in a few weeks at this rate.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Ay ¡®Eavers ¡®end us car¡¯an.¡± Malkia says, chewing a warm mouthful, breathing in the fresh smell.

    ¡°Pray they send more than that.¡± The cook stares at the wall for a moment, a sad look in her eyes. Malkia decides to ignore it- she¡¯s got business.

    ¡°Has Hakim come by?¡±

    ¡°Not yet.¡± The cook glances through the doorway behind her. ¡°You might¡¯ve summoned him though. He¡¯s coming up now.¡±

    ¡°Can I give it to him?¡± Malkia asks. Oka frowns.

    ¡°¡­Sure?¡±

    ¡°Then come here for a second.¡± Malkia huddles to the right of the door, back to the wall.

    ¡°Light, Oka!¡± She hears Hakim say. Oka nods and moves to Malkia¡¯s side, handing her a loaf of cooling bread.

    ¡°Just get your food and have your fun somewhere else,¡± She says.

    ¡°Mmhmm.¡± Malkia nods her agreement. She smacks Hakim¡¯s bread against his chest, right as he¡¯s about to step in the house.

    ¡°Eh?¡± Hakim mutters. Malkia sees the tip of his nose past the frame. He looks down at her hand and grabs the bread. ¡°Oka?¡± And Malkia looks at Oka. With a finger to her lips, she nods to the doorway. Oka just stares at her with lips pursed, then she walks over and stands across from Hakim, arms crossed.

    ¡°You got your food, now go!¡±

    ¡°¡­Okay? Thank-¡± Oka closes the wooden door in his face.

    ¡°Happy?¡± She asks Malkia. But Malkia¡¯s already gone. She slipped back through the miller¡¯s room, to the yard behind and up to the roof. She lays flat at the edge, watching the crowd around the totem, people still joining the rowdy breakfast. Many are sitting down now, yelling conversations at each other. Hakim walks that way, scratching his head. She pulls back and holds her breath when she sees him turn. After fifteen counts, she glances again. He¡¯s moving around the north side of the village, probably thinking to keep his back to the dunes to see her coming.

    Malkia jumps off the edge of the roof, startling the ox. It snorts and starts to stand, but she slowly pats its butt and gives a good scratch.

    ¡°Shhh¡­¡± She makes soothing noises. Though it keeps its head turned, suspicious eye on her, it lays back down. She moves on, and sees Hakim scanning the village. He freezes when he spots a straw hat laying by a wrestling pile. Changa has a young one in a screeching headlock, while someone older beats on his back. His taunts and laughter are half the noise from the field.

    Malkia takes the moment and sprints away from the village. She runs until she crests a dune, then follows it to where she believes Hakim is standing. Crouched over and running as quiet as she can, she slides on the orange slope, sand crunching and scraping, tumbling over itself in small avalanches. She peeks over the dune. Hakim is standing with his back to her, chewing his bread. She frowns and looks at the loaf gripped in her own fist, half buried in the sand.

    ¡°Ugh¡­¡± She wipes it on her shirt and takes a gritty bite, making a face. She fights not to spit it out. Then, she crawls over the dune, looking around Hakim. He¡¯s got good senses, and can feel eyes on his back. So she looks past him, to the crowd. Someone¡¯s standing at the base of the totem, waving their hands around and shouting. They¡¯ve got a good amount of attention. Even Hakim is watching, though his head swivels from time to time.

    Malkia places slow steps, shifting her balance carefully. Closer. Closer. In five minutes, she¡¯s a dozen steps away. In another five, close enough to jump and tackle him to the ground. She waits, watching as he finally sits down. She eases behind him, crosses her legs and sits close enough to lean forward and kiss his head. She does lean forward, forcing herself to breath low and slow, away from the back of his neck. She strains her face to keep from smiling. She¡¯s so close, she imagines he¡¯ll hear her mouth move if she does.

    She sits the bread in the sand behind her, then holds her arms out a little from her sides. She doesn¡¯t want him to hear cloth sliding or skin moving. When he glances around again, she twists her spine to stay out of sight. She leans right when he looks left, shading his eyes from the sun with a handful of bread. She leans left when he looks right, across the sand where her shadow should be stretched out next to his. It isn¡¯t. She fights another smile.

    For minutes, she stares past his ears, to the spectacle and drama around the Web Weavers¡¯ totem. Some people do glance their way, but most say nothing. A few point and wave. Hakim nods at them. He relaxes, getting comfortable, finishing his bread.

    ¡°Malkia! What are you guys doing over there?!¡± Uvumi shouts through her hand, pointing their way. Hakim stops what he¡¯s doing. Slowly, he turns, staring straight at her.

    Malkia meets his blank expression with a smile. A raised hand.

    Tsh!

    And a smack.

 1.2

    It¡¯s a wild crowd of children sitting on the sandy ground. A crowd of wild children, grounded in the sand. They bounce in place and vibrate. They look ready to flap their arms and fly away. They leak energy in laughter, especially the loud young man with shoulder-length dreads and a gap-tooth smile. Changa laughs into his hand, watching Malkia stand over Hakim.

    She jumps to her feet, throws her arms wide and lets out a massive laugh. Her voice is strangely loud. Unnaturally loud. It drowns out the rest of the village noise, reverberating, seeming to walk through doorways, peek into windows and whisper right behind the children¡¯s ears.

    Hakim glares from the ground, dusty and covered in sand. He rubs his cheek and spits. As Malkia walks past him, he tries to kick her. The eyes of the village gather, and she feels a familiar feeling. It rises from her feet like the echoes of an earthquake. It whips up her hair like the winds of a tornado.

    ¡°Oi!¡± Changa¡¯s call cuts off her laugh. He holds a tattered disk in hand: her straw hat. With a toss, its shadow crosses the sands, quick as a diving falcon. Malkia jumps to snatch it out of the air.

    She settles it on her head. With her fingers on the edge, she tilts it down so no one can see her face. She stares at the hand she used to hit Hakim, then holds it out to them and looks up, meeting dozens on dozens of eyes. They all hold some special emotion, wide-open and unblinking.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Malkia turns to point at the young man standing behind her, scowling. ¡°Hakim! You¡¯re it!¡±

    The group of children laughs and catcalls. They whistle. Changa stomps his feet and points, like the youngest of them.

    ¡°This morning, I stood outside my home, thinking of nothing, when our friend Hakim came up. He stood right beside me and asked how I¡¯d spend my day. I¡¯ll run the grasses, I said. I¡¯m a hunter. He said he¡¯d mend rope. I told him he¡¯s lazy, because he is, and that¡¯s when he poked me.¡± She touches her cheek. ¡°Right here.¡±

    ¡°Oooooh!¡± The crowd looks around and whispers. They oooh, and aaaah, and snicker.

    ¡°Why¡¯d he do that?¡± One of the young ones says.

    ¡°What next?!¡±

    ¡°He slips away before I realize what game he¡¯s playing. I mean, Hakim¡¯s lazy. Who would expect him to mark me? But he did! He got me, and it was very clever. Of course, that meant I had to get him, but I couldn¡¯t see where he ran to. I didn¡¯t know where he hid. I had no idea where he went. Poof! Hakim tricked me and disappeared.¡±

    Malkia looks around, as if she can¡¯t see Hakim standing beside her.

    ¡°So I slid from the chief¡¯s hut, all the way to the ground. I walked outside and waited in the shadows. I gave Changa my hat and told him to make a distraction. Didn¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°Sure did.¡± Changa says.

    ¡°Then I waited. Hakim dropped down after a while, and I coulda got him right then. Tagged him and took off. I guess he didn¡¯t expect me to be lying in wait, which is strange, because he¡¯s the patient hunter. Yet I caught him off-guard. Huh?¡±

    Malkia rubs her chin and studies the sky with confusion written on her face.

    ¡°I let him go off to get breakfast. While I was in the baker¡¯s house, I asked Oka to let me give Hakim his bread. I stood there when he came, begging for food. I handed him his own breakfast! He thought I was Oka, just thanked me and walked away.¡±

    By now the crowd has caught the joke. It started with the older ones chuckling and shaking their heads. It found its way down to the smallest, who laughed too loud and too abruptly. They didn¡¯t understand, but they found the commotion funny.

    ¡°While he was finding a place to eat, I snuck behind the dune, and I crept up on him from behind. I sat down right here, close enough to reach around and take back the bread I gave. I waited. I wanted to give him the chance to turn around and apologize, but he just didn¡¯t notice me.¡±

    Malkia pauses, as if to think.

    ¡°Though, that can¡¯t be. Aye, Hakim¡¯s the best trapper in the village. One of the best hunters. How could I sit close enough to touch? Hakim! Please tell me¡­ you must have noticed?¡±

    Hakim grits his teeth at the laughter of the village.

    ¡°Please! Hakim!¡±

    ¡°Malkia, I will kill you this morning.¡± Hakim walks towards her, taking slow steps.

    ¡°Well, if you¡¯d like to try¡­¡± Malkia beckons him.

    ***

    ¡°Oi! Keep still and take your beating!¡±

    ¡°Hahaha!¡± Malkia feels the rush of wind. She stumbles between children, twisting, spinning. Her arms sway in the air. She smacks away one of Hakim¡¯s fists, slides her hand along his wrist and up his arm while she glides past.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    ¡°Yat! Keep still!¡± He tries to kick her leg, but she meets his kick with a kick. He punches at her face, but she sways and bobs around every single jab. All she feels is the wind.

    She grabs a wrist and pulls him off balance. He tears himself away and puts his guard up, but she¡¯s already stumbling between children again.

    ¡°Gah! Malkia!¡± He chases, and she dances outside his reach. Light as a feather, she hops away from him every chance she gets. He tries to tackle, tries to sweep her legs. She lets him fall to the ground and skips away, leaving him with sand and curses in his mouth.

    Hakim doesn¡¯t waste time. He runs her down and meets every smile and hip sway with fast punches, low kicks, and tackles. The children around them jump to their feet. The crowd ebbs and flows as they move, dodging and following the chase.

    ¡°Fight back! Stop dancing and do something.¡±

    ¡°Hakim! Watch out!¡± Someone calls. Hakim¡¯s eyes flick away, just for a second. They land back on Malkia¡¯s grin. She stands close to him now. Her dancing hands sway close to her chest. She smacks his knee down, slaps a punch away, then another with the same hand.

    They¡¯re almost chest to chest, then he sees her body twist. Crack! Her elbow snaps his head to the side. That first strike has him crossing his legs, twisting around.

    Hakim tries face her again, to bring his guard back, but she¡¯s waiting for him. He just sees the movement before the world flies away.

    Boom! Her front kick catches him in the chest and he flies back. Flies. His butt grazes over a young girl with her arms thrown over her head. She squeals and stares, open-mouthed.

    ¡°Oof!¡± His back crashes into the sand. He spends a few seconds spread-eagled, dragging in all the air he can get, then he sits up and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. He glares at Malkia. She¡¯s dancing away from him.

    ¡°You gonna run all day?¡± He asks.

    ¡°If that¡¯s how long it takes you to catch me.¡±

    ¡°Okay!¡± Hakim gestures at the children who watch with fascination, and they lean in. ¡°Give us a ring!¡±

    The entire group surges to its feet. Their bodies press around him. He feels their hands, pulling his arms, pushing his back. Their jeering and their cheers reach a new level that shakes the ground.

    The crowd fills with countless people. Their bodies form a wall around Hakim, Malkia and the Web Weaver¡¯s totem. The pale wood towers under the sun and casts a dark shadow. More shadows fill the deep carvings of spiders. It might be a trick of the light, but those spiders seem to darken, to rise out of the gouged wood and move.

    The two fighters circle each other, round and round the totem they go. When their eyes lock, Malkia cracks her knuckles.

    ¡°You sure about this Hakim?¡± Changa leans out of the crowd to reach for Hakim¡¯s shoulder. Hakim leaves him behind, but Changa¡¯s voice follows. ¡°She¡¯s getting serious! Best be ready for a fight!¡±

    And Malkia does have an intense stare now. No more dancing. She stalks around the ring like a predator. It doesn¡¯t look like she¡¯s circling. It looks like she¡¯s trying to catch him. Hakim won¡¯t run from her. He turns her way and rushes forward with his arms up.

    When they meet, his fingers grab handfuls of her shirt, and hers dig into his shoulders. They grapple, hands wrapped behind necks or reaching for legs, knees and elbows flying.

    They spend some time kicking, pushing and pulling each other off balance, until Hakim gets a solid grip with a foot between her legs and he tosses her from the hip. She drags him down with her. They hit the ground rolling, sand scraping skin.

    He lands on top and drops a few blows on her head. Her hands strangle his neck. He knocks them away and she headbutts him. It¡¯s a weak strike. The punch to the throat that follows isn¡¯t, and Hakim falls over, clawing at his neck, choking.

    ¡°Easy, Malkia!¡± Aska¡¯s voice rolls over the arena.

    ¡°Had enough?¡± She stands with her arms crossed, watching Hakim crawl away. He gets right up to the edge of the crowd before he stops scrambling, and seems to calm down. He just lays there, wheezing through his mouth. He grits his teeth and rises, hands on his knees. He stands straight soon enough. He¡¯s got his pride.

    ¡°Yat! Wither and die.¡± His voice is scratchy, but he still smirks at her. He looks over in surprise when something bumps into his shoulder. It¡¯s a carved wooden spear, as tall as he is. Thin wooden pole and leaflike blade are filled with tiny engravings. A very long arm holds it out to him. The fingers on the hand barely touch the wood- that¡¯s how gentle the grip is.

    Malkia watches Hakim take his staff in hand and run his fingers over it. She taps a finger on her arm, wondering how she¡¯ll deal with the weapon.

    ¡°Pssst!¡± Someone calls to her. A finger pokes her back. When she glances over her shoulder, she sees a blade there, lying on six little hands. The pale wooden blade gleams in the light, as wide as her wrist, holding a heavy curve. From point to pommel, the meter-long shamshir is filled with carvings of spiders.

    Malkia reaches for the handle, but before she grabs it, she leans in to look at the crowd. Those little hands hold the blade up reverently. The arms disappear into shadows between the legs of the crowd. She can¡¯t even see a shoulder. Or the elbows. The arms stretch out of nowhere.

    ¡°Huh¡­¡± Malkia grabs the blade and lifts it up, watching the hands retreat when she does.

    ¡°No!¡± Aksa¡¯s voice raises again. ¡°No weapons!¡± Malkia ignores him, stepping farther into the ring to give her wooden shamshir practice swings. The blade is heavy, but her arms are strong. It whistles while it cuts the air.

    She looks past the totem and meets Hakim¡¯s eyes. He stops twirling the spear over his head and plants the butt in the sand. He leans on it, head cocked to the side. His grin is fierce. Aye¡­ There¡¯s no stopping this.

    Malkia moves towards him slowly, hand held out front, as if feeling the way, blade held back, trailing behind. Hakim readies his spear and she dashes for him. Sand flies up with every step. Just before she reaches him, she digs her lead foot deep in the ground and kicks up a spray of sand. Hakim tucks his head down and stabs.

    Malkia turns and pushes the thrust aside with the flat of her blade. Then the next one. And the next. She takes tiny steps as she parries. She steps aside and sweeps her blade. Crack! Even though the weapons are wood, they meet with a sound like lightning.

    Hakim¡¯s stab goes wide and he loses his balance. Desperately, he sweeps his spearhead at her feet, but she stops the weak swing with her blade, stomps the spear into the sand, and kicks Hakim¡¯s face. Her bare foot breaks his nose.

    Hakim falls back on the ground, blood running down his chin. One of his eyes is closed. The other glares at Malkia when he feels the edge of the wooden blade on his neck. He grabs handfuls of sand and tenses. The blade presses harder.

    ¡°Well?¡± Malkia says. Hakim watches her for a moment, ignoring Aska¡¯s yelling, Changa¡¯s cheering and a thousand other voices. His eyes fall to Malkia¡¯s blade. Half of it reflects light back in his eyes. It shines like it was polished. He sees a line of spiders, Carved all the way to the point.

    ¡°Aye. Hawk-ptoo!¡± He spits a blood clot into the sand. ¡°You got me this time.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t need you to tell me that. I know it.¡± She says, then takes Hakim¡¯s hand and pulls him to his feet. He dusts his legs off and frowns at her.

    ¡°Oi. You lookin¡¯ for a fight?¡±

    ¡°Aye. A good one. Haha.¡±

 1.3

    ¡°How many times do we have to tell you?!¡± The Village of the Web Weaver is quiet, except for the voice of one woman. The children don¡¯t dare meet her eyes. They stare at the ground, ignoring the porridge spilled in the sand, the bread they stomped flat. ¡°Stop wasting food!¡±

    Uli glares from the front of the group. The adobe homes and the slope of the cliff rise behind her, glowing orange from the sun. Her white tunic hangs just above the knees, and the tan pants she wears sway around her ankles in the wind. They glow in the sunlight, along with her bright teeth.

    She¡¯s shorter than most, but so many things about her seem to stretch and loom. Her immense braids gather in a bun atop of her head, large as a watermelon. Her wide mouth, painted pink and pouting, can communicate with twists and tiny movements entire sentences. Right now, their corners are pointed straight down: a frown set so deep in her face she looks like a whole different person.

    Her fingers are long and strong. The children say they stretch, that she can catch someone with a slap from across a table, or another room. Her hands sit on Malkia and Uvumi¡¯s shoulders, squeezing so hard even Malkia looks uncomfortable. Uvumi¡¯s hand keeps rising, as if to snatch that grasp away. Uli pinches their nerves again, and they both flinch.

    ¡°All this, gone to the hungry sand! What will we do when we run out?¡± Her words are shouted to the group, but it¡¯s the young women right in front of her that get the glare.

    ¡°But we¡­ have food?¡± Someone mutters, too loud. When Uli¡¯s eyes swing that way, a forest of fingers points out a cringing boy. ¡°We¡¯ve got supplies¡­¡± He tries to explain.

    ¡°Shut up, boy! In a month, you¡¯ll be crying for porridge and bread.¡±

    ¡°Mama¡­¡± Uvumi tries to shrug from under the hand and fails. ¡°We can hunt,¡± She says.

    ¡°Hunt?¡± Uli¡¯s mouth opens in shock so dramatic, anyone that saw it would think, ¡®I¡¯ve never been that surprised in my life.¡¯ She shakes her head, then she presses her lips together and nods. ¡°Hunt¡­ you¡¯d like that wouldn¡¯t you? While we run out of grain. When you return, what will we have? Roast lizard? Snake soup? Ant, broiled in the shell?¡±

    Uli steps away from Uvumi and Malkia, shaking her head while she watches them sigh in relief. When she glances over the rest, they look away, shifting their feet, rubbing the backs of their necks. There¡¯s a boy twiddling his thumbs, a girl picking her nose, a tall teen standing with her arms crossed.

    The whole village pauses, waiting for the sentence to drop. What will it be this time? She sees it in their eyes. Uli¡¯s yelling again. Again. They have the nerve to look exasperated with her. Under the fake shame, the masks of guilt, she sees defiance. These fuck ups¡­

    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of you hunters,¡± Uli says. ¡°I try to make this village run, but I can only do so much. You¡¯re satisfied eating lean meat, drinking blood, walking around with nappy hair and worn clothes? Alright, then go. You want to play fight in the sand? Head for the desert and don¡¯t come back.¡±

    ¡°Mama-¡± Uli tries to say.

    ¡°Hush! You children are useless!¡± Many of the older hunters straighten their backs at that. They wear their own glares, their own frowns now. ¡°You¡¯re disappointments!¡± Uli stops and takes a second to breathe, muttering to herself.

    The older hunters share looks. Children? Them? They wander the deadly sands and kill things with horns and spikes, with tough scales and harsh venoms. They keep the village running, bringing back the food everyone else needs. Just a dozen of them feeds a village of almost ninety. Uli complains because she¡¯s tired of what they bring?

    ¡°Why doesn¡¯t she go hunt then?¡± Changa whispers. Other whispers fill the air, soft as drifting sand.

    ¡°Quiet.¡± Hakim says.

    ¡°No! That¡¯s not fair! We work hard.¡±

    ¡°I almost died from snake bite yesterday, but I¡¯m useless?¡±

    ¡°She watches the children. Anyone can do that.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing to do with us if the traders don¡¯t come, if the ground stays dry.¡±

    ¡°Right. How is that our fault?¡±

    ¡°Let her finish.¡± Aska says.

    Uli glances at the group of hunters. She looks ready to drag them down to the sand and beat them. Uvumi and Malkia glance over their shoulders. Uvumi¡¯s hand is in her pants pocket, where she keeps her switchblade. That¡¯s her mother they¡¯re talking about.

    ¡°Oi¡­¡± Malkia¡¯s the one that breaks the tension, the silence. And that¡¯s all she says. She doesn¡¯t even turn her body, but her hand finds the hilt of the pale, wooden blade, where it¡¯s stabbed into the sand at her feet. She stares and doesn¡¯t blink.

    One-by-one, the hunters look away. Aska, standing so much higher than the rest, shakes his head.

    ¡°Uli, we¡¯re sorry,¡± He says.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you always? You¡­¡± Uli replies. She snaps her fingers, trying to find the words to say. ¡°Make this right. Bring us something else to eat.¡±

    ¡°What do you want us to bring?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know! Dig yams. Catch some mudfish. Onions. Shroud berries. Hokhum bark. You know how to find food. You just choose not to!¡±

    ¡°Fish is alright?¡± Uvumi asks. Uli just blinks.

    ¡°¡­Okay¡­¡± Uli scoops the air with her hands. ¡°Younglings, clean this shit up. Dump it in the compost pit. You lot!¡± She points at the hunters. ¡°We¡¯ve enough dried meat for months. No more hunting.¡± She waves at the sea of sand behind them, and they turn to look at it.

    The land rises to the east, where shrubs grow in shades of brown and yellow and green, leading up to Mt. Makali and the Shanga Mountains. The sun burns bright over them. Everywhere else, the deep orange sand dunes stretch as far as the eye can see. Massive rocks rise in the distance, casting seep shadows. Vultures can be seen soaring far, far away.

    ¡°Find me some vegetables. Enough for everyone.¡± Uli says. A groan leaves the children, dragged out of them as if their souls are escaping their bodies. ¡°And water, while you¡¯re at it. Now go. Don¡¯t come back unless you¡¯ve got what I ask for.¡± Uli turns on her heels and stalks back into a house.

    ¡°Mama, how are we to gather so much? To reach the forest, we¡¯d have to run for a week straight¡­¡± Uvumi hurries after her. She slips into the cool air and shade, watching her mother kick bedrolls aside on her way through the cluttered room.

    ¡°I don¡¯t care how. In the forest, savannah, or endless sands- there¡¯s something you can bring back. Even the young ones chew dandelion from the cracks in rocks. Even they know what to look for.¡± She waves Uvumi away before picking up a stack of clay bowls big enough she has to wrap her arms around them. She lifts them, grunting, then turns for the door.

    Malkia stands there, blocking the sun. She steps aside and watches Uli leave. The woman walks all the way to foot of the totem and begins spreading the bowls around.

    ¡°Stop carrying the mess in your hands. Drop it all in these bowls.¡± She tells the young ones.

    ¡°Mama!¡± Uvumi calls. ¡°How much do you want us to bring?¡±

    ¡°Hunters!¡± Uli calls, ignoring Uvumi. Around them, the younger children are digging in the sand for bits of food. Half the hunters are marching towards the dunes. ¡°Where are you going without bags? Without baskets or gourds? Get your asses in there and prepare like you know what you¡¯re doing. Hurry up! I don¡¯t want to see your faces again until you¡¯ve done what I told you.¡±

    ¡°Malkia!¡± Uli says. ¡°Uvumi! Come here.¡± The young women go to her, stepping around children. Malkia rests her curved sword on her shoulder. Uvumi seems to have pulled her rifle from thin air. She plants the stock in the sand and leans on the long gun. The barrel presses against her cheek and she fiddles with the bolt, sighing heavily.

    It feels like they have a long day ahead of them. A day of dry heat and hard work.

    ¡°Girls.¡± Uli says. ¡°Why don¡¯t you listen to me?¡±

    ¡°Mama, we do¡­¡±

    ¡°Do you? Every day, you hunters get wilder, fighting daily, causing problems, doing things we never would have done. Except maybe your father,¡± Uli says, eyeing Malkia. Malkia tries not to smile. ¡°You think that¡¯s funny?¡±

    ¡°Sorry, Uli.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re impossible to control. Half the hunters will try to come back without anything at all. Then we¡¯ll have another fight.¡± Uli points to herself. ¡°I¡¯m the bad guy.¡± She points to Malkia. ¡°But you started this. They followed you.¡±

    ¡°Uli, I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to be sorry. You shouldn¡¯t have to be. I raised you girls with more sense than this. Out of all of them, I expect better from you. And I know you start most of the shit they get into.¡± Uli looks to the sky, searching for words among the scattered clouds.

    ¡°I need help.¡± She finally says. ¡°Take responsibility, both of you. Be leaders. I know you like to have your fun, but someone needs to keep them out of trouble. To keep this village going. The truth is¡­¡± Uli grabs them by the shoulders and brings them close. They let their weapons fall to the sand and lean into the hug, bending down to look Uli in the eye.

    ¡°The war is over,¡± She says. ¡°But they still haven¡¯t come back. They might not come back at all.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s not true.¡± Malkia says, and Uli squeezes her shoulder hard.

    ¡°We don¡¯t know what will happen. We can¡¯t keep waiting for them. Do you think the village can survive the way it is now?¡± Uvumi and Malkia shake their heads. ¡°Then something needs to change. Malkia, please. You¡¯re the oldest. You and Uvi are like sisters. She looks up to you- they all do.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Eh?¡± Uvumi says.

    ¡°It¡¯s been a hard couple years, and we¡¯ve gone through a lot. But you can¡¯t play around forever. Go out there and do what you need to, okay?¡± The corners of Uli¡¯s eyes are lined with wrinkles that weren¡¯t there not long ago. Her hazel irises light up when the sun hits them. They glisten, as if there are tears there. Malkia and Uvumi share a look.

    ¡°Yes, Ma¡¯am¡­¡±

    ¡°Yes, Mama¡­¡±

    ***

    They race under the burning sun. Sand clouds the air behind them, following in long trails. Malkia takes the lead. Her heavy steps take her over the crest of a dune, and for a breathless moment, she¡¯s weightless. Her heavy pack, conical hat, baggy pants, loose shirt and wild hair float to the sky. Her legs kick, running on nothing, until gravity pulls her back down.

    She hits the ground moving. The others follow, keeping clear of the choking sand she raises with each step. They spread out, like a flock of flying birds. They make the same jump she did, stick the same landing and chase after her.

    After the last dune they crossed, the ground begins to rise again, and keeps rising, like an orange wave about to crash on their heads. The first Corpse Stone of the Grave Sands sits at the top of the great dune. The rock, shaped like the clawing hand of a giant, big enough to crush their whole village, sits buried to the wrist. A hole lies halfway up the rock, like the gap between thumb and fingers. This is what they race towards: The Grasping Bluff.

    They dig in their toes as the slope grows steeper. They start to use their hands, trying to keep the speed, halfway running, halfway climbing.

    Close to the top, in the shadow of the bluff, Malkia slips. The sand beneath her crumbles and she scrambles at nothing. She falls, crashes into the dune, bounces and tumbles out of sight in a cloud of dust.

    Shuja takes lead from her. Hands on the straps of his pack, his legs blur, running over sand like running up a wall, until he reaches the bluff and leaps. He latches onto rocky handholds and starts his climb. The others jump on the rock behind him, sinking fingers into cracks and crevices, their movements synchronized.

    Malkia lays on her back, on her pack, ignoring the discomfort. The sun is blinding. She blinks in the light and lays there, until Uvumi¡¯s shadow covers her.

    ¡°Move,¡± Malkia says.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°¡­ Minding my business, little sister.¡± Uvumi kicks Malkia¡¯s shin. ¡°Ow!¡±

    ¡°Get up. At least lose with dignity.¡± Uvumi holds out a hand and Malkia takes it, and gets hauled to her feet. Malkia dusts herself off, shaking her hair out, sand falling off in waves.

    ¡°Come on little sister.¡± Malkia says. She takes the slope slowly, struggling without the momentum on her side. She unties the wooden blade from her back, driving it deep into the sand for leverage. When she looks up, a wall of orange sand stretches forever. Malkia blinks the grit out of her eyes and starts her climb.

    ¡°Malkia!¡± Uvumi says. ¡°We¡¯re the same age.¡± It¡¯s true. Their birthdays are only months apart.

    ¡°I know? Hurry up, little sister. You¡¯re too slow.¡±

    On they go, slowly pulling themselves upslope. They climb and hope the sand doesn¡¯t break beneath them. When at last they reach the bluff and find stone under their fingers, Malkia struggles to slip the sword onto her back again. Uvumi passes by, sheathing two heavy knives and very carefully ignoring Malkia¡¯s fumbling.

    Changa is waiting at the edge of the cave. He sits on the ridge, watching them climb. He laughs when they get close.

    ¡°Haha! You need wings next time, Malkia? Uvumi, you gotta leave the nest! Can¡¯t keep following Malkia ar-¡± He stops when Uvumi slaps a hand on his leg and starts pulling. ¡°Oi! Yat! Stop!¡± He kicks his leg to shake her off. ¡°Oi¡­ stop! StopstopstAaaaaah!¡± He slides off the edge with a scream. His fall is cut short when he catches the rock a dozen meters below, swinging on one hand, breathing hard.

    Malkia and Uvumi climb over the edge, stepping into the dark and dusty interior of The Grasping Bluff. The walls and ceiling curve like palm and fingers, cupping the floor, which full of sand like an orange pool. The sun shines through the tiny gaps above, leaving bands of light on the walls and the ground.

    A pair of wicker chairs sit against the back. Shuja is in one, with his feet up on the other. He lights a cigarette, and the tip glows bright in the shadows. He exhales a mouthful of smoke.

    Thin rugs lay on the sand in the middle of the floor, and Aska sits there, legs crossed, leaning back with his hands on the ground. He stares past Malkia and Uvumi, looking concerned, but he says nothing.

    Hammocks hang where steel hooks were driven into the walls. Jildun lays in one, tossing a ball all the way to the ceiling, catching it when it falls back down. He glances their way with his eyebrow raised.

    ¡°Took you long enough.¡± Jildun says.

    ¡°Uvumi, come here.¡± Changa adds. He finishes dusting his hands off and gestures to her. ¡°I have something to tell you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m good.¡± She slides farther into the room. Everyone eyes Changa. He¡¯s nodding at her back. Nodding and nodding and nodding- it¡¯s what he does when he plans revenge.

    ¡°Where¡­¡± Aska glances around. Once, twice, three times he looks at all the faces in the room. Jildun catches his ball and waves at Aska.

    ¡°Hey.¡± He says.

    ¡°Where is everybody?¡± Aska keeps looking around.

    ¡°This is everybody¡­¡± Uvumi says.

    ¡°Hakim?¡±

    ¡°He left.¡±

    ¡°Left? What about Zoeza? Shambu? Uchawi?!¡±

    ¡°They left!¡± Uvumi says. ¡°I think Hakim asked if he could just gather enough himself. Uli agreed to let us back one-by-one, as long as we get the food we need.¡±

    ¡°So they deserted us¡­¡± Shuja says. ¡°Traitors.¡±

    ¡°Wha-!¡± Aska looks appalled. ¡°It was Hakim¡¯s idea we race to the bluff in the first place! Where did he go?¡±

    ¡°A trick to distract us.¡± Malkia tells him. She stands by the entrance, blue sky shining behind her. ¡°We don¡¯t need ¡®em.¡±

    ¡°Tch¡­ I¡¯m trapped with the idiots. Why did I stay?¡± Aska wonders, shaking his head at his own foolishness, he wears a sad smile. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ve gotta-¡±

    ¡°Nope!¡± Changa latches onto Aska¡¯s arm when he starts to get up. Jildun is out of his hammock and pulling down on the other one. Slowly, Aska sinks back to the ground. Uvumi rests her hands on his shoulders and arches her back in a luxurious stretch.

    ¡°Siddown big boy. We¡¯re in this ship to the end.¡± She says.

    ¡°Uvumi, what¡¯s a ship look like?¡± Changa asks.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I wanna make sure you understand ships before you talk about them. Can¡¯t have my friend looking stupid.

    ¡°Shut up! Think I¡¯m dumb? Everybody knows what a boat is.¡±

    ¡°A boat is not a ship. And that doesn¡¯t tell me what it looks like.¡±

    ¡°Stop talking shit and listen.¡± Malkia says. ¡°Yat! Aska, sit back down! We need to think¡­¡± The others look at her, and she points at the desert outside. ¡°We hunt. We don¡¯t forage, not really. I keep thinking of what I¡¯d eat to survive if lost in the sands, but a couple fruit and herbs and flowers isn¡¯t enough to feed the village. I have an idea though. Let¡¯s think about what we do know. This is our desert.¡±

    ¡°The desert is no one¡¯s.¡± Aska says.

    ¡°¡­We know this place and the creatures in it. So what creature do we know needs a lot of plants to live?¡± Malkia watches them think. She waits, but gets impatient, watching them say nothing. Right as she¡¯s about to throw out her own suggestion, Jildun starts muttering to himself.

    ¡°What is it?¡± She asks.

    ¡°Well¡­ I was just thinking, skull worms eat a ton of bright moss. There¡¯s a whole lot of them in a cave about¡­ an hour to the north?¡±

    ¡°Can we eat it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s safe?¡± Jildun taps the leather ball to his pursed lips, thinking. ¡°The worms are poisonous, and crawl over everything, so we¡¯d need to rinse it well. I mean, it even makes good medicine boiled-¡±

    ¡°Too much work.¡± Malkia says. ¡°And we¡¯ve got no gloves or anything good for carrying poisoned moss. What else?¡±

    ¡°Locust lemurs get down on some plants.¡± Aska says.

    ¡°Ah- I know what you¡¯re talking about. That nest settled weeks ago.¡± Shuja shakes his head. ¡°You know how they are. They¡¯re long gone by now, man. All we¡¯ll find is lemur shit and dried fluids, if you know what I mean?¡±

    ¡°Haha!¡± Changa laughs. ¡°Feasts and orgies. Now that¡¯s a way to live.¡±

    Uvumi gives him a disgusted look.

    ¡°Inbreeding and cannibalism?¡±

    ¡°Not so much¡­¡±

    ¡°Aye,¡± Shuja says. ¡°They¡¯ve got more tumors than fur.¡±

    ¡°Blunt-bleak rocs fly over the Blasted Badlands.¡± Malkia says. ¡°They barely mate without Tikiti trees to mark. So there¡¯s gotta be a grove somewhere out there.¡±

    ¡°Tikiti trees?¡± Aska looks at her.

    ¡°Leaves, fruit, roots. Bark boiled in soup. We can eat the whole tree.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a tough walk through the badlands.¡±

    ¡°I know. Just an option.¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­¡± Changa starts, then looks at the ceiling. ¡°Hm¡­ flat-bloom grows in Manjano fly shit. I hear it tastes good.¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯m not bringing Uli something we pulled out of shit.¡± Jildun says.

    ¡°I won¡¯t tell.¡± Changa says.

    ¡°She¡¯ll know without being told.¡± Uvumi lays back on a rug and kicks her legs in the air. ¡°I wish she gave us hints.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s always the southern forest.¡± Shuja says.

    ¡°I¡¯m not going there.¡± Jildun says.

    ¡°Death trap.¡± Aska adds.

    ¡°Track Hakim and we¡¯ll find something.¡± Shuja punches his fists together and smiles. ¡°Take what he finds.¡±

    ¡°Enough for all of us?¡±

    ¡°We can do it again and again!¡±

    ¡°Pfft!¡±

    ¡°Hakim¡¯s probably headed to the forest anyway. You know he loves it. He¡¯ll come back with a mountain of plants.¡± Malkia says. ¡°Let him make the trip. I¡¯d rather find something closer.¡±

    ¡°Come on, Malkia.¡± Changa says. ¡°The sands are endless, and no oasis is easy to find. We aren¡¯t farmers. Yat! We should be heading west to catch some sand runners by now. Yams? Fuck yams!¡±

    ¡°No. Uli is right.¡± Malkia finally moves deeper into the rocky room. ¡°We can do more than that. Hunting sand runners is easy. That what you want? An easy hunt?¡±

    ¡°I wanna do my job.¡±

    ¡°And we need plants. When we¡¯re out and about, we forage. We pick berries we want to eat when we find them. We grab the fruit we see, but bring nothing back. That¡¯s not right. Do you want the young ones getting sick, eating meat all day? Can they suck on your nipple for milk when their bones get weak?¡±

    ¡°What?! They¡¯re fine!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s about more than the food. Who are we?!¡± Malkia shouts. Her voice carries echoes that make the heart speed up, that raise goosebumps. The others sit up straighter. They look to her, and her conical, grass hat. It covers her face when she looks at the ground. No one answers, and they don¡¯t move. When Malkia looks up again, her eyes are intense.

    ¡°We are the people of the Web Weaver. We celebrate the creator, and these sands that test us. Hunting. Fighting. Crafting. The weaving of stories. The besting of fate. This is who we are. Did you forget that? We¡¯re stagnant. When was the last time you saw something really impressive in our village? The last great story?¡±

    Malkia takes the wooden sword in her hand and shows it to them. She holds it right under the bar of light falling from the ceiling. It seems to glow. They all lean closer. As they watch, those carved spiders begin to move.

    ¡°You know what this means.¡± Malkia offers the blade to them, but Aska blocks Changa and Shuja from reaching for it.

    ¡°Malkia, you shouldn¡¯t have brought that.¡± Aska says.

    ¡°I know our parents used to tell stories about hunting sand runners. Tough as a mountain and fast as a sandstorm. To get through the thick skin, survive its hard-headed charges and trampling legs, chase it if it runs, then finally bring it down. One of the great tests of an archer. I remember when we were younger, a hunter showed off a skull as a trophy. He made a bowl of it. Made clothes of its skin. Made tools of its bones.

    I remember¡­ the look on his face. It was Kuajir. He knew what he was worth. He proved he was good, he was strong. They poured stew in his new bowl and he took that first bite with a smile. Papa clapped him on the back. We chanted his name, and he told the story of the hunt while he ate the same creature that nearly took his life. I remember that. I had chills. I dreamed that hunt, as if I was him, as if I was there.

    And a few months ago, Changa came into the village, with broken ribs and torn skin. You came back, dragging a half-eaten sand runner by the tail. Your story? You ran it down, Changa. Lost a spear to a fissure in the Badlands and kept to the chase. You followed until it was so tired it collapsed, then you came behind it and broke its neck with your bare hands.¡±

    ¡°Malkia, what¡¯s this got to do-¡± Aska tries to say.

    ¡°It¡¯s important.¡± Malkia cuts him off. ¡°This is¡­ something we¡¯ve ignored for too long. Before we left, Uli asked if we think the village would survive, and I couldn¡¯t say yes. I couldn¡¯t say what our chances are.

    Uli worries for us, because she sees how we act, and it¡¯s not the way our parents were. She thinks we¡¯re growing rebellious without them looking over us. I mean, we¡¯re all taller and stronger. We still look like our parents. She doesn¡¯t know how deep the changes go.¡±

    Malkia takes her finger and runs it along the edge of the blade. A line of blood wells up, drawn by wood as sharp as metal.

    ¡°Artefacts. Power. Strangeness spreading all around us. Magic made from nothing. We run up great dunes as if we have wings. We do inhuman things. Don¡¯t pretend you don¡¯t know what that means. But who are we?¡±

    ¡°Aberration¡­¡± Shuja says. And everyone lowers their eyes, lost in their own thoughts. Mutants and monsters. Caught in the ancient curse. Losing their minds. Destroying the world.

    ¡°No,¡± Malkia says. She trails her finger down her blade. Blood smears the line of marching spiders. ¡°We are the people of the Web Weaver. This is who our ancestors were and who our parents are, wherever the blighted war took them. Have you forgotten? When the future brings change, we take two things from it.¡± For a second, she stares into the eyes of her companions.

    ¡°Stories. Glory. That is our way.¡±

 1.4

    Wrapped in giant stone fingers, resting on the sand cupped by a stone palm, they listen to the wind. The rhythm of their breathing is out of sync with the soft sounds outside, just like the strange grey stone throws off the harmony of the orange sands and red rocks. The cracks between the fingers shine with sunlight. The edges of the cave entrance glow. There¡¯s a blue sky beyond- blue and bright and stretching forever.

    ¡°We¡¯ve lost our way.¡±

    In this Grasping Bluff, Malkia¡¯s pacing feet drag trails through the sand. The eyes of her companions follow her, annoyed or tired or squinting in thought. No one argues with what she says.

    ¡°What else would we do?¡± Shuja asks. ¡°We¡¯re hunters. We hunt.¡±

    ¡°Remember what we lost.¡± Malkia stops in front of the rocky wall, the curling palm. It is as real as real life, holding the most minute wrinkles of skin. It wears not a single blemish- not the marks of time, not the insults of vandals or roots of plants.

    ¡°Our parents, lost to war. Our village, left to starve. Our people, split apart. Parents with no children. Children with no parents. In all these years, how much have we taken back?¡±

    ¡°War destroys,¡± Aska says. ¡°We weather it. That¡¯s all we can do.¡±

    ¡°The war is over.¡± Malkia turns to face them.

    ¡°And?¡±

    ¡°And¡­ conscripts have returned home.¡±

    ¡°Not all of them. Some help reconstruct. There are still people out there-¡±

    ¡°They aren¡¯t coming back!¡± Malkia glares into Aska¡¯s eyes, then Uvumi¡¯s, Shuja¡¯s and Jildun¡¯s. She stares at Changa, until he finally looks up from the sand. She says, ¡°Stop saying they will, as if words are enough. If they return, they¡¯ll be here. Until they do, they¡¯re gone.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a wide world, covered in wounds fit to swallow a people whole.¡± Malkia reaches down to grab fistfuls of sand. It trickles from her fingers as she lifts her arms high. ¡°And we are getting swallowed up. Uli reminded me that we owe more to our people than food. Much more. Tell me, do you realize how different we are? We are missing something important. Aska, you see?¡±

    Aska is nodding his head, the forever-frown on his face turned thoughtful. Malkia lets sand trickle from her hands, slow as time from an hourglass. She dusts them off and motions to Aska.

    ¡°Out with it.¡±

    ¡°I can see what you mean. I miss¡­¡± He taps his lips. ¡°our home once had love in it. That love held us together.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s love still.¡± Shuja holds an unlit cigarette in his mouth. It¡¯s a second, precious smoke, drawn out by serious talk. It bobs as his mouth moves and muffles his voice. ¡°We look after each other. Always have.¡±

    ¡°Where¡¯s the affection?¡± Aska rubs his forehead in frustration. ¡°I¡¯m tired of seeing the young ones fighting each other! Raising lumps and drawing blood. Risky challenges and foolish games. Out of control. They take after you.¡± He shoves a finger in Malkia¡¯s direction.

    ¡°Competition breeds strength.¡± Changa says.

    ¡°We are not herd animals. We don¡¯t need to be bred.¡±

    ¡°They do need to fight and strive. I don¡¯t want my sister dyin¡¯ ¡®cause I was soft on her. I see her get knocked down, I let her cry and ask what she¡¯ll do next. Every time, she says ¡®stand up!¡¯¡± Jildun rolls his leather ball across the sand. ¡°They may be rough, they may be wild, but that¡¯s us. How can we teach them to be who we¡¯re not? Why should we?¡±

    ¡°Then we should be better. Strength isn¡¯t enough! Not all of us are fighters, but everyone is trying to be, even those who should try to be something else. Have you seen how they act? Show yourself as less than a hunter and a warrior, you¡¯ll be laughed at.¡± Aska shakes his head.

    ¡°Changing who you are for what others think is not strength. That is cowardice. I don¡¯t like it. I don¡¯t like what I¡¯m seeing. Too many young ones trying to mirror us, and less trying to make their own way. Don¡¯t you think we¡¯ve fallen astray?¡±

    ¡°We definitely act different. I wouldn¡¯t say it¡¯s all that bad. But we¡¯ve given some things up we maybe shouldn¡¯t have. I miss the stories of our people¡­¡± Shuja says this quietly. He stares at the roof, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. ¡°Ancient tales. The oldest legends. The story of the world. Back in the day, couldn¡¯t go anywhere without some hunter pointing at a rock and telling you how it was born.¡±

    ¡°¡®Like all things, that stone has a life, has a past, has a future. Remember, the past brought you to where you are, your present brings you to where you¡¯ll go.¡¯ My mom used to say things like that.¡± For a while, Shuja can¡¯t talk. He turns in his little wicker chair to hide his face. He clears his throat and begins again, with a rough voice. ¡°Our parents taught us the histories of the sands. If someone took time to share that with us, we should be willing to share it ourselves. How much do the young ones know of the world? When they look at our home, do they see a story or a wasteland?¡±

    Finally, Shuja lights his cigarette with a match. He waves the smoking stick to put it out, drops it on the ground. He turns to face the wall and a wave of smoke crawls up the stone. He ignores the eyes on his back, the mournful wind and the sad silence.

    ¡°I miss¡­ celebration.¡± Jildun goes back to tossing his ball in the air. He sighs deeply. ¡°Little bits of joy just gone. No more feasts. No more ceremonies. No name days. No walkabouts. No shadowing hunters to learn the language of the sands. No apprenticeship at all.¡± He studies his leather ball. ¡°No more caravans. No more town visits.¡±

    ¡°Kwenda is rubble.¡± Changa says.

    ¡°I know. I miss it.¡± Jildun tosses the ball to Changa. ¡°Come on, must be something you want to bring back.¡±

    ¡°Aye! Don¡¯t need to think about it. I want my family back. And they will come back.¡± He throws the ball, and it sails straight at Malkia. It smashes into her hand and explodes in an orange cloud that leaves her coughing. He holds his hand up, and the leather ball is still sitting on his palm. Malkia shakes her head, shedding sand from her hair, but does nothing else. ¡°Tch!¡± Changa clicks his tongue.

    ¡°You all look backwards.¡± Uvumi crosses her arms. ¡°The way ahead is hard enough. Things will never be the same with these powers. Mutation is not a game. Changa, stop throwing those damn sand balls! If you want to have a serious talk-¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± Changa says.

    ¡°Shut up! Even before the war, villages were burned down and slaughtered if anyone even suspected. What will we do when Kwenda¡¯s rebuilt? What if someone sees us racing up dunes and cutting things with wooden swords? What then? They¡¯ll come for us.¡±

    ¡°Let them come.¡± Changa adds.

    ¡°Yat! Shut up! What if the stories are true, and we lose our minds? This is the greatest threat we face. Changa¡¯s useless sand tricks. Hakim¡¯s disappearing acts. Shuja¡¯s fighting skills. Malkia, you feel like you stand in another world at times. All of us have quirks that are getting worse-¡±

    ¡°Listen to this!¡± Malkia finishes patting herself down. She¡¯s dusty and her clothes are patched and worn. Her hair¡¯s a wild and bedraggled cloud following her around. But she still has presence. Nearly tall as Aska, she looms. Her eyes never blink. Her smile speaks of blood.

    ¡°Are you afraid of what the world will think of us? Those cowards and killers, murdering people because they¡¯re afraid of change? No¡­ what we are changes, but who we are remains the same. We are not doomed. We are just beginning. Look at us!¡± She sweeps her hands wide and her comrades look around at each other.

    ¡°Aye, we¡¯re a sexy bunch.¡± Changa shrugs.

    ¡°We were young, Changa. We were young and we lost all our elders but a small handful. We led the village out of necessity, and no part has been easy, but right now, we are as strong and fast and wise as anyone in this village has ever been. More than them- we are reaching another level. We¡¯ve lost so much, but we can take it all back and more. Let us honor the memories of our parents. Let¡¯s show them that the story of this village is still being told.¡±

    ¡°And how will we do that?¡± Aska asks. He sounds suspicious, and his frown deepens when Malkia smiles at him.

    ¡°We handle the responsibilities they left for us. But this isn¡¯t the time to discuss that. We can¡¯t decide the future by ourselves. We don¡¯t live in a village of silence. We¡¯ll gather our people and find our way forward, together.¡±

    ¡°First though,¡± Malkia rests her blade on her shoulder. ¡°We have a request to fulfill. I¡¯m thinking that a few roots and fruit isn¡¯t enough. If my village says they want to eat plants, then you best believe they¡¯ll get all the plant that they can handle.¡±

    Malkia points the sword at them and smiles. Her teeth seem to shine in the shadows underneath her conical hat. Changa starts to laugh, and Shuja says ¡®finally!¡¯ under his breath. Aska sighs long and loud.

    ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± Uvumi taps her foot impatiently.

    ¡°Well¡­ Uli doesn¡¯t have much faith in us. She thinks we¡¯ll come crawling back with nothing but cactus spines in our hands. Hakim and the others think they¡¯ll be better off without us. Even Aska has doubts.¡± She looks at Aska and he nods.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°If I had thought splitting up was an option,¡± he says, ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be sitting here now.¡±

    ¡°I say we bring back something that makes Hakim and his ilk look like beggars, holding out scraps of weeds and bits of hair.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re nothing if not creative.¡± Aska says, shaking his head.

    ¡°Creative and brutal.¡± Changa adds.

    ¡°Well?¡± She looks them over, desert children in desert dress, wild hunters covered in sand. ¡°I think I¡¯ll hunt something worthy. Who here will hunt with me?¡±

    ***

    The sun is swallowed up by the horizon. The sky grows purple and the lights of stars shine, bringing in the night. From the mountains, shadows stretch. East is already dark and howling with desert sounds.

    Things will be prowling the cool evening. The young ones are stumbling in from whatever games they¡¯ve played, whatever work they¡¯ve played at. They have a bonfire going outside. Uli watches the little bodies standing around. Little hands fly through the air. Arms swing. Bodies twist and bend and jump in place.

    They get consumed by every little thing they do. They put all their spirit into the most insignificant things. These little actors wrapped up in their own productions. She wonders what they say when she¡¯s not there to listen. She pats the braids atop her head and closes the door.

    ¡°Any sight of them?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Uli says.

    ¡°Will they come back with your plants?¡± Kafil finishes taking off his wooden leg, and massages the muscles around his knee. He reclines on a rug and sighs, then gives her the sweetest smile. She ignores it.

    ¡°They might.¡±

    ¡°And the ones that don¡¯t?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ll come back to my fist.¡±

    ¡°Haha!¡± Kafil slaps his leg. ¡°I wish you luck. Some of these young hunters¡­ I¡¯d rather face their parents.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only Malkia¡¯s crew anyways.¡± Oka nibbles on a hard cookie. She grinds it to bits with her mouth open. ¡°They¡¯ll all come back with just enough to seem like they did the work.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t forget the puppy-dog eyes. They¡¯ll come back with handfuls of fruit and sad eyes.¡±

    ¡°You let them off easy, Ulimi.¡± Sumu sits cross-legged on the dusty floor, pounding herbs with mortar and pestle. She wipes sweat off her face and looks up. ¡°If it¡¯s bread they waste, we should make them beat the grain off the stalk, grind the flour and bake it all over again.¡±

    ¡°I say they come back¡­ with uh¡­ uh¡­¡± Old Ibada struggles in his whispery voice. His bent back and deeply wrinkled face tremble. Oka and Uli and Kafil lean towards him, waiting. Sumu goes back to pounding herbs. ¡°Uh¡­¡± He drones off.

    ¡°Are you okay, Ibada?¡±

    ¡°Mmmmm¡­ can¡¯t seem¡­ to remember¡­¡± His lips twist and wrap around toothless gums, jaw working endlessly, as it always does. The young ones call it the language of the ancients. They point to him and screech ¡®it¡¯s the ancient tongue!¡¯ And his mouth works even harder. Those in the room with Ibada now recognize his silent cursing. They know he¡¯s a man of extremely quiet and foul language.

    ¡°Just tell us if you remember.¡± Oka says to him gently.

    ¡°I¡­ will¡­¡±

    For a while, there is quiet. Old Ibada sucks on a sour candy and scratches deep in his hairy ear. Sumu pours her ground herbs into an urn, slow and careful. Oka pulls a handful of dates from a pocket and savors each one. Kafil hums and watches Uli walk beneath the tiny window and stare up at the stars.

    She puts a hand on the adobe wall and stands on her tiptoes. The night looks beautiful. Uli could go out and walk the sands, but she¡¯s likely to find some child doing a stupid thing she¡¯ll have to punish them for. She¡¯s too tired for that hassle. Better to rest inside, get off her feet and relax.

    These tiring years, months, weeks, days¡­ every minute is stressful.

    It¡¯s a bittersweet feeling to know that things are going well, but only well enough that nothing collapses on them.

    Uli is amazed she¡¯s the one trying to carry the mess the village has become. She would have laughed in her own face years ago. That¡¯s just the way it happens. It seems there isn¡¯t really anyone else.

    Ibada is forgetful and short-tempered. Sumu has been the most impatient person in the village since the day she was born. Kafil is too silly and friendly with the children to get them to do anything they don¡¯t already want to. Oka is barely older than Malkia herself and doesn¡¯t try to take control.

    So it is Uli, mean Uli, that moves through their home like a sand shark.

    Where she goes, conversations grow quiet, children scramble to clean messes up, hunters nod her way or eye her in challenge.

    ¡­As if she is the obstacle to their lives.

    Uli would have fun if she could. She was once a hunter. But things change- they always change.

    A long time ago, Uli was standing in those sands outside, head still shaved, crying. She had her daughter in her hands. A thousand shadows stood across the sands from the Web Weaver¡¯s totem. They wore faceless helmets and stood around cockroach shaped constructs with turrets and mortars sprouting from their backs.

    An Architect avatar was at the front, holding a scroll of paper. They both glowed translucent and blue. As the scroll unrolled and crossed the sands, it said:

    ¡°Kuachwa village! You have been called to war for humanity!¡± The village had responded with the wailing of babies. The avatar had stared them down and waited.

    ¡°All able-bodied adults are now members of the Eupe auxiliary force. For humanity itself, you will come! Report for duty immediately¡­¡±

    The questions had flowed like a flood, in a wash of tears the sands rarely see.

    ¡°Why?!¡±

    ¡°This must be some mistake!¡±

    ¡°Please, if our hunters leave, how will we eat?¡±

    ¡°Let the fathers of young children stay!¡±

    The soldiers held their weapons and ignored the protests. Her people, who stood together in everything, fell apart on that day. Each family was lost in its own crisis. Each person sought out their parents, their siblings, their children. It was a morning of surprises and goodbyes.

    The village was ransacked, searching for hidden things and people. They sent their drones over the sands to recover the distant hunters. All the families could do was watch and hold each other.

    Hours later, Malkia¡¯s papa came running from the sands. He watched the barrels pointed his way, counted the soldiers, glared at the avatar. He stood in front of his daughter and held her face in his hands. Even then, the girl could not cry. She pretended the water in her eyes wasn¡¯t there.

    Her father whispered to her; his words lost to the wind. He was never one for long talks: his stories brief, his conversations to the point. Soon enough, he wrapped his daughter in a bear hug and carried her over to Uli.

    ¡°You stay?¡± He asked.

    ¡°All the pregnant and nursing mothers. Anyone unable to fight stays. Everyone else goes. Everyone. Akida, you must¡­ do something. Talk to them.¡±

    ¡°To who?¡±

    ¡°I-I don¡¯t know!¡±

    Akida smiled his little smile, one that was hard to see even in the best of times.

    ¡°Ulimi, take care of them. All of them.¡± He gave Malkia one last kiss on the forehead, pried her hands off his shirt, and walked away.

    ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± Uli called after him.

    ¡°You have to.¡±

    ¡°This will destroy the village! We cannot let them do this!¡±

    Uli called to his back in desperation.

    "Akida! Akida?!¡±

    The ones left behind shouted in desperation. They called the names of those they would miss. The village was split: part left to grieve, and the rest marched off like prisoners.

    On that day, Uli inherited the ghost of a village.

    ¡°Are you worried for them?¡± Kafil asks. It takes a moment for Uli to catch up to the question, pulled out of her thoughts.

    ¡°No. Malkia, Changa and Uli by themselves could go anywhere in the sands without fear. They won¡¯t be trapped by something they can¡¯t handle.¡± Even as she says this, Uli covers her eyes with a hand and laughs. ¡°I only sent them gathering. It doesn¡¯t take days to do that. Where in the Weaver¡¯s sight did they get to?¡±

    ¡°To hunt something made of plants.¡± They all turn to find Hakim, lying on his back by the wall.

    ¡°When did you get here?¡±

    ¡°Before sunset.¡±

    ¡°Ayeesh¡­ trying to show me up, Hakim?¡± Kafil points his cane at the boy and glares. ¡°I knew you were there!¡±

    ¡°Of course, senior hunter. For a second, I thought I surprised you¡­ but I was wrong.¡±

    ¡°You were!¡±

    ¡°Well, I have a question for you, elders¡­¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that, Hakim!¡± Oka snaps.

    ¡°Watch you mouth.¡± Sumu frowns at a bushel of pale flowers. ¡°Call me old again and you¡¯ll be squatting and shitting for a day.¡±

    Hakim clears his throat and continues.

    ¡°Do you have any news?¡±

    ¡°No news.¡± Uli replies. ¡°Come here if you want to talk.¡±

    ¡°Must be something¡­¡± Hakim climbs to his feet, slow as a sloth, and shuffles to the rug beside Kafil. He dodges a playful swipe of the cane and sits cross-legged. In his hands, he holds the gutted shell of a radio. It smells of burnt rubber and hot metal.

    ¡°Pylons are coming back online. They¡¯re rebuilding, but they started across the divide, in the East. It¡¯ll be a long time until roads open, until trade is flowing like it did. There¡¯s no signal, Hakim.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re doing it on purpose.¡±

    ¡°Stop with those pirate channels, before you bring trouble to the village.¡± Kafil taps the radio with his cane. ¡°You¡¯re wasting wire.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re out. This was the last of it.¡± Hakim tips the device. A circuit board and copper scraps spill on the rug. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong.¡±

    ¡°Wrong how?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re keeping us blind and quiet. Keeping us from learning what happened to our families. Why do that? Letting us know if they lived or died is easy. We could say goodbye and move on, or prepare for their return. Why hide things?¡±

    ¡°Giving us closure is no priority. Architects are not known for kindness.¡±

    ¡°What are they known for?¡±

    The answer to that is full of complications and conflicts. What the Architects are known for and what they should be known for are different things. Their truths are illusions. Hiding behind them are hungry beasts.

    ¡°Hakim, there¡¯s nothing we can do about the Architects and their war.¡±

    ¡°How long until we find out?¡± Hakim takes his time to say this, pronouncing each word carefully. ¡°We should¡­ send someone to look.¡±

    Before anyone can answer him, there¡¯s an uproar. Uli opens the door and the sounds of shrieking and yelling and laughing reach a crescendo. The village is lit by a dim crescent moon from above, and the bonfire below. It became a giant blaze, crackling and spitting sparks.

    Its light turns the tall totem and sand around it bright. The circle of children are shadows. They sway, and take up a song: the hunter¡¯s lament.

    On the levels of adobe homes below, others rush out of doorways, racing to the commotion surrounding the bonfire. Shadows spill in from the desert, running or gliding or crawling along on spindly arms like nightmares.

    Bongos and djembes beat as the crowd swells, deeper and darker. The bonfire shines straight up. Motes of light dance through swirling smoke. Swathes of stars wink out, covered by twisting clouds. The wind is rising, and the dunes are shifting.

    ¡°What has she done?¡± Hakim asks at her shoulder.

    ¡°You young hunters love flaunting your strange power.¡± Kafil says. The others have gathered behind them, even Ibada trying to catch a glimpse.

    ¡°No, this is different. Something¡¯s happening.¡± Hakim steps out onto the roof and they follow. The breeze whips their clothes around and makes them huddle close. The heavy, bass sounds of drum strikes reach them.

    Bum-bum! Bum-bum! Bum-bum! Bum-bum! Bum¡­

    Drums and winds and cheering. The air sweeps in, turning the blaze into an inferno around the totem. It¡¯s glow burns into the sky and the smoke looks like specters, flying around the light. The crowd is so thick, it could be a forest.

    The sand forms a ridge around the village and the plateau. Spiderlike shadows stretch up the rock wall. The ridge of sand keeps rising, dunes closing in. If it goes on for long, it¡¯ll become a wave fit to crush them all.

    Standing before the fire and the totem are a handful of familiar figures. One wears a conical hat. She takes it off and holds it up. Just like that, the crowd grows quiet.

    ¡°My people,¡± Malkia says. ¡°I come with a feast and a promise!¡± Her voice echoes around the village. Her words race up the walls of rocks and sand that surround them. It burns in the fire, and rumbles in the sky among the clouds.

    ¡°We have hunted and come home in victory!¡±

    ¡°Yaaaaaaaaaa!¡± Hundreds of voices rise up, wild and euphoric.

    ¡°Listen well! Our struggles are your struggles! Our triumphs are your triumphs! Take in this story and this food, so the hunt can become a part of you.¡±

    She takes a deep breath that makes the wind lull, and the fire burn down. The crowd leans in, whispering and hushing itself. Malkia sits cross-legged in front of the flames. Someone- it must be Uvumi- sits behind her to untangle that unruly hair.

    ¡°We will all tell a piece of how we left to fulfill Uli¡¯s Request, and found ourselves fighting for our lives in the lair of the Sinflower itself¡­¡±

 1.5

    The many whistling voices of the wind drag their song across a sea of sand that stretches as far as the eye can see. That isn¡¯t very far; orange dust has swallowed the Kuachwa desert whole.

    The hunters push through the wind, clutching fluttering cloaks. They brave the dust with headwraps and tinted goggles. Gone are the young hunters who laughed their way into danger. The sands below them seem endless, and they walk with the weight of survival on their shoulders. Alone. Even the sun is just a hazy disk, glowing beyond the storm¡¯s reach. They stumble along, each one lost in their own thoughts.

    Malkia leans on Shuja¡¯s shoulder, limping up the slope of an immense dune at a snail¡¯s pace. Uvumi and Jildun follow, dragging Aska by the legs. His wide back leaves a trail that the wind sweeps away. He slid over kilometers of grit and rock and cactus, but he¡¯s in no position to complain. His eyelids are heavy and his eyes unfocused, his forehead shiny with sweat.

    He suffers a fever that has him trapped between delirium and unconsciousness. His chest barely rises with each shallow breath. Every once in a while, he shudders and mutters something too quiet to be heard over the wind.

    Behind them, Changa pushes the wooden bar of the two-wheel cart they repaired. The wobbling wheels creak and spin on rickety axels. His sandals crunch deep as he hauls his burden to the top of the dune.

    Up there, the dust is only slightly better, and there¡¯s no sign of the Weaver¡¯s bluff on the horizon. They must keep walking. They¡¯re so close, but still so far from home, pushing themselves through the twilight of their journey.

    They¡¯ve been gone for days, much longer than their hunt was supposed last. Now they wander their way back, lost in the sea of sand and hoping they don¡¯t lose their path in the dust storm. They hoped to make it before night fell, but¡­ that doesn¡¯t seem very likely.

    They march down the slope, careful not to fall and tumble down. Changa takes a moment to look the way they came. Dust devils climb the dunes behind them, giant twisting shadows following every step of the way.

    The calls of carrion birds are the only sign of life in this barren stretch of desert that separates the village from the deeper sands, where the Kuachwa teems with life and strange mysteries.

    Life and mysteries¡­

    A condor as tall as a child lands on Changa¡¯s cart with a crash. The noise brings a moment of silence where all the hunters turn to look at the bird. They watch it pull at the tarp and ropes wrapped around the cart.

    ¡°Oi!¡± Changa tries to shoo the bird away, but all it does is hiss at him and stretches its wings. Another carrion bird drops to the sand nearby, and they hiss together.

    ¡°Tch!¡± Changa ignores the birds and their clacking beaks. He carries on, digging his feet in and easing the cart down the slope. Birds continue to gather.

    This is how the hunters move south, fighting through their exhaustion, walking blind through the sand while an army of vultures and buzzards and condors surround them.

    They struggle over the countless dunes of the Grave Sands, where the Corpse Stones appear out of the haze of dust like magic, looming in the hunters¡¯ path. The hunters brush past broken, grey arms that reach for the sky, as taller and wider than the greatest towers. They slide between fingers that push their way out of the sand, slip around knees that form mountains, and across backs that form bridges, into the shadows under the stone hands coming together in buried prayer, past giant, grey heads that stare them down with eye sockets spilling sand.

    The orange desert is stained grey by sleeping ghosts, broken giants that litter the earth.

    These Stones feel alive in the shifting shadows. The arms shift, rumbling the earth. Hands and fingers twitch to life. The eyes seem to follow them, the heads turn their way, suspicious of the strangers walking toward the desert night.

    As the night approaches, the stones, the sands, the dust and the skies above them are all dyed red.

    ¡°Feels like the sun¡¯s been setting for hours.¡±

    ¡°Yat! It has been.¡±

    ¡°The longest sunset of my life.¡±

    ¡°We should be back already. We¡¯re moving too slow.¡±

    ¡°By all means, go ahead. We¡¯ll catch up.¡±

    Soon enough, as the red world turns to purple, the dust in the air finally settles, and they see the shadow of the Weaver¡¯s bluff on the distant horizon. The many-colored rock is still too far to see as more than a dark and far away shape, but they know what it is. They know their home¡¯s within reach. They move towards it, crossing the countless dunes, though It never seems any closer.

    Before they know it, the purple sky becomes a night of clouds and stars. A crescent moon trails behind them, and the wind fills with whispers.

    With the silence of a last breath, the sleeping ghosts of the desert rise out of the Corpse Stones. Shades stream from the eyeless sockets and smiling mouths, from the fingertips of giant, clawed hands, from the ends of handless wrists, and headless necks: shadows, darting through the air like shooting stars.

    They collide with the carrion birds around the hunters. One-by-one, they freeze and ruffle their feathers before walking on, sharp eyes watching the hunters behind sharp beaks. They become spirit animals, possessed by the ghosts of the Corpse Stones.

    ¡°Oh?¡± The condor on the cart says. It stretches its wings and stares them down, winding its featherless head back and forth. ¡°Our young hunters still haven¡¯t reached home?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t do this again.¡± Changa spits at the bird. ¡°Begone!¡±

    ¡°I think not.¡±

    ¡°Spirits, please show mercy on we hunters. Mercy, please...¡± Uvumi says. The condor lets out a haughty laugh but doesn¡¯t reply.

    The hunters and the vultures continue walking. Many more birds land on Changa¡¯s cart. He laughs as he slides back down a dune, dragged by the weight of all his passengers.

    The other hunters turn back to join him. The birds take flight and flap around their heads, pecking at their clothes, pulling at loose threads. Aska disappears beneath the crowd of caws and feathers.

    Wolves howl and lope towards them in the distance. An army of small animals flows over the dunes, running and jumping and bounding along. Even tiny insects fill the air, eyeing the hunters, nibbling their skin.

    ¡°Enough!¡± Changa¡¯s laugh dies like it was never there. ¡°What do you want?¡±

    ¡°Another trade, spirits? What should we give you then?¡± Malkia pulls her wooden blade from her waist and rests it on her shoulder. She limps to Changa¡¯s side with Shuja. Uvumi and Jildun have already dropped Aska¡¯s legs, holding knives in their hands and trying to keep the birds off of him.

    ¡°The committee has gathered!¡± The condor screams. ¡°Hunters, you have been charged with trespassing on the night, which all living things know belongs to the dead! For two nights already you have bribed and threatened and delayed your judgement.¡±

    ¡°You accepted the bribes yourself!¡±

    ¡°The time for delay is over. On this, the third night, how do you plead? Do you trespass? Or can you earn your passage?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve given you weapons you can¡¯t use, food you barely taste, and coins you can¡¯t spend. What else do you want?¡±

    ¡°You know what we want!¡± The condor flaps its wings and storms up to the gathered hunters. The other birds create a chorus with their caws, flapping wings in indignance. The condor¡¯s featherless head whips back and forth as it glares at all the hunters with shining eyes. ¡°We smell this bounty you carry, wrapped in cloth and pulled by the gap-toothed fool-¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°I¡¯ll kill you with my hands and teeth, bird.¡±

    ¡°Then I shall possess a sand shark and return to swallow you whole.¡±

    ¡°Yat! You can¡¯t imagine what we went through, how we found that bounty you try to take from us. I¡¯ll die before I give that up!¡± Changa leans away from the giant bird, and pushes away its probing beak with his hands. ¡°Pick something else.¡±

    ¡°There is nothing else!¡±

    ¡°The wooden blade-¡± Another spirit says.

    ¡°No.¡± Malkia yawns and covers her mouth. ¡°A gift from the Weaver cannot¡­cannot be given away.¡±

    ¡°There must be something¡­¡± Jildun

    ¡°We just came from the toughest fight of our lives, the experience of a lifetime, and you stop us here.¡± Shuja shakes his head and the hawk hanging on his turban pecks him for the disturbance. ¡°Yat¡­ I can¡¯t believe this.¡±

    ¡°What do you have then? What are you trying to hide?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just a corpse.¡± Malkia says.

    ¡°Have you ever heard of the Sinflower?¡± Uvumi asks. The mass of spirit animals shake their heads. Some demand to know what it is. Others ask what it tastes like. They want to know the flavor of its magic.

    ¡°How about the Sol flower? The City of Suns? The people of the sand? The San¨© Sea?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t know any of these things!¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re ancient names.¡± Malkia adds.

    ¡°What they are does not matter. You cross the sands in the night, and you don¡¯t belong here, not now. The past nights, you paid your way. You have given ancient coins of purest platinum and gold, weapons you crafted in love, and the delicious foods we are most grateful for. Now we require the most valuable thing you carry. Give us that secret lying in the cart.¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Changa presses his nose to the condor¡¯s beak. ¡°Not that.¡±

    ¡°Then we take your flesh, and take the secret after.¡± The spirit whispers.

    ¡°You want the secret¡­ but what lies in the cart is just the body it left behind.¡± Shuja sweeps his hands wide, ignoring the birds that fly onto his arms. ¡°We can tell you the greatest tale these sands have ever heard. We can tell you of an ancient city and its terrible downfall. We can tell you about the curse we found buried in this very desert, and the creature that feeds on the corrupted souls of helpless spirits.¡±

    ¡°¡­Go on.¡±

    ¡°¡­ Well¡­ not here. If we can return and prepare-¡±

    ¡°Hah! You think you can find the safety of your home and leave us cursing in the sand? Will you invite us in?¡±

    ¡°No!¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°No-¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡±

    ¡°Changa!¡±

    ¡°Oi!¡±

    ¡°What the f-¡±

    ¡°Hahaha!¡± The condor bobs its head. In the dark night, it¡¯s only a silhouette with shining eyes. Those eyes study the hunters, taking their measure. ¡°You promise to let us in?¡±

    ¡°No!¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± Changa says. ¡°You spirits hold to your words. We¡¯ll do the same. If you promise not to harm the village, I promise we¡¯ll tell you the greatest story you¡¯ve heard in all your lives.¡±

    ¡°And if you don¡¯t?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll face you. Fight you to the death.¡±

    ¡°Until you die. Spin us the greatest story of all time, or you young hunters will face our wrath. Do you agree?¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡± Changa nods his head, but frowns when the words catch up to him. ¡°I speak for myself.¡±

    ¡°You all must agree.¡± The condor looks to the other hunters, who share looks among themselves.

    Jildun glares at Changa¡¯s back. Shuja only thinks for a second before he agrees to the spirit¡¯s demands. Malkia, she scratches her head in thought. Once she¡¯s run the idea through her mind, she purses her lips.

    ¡°If we can¡¯t tell you the greatest story you¡¯ve heard, I¡¯ll face the wrath of the forgotten spirits.¡± She says. And then Uvumi agrees.

    ¡°Aye,¡± Jildun says after a deep breath.

    ¡°It must be quite the story. And him?¡± The condor points its beak to the mound of birds hiding Aska.

    ¡°We can¡¯t speak for him,¡± Malkia says.

    ¡°He has agreed,¡± One of the spirits lying on his back says. ¡°We spoke in his dreams.¡±

    ¡°Then it is done.¡±

    ¡°Wait-¡±

    ¡°We follow to your village to hear this story of yours. Then we¡¯ll kill you.¡±

    ¡°But-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard a great many stories, young hunters. We all have. Once you¡¯ve joined us, you¡¯ll understand. When time has turned the world around, there is no greatness left.¡±

    A specter crawls out of the condor¡¯s back, like a drowning man bursting from the ocean. Its wispy body drifts into the howling wind, and the other spirits rise with it.

    The cold cuts through the layered furs the hunters wear, digging into their skin. They shiver, watching the spirits gather overhead.

    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough of ghosts,¡± Malkia mutters. Changa takes the cart in hand and pushes it back up the dune.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go home,¡± he says. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±

    ***

    Changa¡¯s the first to slip out of the shadows and collapse before the bonfire, knees digging into the sand, arms thrown wide and head thrown back. He cries:

    ¡°Alas! Rejoice, you ragamuffins! We! Have! Returned!¡±

    With this, the village is gathered. Clouds and specters sweep in on the wind. The bonfire blazes and a wave of sand builds behind them, until it stands as tall as the cliff the village is built against. The children clap their hands and play their drums.

    Malkia steps up to calm them down, while Changa sees a young girl, bantu knotted, snot nosed and a little cross-eyed, edging towards him.

    ¡°Psst! Njiwa!¡± He calls to his daughter and waves her over, flapping his hand wildly until she¡¯s close enough to pull into a hug, to kiss and tickle and toss in the air. He cradles her in his arms and holds her face in his hands.

    ¡°Go get papa¡¯s apron,¡± he says.

    ¡°Papa!¡±

    ¡°Yes! The apron!¡± He stares into her eyes, shining in the firelight. ¡°¡­ Apron!¡± He pretends to hang it over his neck and tie it around his waist.

    ¡°Oh!¡± She nods and he nods, and together they nod. They look like mirror images. Changa frowns and points past the crowd that¡¯s gathered around the returned hunters.

    ¡°Stop wasting time¡­¡± He pushes her along and watches her disappear.

    ¡°Yaaaaaaaaaa!¡± The village fills with a cheer that shakes the sand.

    Changa moves to the cart he pulled so far, to the bounty they harvested and the few treasures they could bring back. He unties the ropes lashing it all in place, setting the tarp aside to reveal the last of their weapons, as few remaining ancient coins and strange little devices from the city they found buried underground. At the top is every bit of the Sinflower they could harvest.

    Changa pauses to watch how ominous the earthly remains of the Sinflower are, under the light of the bonfire. The light is bright as day, the shadows deep and dancing across the sands. The Sinflower¡¯s corpse casts the biggest shadow of all.

    The roots, gnarled and twisted like loops of brown nooses, are soft enough to bend and braid, but tough as stone, heavy as metal. They trail pale fungal tendrils that spark and burn anything they touch.

    The leaves are rolled into massive scrolls the color of old bone, spread with bloodred veins, and covered in discolorations that look too much like pained faces. The whispers have died down, but the scrolls still seem to tremble and fight the ropes holding them in place.

    The fossilized seeds are wrapped up in a net. The few shells they cracked open were full of iridescent minerals. The head of the Sinflower is there too, wrapped and padded carefully. Those dead petals turned ashen, crumbling to the touch, drifting away through the air.

    The last things they gathered from the Sinflower were its buds: as big as Changa¡¯s head, green bodies wrapped around the point where the petals are curled and waiting to spread. They look like giants¡¯ eyes, vibrant eyes that have been plucked out and bundled in a net. Each one is a different color. Rose. Crimson. Pale. Jade. Golden. Indigo. Six hunters left. Six returned, with six blooms to show for it.

    ¡°Listen well!¡± Malkia shouts.

    Shuja drops a metal grate across a trench filled with fire. Uvumi and Jildun haul a cast-iron pot, and it goes crashing down onto the grill.

    ¡°Our struggles are your struggles! Our triumphs are your triumphs! Take in this story and this food, so the hunt can become a part of you.¡±

    Malkia takes a deep breath, and the huge fire starts to die down. The wind slows and the crowd leans in. Changa looks over the faces: many are the same ones he¡¯s known all his life. Some are hazy and indistinct, half-forgotten even as he sees them.

    Little Njiwa breaks away from that strange and familiar crowd. She hops into his arms with a pristine apron folded in her hands. Changa gives her a kiss and shakes the apron out. ¡®Kiss the Cook!¡¯

    ¡°That¡¯s the one!¡± Changa says. He gives his girl a proud smile and a thumbs up.

    ¡°A¡­ feast?¡± Aska groans and drags himself off the ground, dusting sand off his torn clothes. ¡°We really eating that evil thing?¡±

    ¡°Indeed we will.¡± Changa takes off his tattered shirt, and Njiwa gasps to see the crusted, blood-soaked bandages wrapped around him.

    ¡°Papa!¡± She jumps at his side, like a flightless bird trying to land on his shoulder. He keeps his smile and pats her head.

    ¡°We earned it.¡±

    ¡°We will all tell a piece of how we left to fulfill Uli¡¯s Request, and found ourselves fighting for our lives in the lair of the Sinflower itself¡­¡±

    ¡°Aye!¡± Changa grabs a bag of squash and holds it overhead, waving to grab the attention of the crowd. ¡°I may as well begin. First, let me tell you that we believe the power of the bonfire and the Web Weaver¡¯s totem will purify this bounty, preserving its power and leaving it safe to eat, as it does every feast.¡±

    He takes the bag of squash and drops it in Jildun¡¯s lap. Jildun is sitting on his heels, waiting while Uvumi and Shuja roll the cutting board around the bonfire. The board is as tall as them. Cut straight from the stump of an ancient tree, its uneven edges are ringed with bark and its surface polished and glowing in the firelight, showing a thousand rings. While Shuja eases it to the ground, Uvumi hands Jildun a cloth roll, full of knives of every kind.

    ¡°¡­ There are no guarantees in life. We prepare this feast for anyone who¡¯s willing to try. Just know this is no normal meal; no normal flower. It was the most magical being I¡¯ve ever seen, a thing of ancient power and pure evil, old as the ocean this desert used to be, older even than the Sand King! It was a devil among monsters and it nearly brought death to each and every one of us! Yat! No one knew a secret as dangerous as this was lying in wait so close to our home. We are the toughest hunters ever born, and we barely made it out. In fact,¡± Changa brushes a hand across his bandaged chest. ¡°I may have left my daughter¡¯s weight in blood behind.¡±

    Changa shrugs while the crowd laughs. He makes a face as if it doesn¡¯t matter how much blood he lost. He watches Jildun and Shuja, chopping squash and pouring oil in the pot. He watches Malkia, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the crowd, with her eyes closed and Uvumi behind her, braiding her hair. He watches Aska, who watches the fire with his hands balled into fists, ignoring everything around him.

    ¡°We were unprepared, but we still faced the toughest challenge of our lives and overcame it. We found victory in the desert, but not only victory. There was something great and terrible hidden in the sands. Let me tell you how we found it. Before the corruptiion of the flower, before the deadly battles, before falling into the trap, I was fighting a prickly giant near the border to the Shimmering Sands..."

 1.6

    Changa holds the audience in his eyes. His people and the rapt spirits surround him on all sides. They were silent, for once. The children, who lost their parents and were left on their own, they were raised on the greatest of stories, legends of heroes and the struggles of great warriors. They wait to hear the story Changa will spin, ready to rise up if it isn¡¯t good enough, because they stand in a sacred place. The circle is no place for the weak. The spirits, who lost their lives and everything they were, come into the village on a promise, ready for the greatest story ever told, or the lives of the fools who dare to fail them.

    For a while, Changa watches the bonfire, struggling for where to begin. He takes a pig-iron pitchfork and pokes the burning logs. They crackle and spit embers into the air. Those embers rise on the smoke, and his eyes follow them up and up, to the heavens where the sky is covered by clouds, heavy and swirling. The village sits in the center of a terrible storm.

    ¡°It was,¡± Changa says, ¡°a normal hunt¡­¡±

    ***

    We crossed the dunes at a sprint, but once we came near the pale rocks we slowed down. The sands that way are full of life that can catch a hunter¡¯s legs, break an ankle, or drag them into quicksand where they¡¯ll never be seen again.

    Aye, those lands are past the great dunes, past the Corpse Stones. The home of snakes and scorpions and plants that thirst for blood is no place for the ignorant. It swallows the blind up. We¡¯ve seen the dangers they hold, so we were confident going slow and careful.

    Aska snorts.

    Slower and more careful than usual¡­

    Aye, the Prickly Giant Resting Grounds were our destination. They sit near the canyons where the Shimmering Sands, the Grave Sands and the Blasted Badlands meet. They¡¯re absolutely bursting with life. We stopped at the rock hanging over the hills, marking where the sands end. We surveyed the land, as any hunter must. Even when you reach someplace familiar, study it, or you might run to your death.

    The desert always changes. Even past the shifting dunes, sometimes a rock might get up and make its way someplace fresh. Locusts might clear a kilometer of trees and grasses. A spring might dry up and force a whole horde of animals to migrate. Hell, a hundred years ago, it¡¯s said a hunter went out and found a lake full of fish, yet in his lifetime it disappeared.

    The Kuachwa desert is a place of transient things. You can hardly trust your memories.

    This is why we stopped at the edge of the Resting grounds to prepare. It was noon when we arrived. We stretched and drank and ate. We checked our weapons and our supplies.

    ¡°Here,¡± Uvumi said. She had rolled out a leather scroll and was drawing a rough map with a stick of charcoal. It¡¯s good to keep track of what¡¯s around you while you¡¯re there. Even better to keep track of what changes over the years. No one wants to drown or starve for the changes in the world. A village can die out just as easy as any nest.

    Uvi draws pretty well, so in the few minutes it took us to eat, she had a rough outline of the terrain, and she was digging in her bag of tools, pulling out compass and protractor, level and sextant¡ªshe obsesses about these things, which isn¡¯t bad, but¡­

    ¡°Some other time,¡± Malkia said. ¡°We can¡¯t spend the night out here.¡± What she meant, young ones, is the spirits¡¯ price is always steep. And you should avoid making deals with the dead.

    There¡¯s a terrible rustling from the crowd. As some children turn their heads, they notice the strange shapes standing tall and looming behind them, bending at the waist like windswept trees, shaking in silent laughter. Those children wear fear on their faces. Fear and surprise. They tap their neighbors. They whisper and whimper, and try to step away, but they can¡¯t. The circle can¡¯t be broken.

    The stage is set, after all. Whatever plays out must see its end.

    ¡°Bit of a hot day to be doing this,¡± is what Jildun said. It was hot, even for us. After a few dozen meters, heat waves started to blur the landscape. We had our full getup on: pants, shirts and sandals, leather breastplates, furs and cloaks. We wore headwraps and dark goggles. Heavy packs sat on our backs. We were strapped with weapons. These things are hot, and they each add up. I know you little ones like to run around half-naked, but you better get used to the layers now, because there¡¯s no avoiding it. They might save your life. I¡¯ll tell you in a second how they saved mine-

    Malkia calls from where she¡¯s sitting, getting her hair braided by Uvumi.

    ¡°Changa, we have a promise to fulfill. Teach your lessons later. This is about the tale. Make it a good one, or it might be our last.¡±

    Right¡­

    ¡°Odds we find another spring?¡± Jildun said.

    ¡°Same as always.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s just take down a giant quick. We can find water after, and if we move fast, we might have time for some fun.¡± Malkia pointed to the distance, where a shadowy column was spinning. Those were giants, whipping up their dust devils. They usually keep to themselves, prickly as they are, but these ones were standing in some kind of swirling, sandy communion.

    ¡°We piss off that group and they¡¯ll whip up a real storm. Might even trouble the village if they get angry enough.¡±

    ¡°We can find a straggler. Just keep an eye on that group. If it moves, we need to disappear.¡± Malkia said. Prickly giants don¡¯t like guests.

    ¡°Should we spread out?¡± I asked. I wanted it over with. So close to the Badlands, all I could think of was finding a herd of sand runners. Always fun to fight, those ones.

    ¡°Aye.¡± Was Malkia¡¯s response. ¡°Keep in sight.¡±

    We started slow, just to get a feel for how the Grounds had changed. Once we started jogging, the dunes were replaced with rolling, sandy hills. There was a lot of green; we swept over slopes covered in tough grass and gnarly bushes. Joshua trees stood every dozen meters or so. There were a hundred species of cactus out there, not just the giant, walking, hungry ones. Little barrel cacti, prickly pears, tall Saguaro¡¯s, cholla- there was no end to them. Some were easy to avoid, but we couldn¡¯t help but get the little ones underfoot.

    Our way was filled with obstacles: pools of quicksand that looked no different than normal dirt, dry riverbeds littered with bone and crawling with vipers, crumbling rock bridges crossing fissures filled with zebra bats and shadows, grasses and shrubs hiding giant trap beetle pits¡ªthis was a journey. We spent hours bypassing traps. Those hills and hollows have always been home to the fiercest ambush predators.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

    We kept moving west, until Kujificha pass, where the traps and dead ends gave way to one dusty, crumbling slope. It fell off suddenly on the left, became a sheer drop into the depths of the Bila Macho sea. The far shore was hard to make out in the distance. Lit from above by the sun, the world seemed to lose definition when we saw the undulating surface of the quicksand ocean. Iron fins traced circles across it, as big as sails, sending out ripples. Even sand couldn¡¯t hide the shadows underneath. Those shadows didn¡¯t stay in the quicksand. They ran into shores and kept on creating tremors, always seeking food.

    We kept clear of the edge. It would be all too easy to fall in, and knocking rocks into the sea is almost as bad as diving in yourself. Sand sharks are curious creatures. It¡¯s why they say never to dance in the badlands.

    Anyways, we passed below the cliff the giants were gathered on. Their sandstorm was right above us, and when we hit the high winds and the dusty haze, we lost sight of the sun. It was like we stepped into another world. We were glad for our heavy layers then. We pulled our weapons close, pulled our cowls low, and then we marched on.

    We made it past without any trouble. One the other side, we spread out our formation. Aska kept glancing back, wondering why the giants gathered in the first place. We all did, but there wasn¡¯t much we could do but wonder. They gave an ominous feeling to the wind. In its howling, I wondered if I could hear them shouting up there. The sands were quieter for it.

    We stayed focused on our mission.

    The first giant we found was a little round, spiny thing. It blinked at us with big eyes and waddled away on tiny legs, swinging tiny arms. Shuja caught it- don¡¯t know why. We weren¡¯t gonna eat it. It¡¯s too cute. But he does pointless things sometimes. He¡¯s a silly guy.

    ¡°Of all the-¡±

    ¡°Shhh!¡±

    Well, for all his trouble, it almost shot him full of needles. He threw his cloak on it at the last minute, and we watched it get blasted to shreds.

    ¡°Ah, you little shit! Get outta here!¡± It slipped under a rock, trailing the rags of his cloak, and that¡¯s what he gets. You shouldn¡¯t bother something that weak, and you shouldn¡¯t underestimate it either.

    We left behind his tattered pride.

    Afterwards, it seemed like only me and Uvumi were interested in getting the job done. The others? Useless idiots. Aska kept his eyes on the gathered giants, so much that he was falling behind.

    Malkia couldn¡¯t keep her eyes off her new blade. She was testing it on anything we passed. I could see her a few hills over, chopping at things. I wanted to shout at her, ¡®yes! It can cut that! That too¡­ and that.¡¯ She was trying to cut rocks in half without slowing down¡ªand failing. I suppose while she was looking for targets, she was looking for giants, but our noble leader was lacking focus, playing with a new toy.

    I still haven¡¯t had words with her about that-

    ¡°Noted.¡±

    ¡­ But that can come later.

    Jildun was obsessed with finding a cave or tunnel, hoping to fall in some underground spring. While he was busy poking the shadows under rocks and trying to hear trickling water over the wind, we were doing real work.

    And that Shuja! Goddamn it, not only did he not find a giant, he stole some fun while he was at it.

    We were running and I heard a pop! All of us glanced Shuja¡¯s way, but he was hidden behind a hill. It had to be sunder ants, of course. Nothing else in the desert sounds so much like fireworks. I dropped my pack, took my spear in hand, and leapt to the rescue. It could¡¯ve been a hive. Yat! Could¡¯ve been an army.

    On the other side of the hill, he was facing two worker caste. The third had already turned itself into a charred, smoking crater. A ring of debris and acid droplets was spread around the blast radius. Shuja dodged around the mandibles of its two partners.

    They were big enough kill a man easily. They had a reddish-brown carapace with sharp ridges and fuzzy hairs. Their eyes were big and black. Glowing orange bands wrapped around their ass-ends. Sunder ants are a sight to see. Good-looking ants, in their own way.

    They clicked and clacked, darting after him so fast their legs blurred. They tossed their heads trying to catch a part of him, but he was just fast enough to slip away every time.

    When one tried to bite him in half, he threw himself against a rock and rolled around it. Its monstrous jaws crunched on the boulder instead. The ant lifted that massive rock and heaved it after him like it weight nothing. He rolled under the throw andcame up cursing, bow ready.

    His arrow ricochet right off the closest ant¡¯s head. The short bow he used was useless with all their armor. While I was still a hundred meters uphill, a handful more burst out of the ground, covered in dirt and blood. There would¡¯ve been hundreds if we kicked a whole nest. Instead, there were seven moving to surround Shuja.

    I was running downhill when one of them started clicking its mandibles and trembling. I felt something sweep past me, bending the grass and sending dust out in a wave.

    Debris and dirt all through the clearing began to vibrate, then levitate, then drift towards it. It all clumped up on that ant, too quickly to stop. I was too far and Shuja was busy backflipping and summersaulting out of the jaws of the other ants. The trembling one was buried in anything it could gather, then it detonated. A cloud of smoke covered to clearing. I ran around the edges of it and saw Malkia, Aska, and Jildun coming to join me.

    ¡°Where is he?¡± Uvumi was last to arrive. I pointed to the smoke in the bowl between all the hills. The wind wasn¡¯t spreading it thin. It wasn¡¯t going anywhere.

    ¡°Six sunder ant workers. His bow won¡¯t do anything. I¡¯m sure he lost his pack and his spear.¡±

    She whistled loud and sharp, through her fingers. We all spread out and readied our weapons.

    ¡°Shuja!¡± I called. ¡°Head this way!¡±

    A few seconds later, there was another pop, and a flash in the haze. Shuja appeared out of the smoke like a ghost, rolling again- I don¡¯t know why. He took off in our direction, with the surviving ants chasing his shadow. He was about twenty meters downslope, and they were fast enough to catch him before he was even halfway.

    Uvumi shot at one. After a few bullets in its middle, a small explosion tore it apart. It left half its body and a streak of acid behind. It clawed just a few meters higher before collapsing.

    ¡°Shuja!¡± Malkia threw her blade, spinning end over end down the hill. Shuja jumped for it, rolling and bringing the blade up. Ichor sprayed, and the lead ant lost its head. That¡¯s the key: decapitate before it decides to go boom and you¡¯re good.

    Shuja slid back when another tried to bite his leg off. He dropped a heel kick on its head hard enough to stop it in its tracks. That gave him enough room to spin around another bite and chop another neck in half. He stabbed the blade right between the disoriented ant¡¯s eyes, and as it started to shake, he retreated with a half dozen backhand springs.

    ¡°Cover!¡± We all dropped and covered our heads. The thing exploded and raised more haze. A few sizzling drops fell by us, but we were far out of its range.

    ¡°Shu-¡± Malkia was cut off by Shuja¡¯s triumphant laugh. The sword, that wooden blade that seemed as hard and sharp as diamond, was flying into the air, then falling down. It landed on one of the last ants and punched straight through its carapace. Shuja stomped on its head and grabbed the hilt. He flipped behind it, tearing the sword out, through the back and head. I swear the ichor seemed to spray out in slow motion before it glowed and exploded. He was lost behind another cloud of dust.

    We heard his footsteps on the rocky hillside before he darted out of the cloud, trailing smoke.

    ¡°Clear!¡± He yelled.

    The last one seemed confused, running here and there. Uvumi shot it down. Precious bullets gone, but worth it for a creature that can kill with only a bite and a thought. We stood and watched it detonate, kept our heads down as the rain of acid passed and waited for the dust to fall. Shuja was busy scrubbing at his arms and neck with a rag.

    ¡°Yat! That burns!¡±

    ¡°You okay?¡±

    ¡°No!¡±

    We all watched him, until Jildun broke the quiet.

    ¡°Better check his pack,¡± He said and went scouring the ground for anything we could salvage.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t get any of that action!¡± I said. ¡°So disappointing!¡±

    ¡°We need to move before something comes sniffing around here.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll keep an eye out,¡± Uvumi said. She climbed the hill and swept her gaze around. She was frowning, probably counting the bullets she lost.

    ¡°Let¡¯s just go. Fuck the pack¡­¡± I said, maybe a little agitated.

    ¡°We will.¡± Malkia didn¡¯t seem happy either. Probably sad to see the blade in someone else¡¯s hands. She always loved swords, even though spears are superior weapons¡ªremember that young ones. But don¡¯t just believe my words. I¡¯ll tell you the rest to prove it.

    ¡°Oi!¡± I said, loud enough for all to hear me. ¡°When we find that giant, I wanna fight it.¡±

    ¡°Changa¡­¡±

    ¡°By. My. Self!¡±

    ¡°But who will bury you?¡±

    ¡°Say what you want, but the next battle is mine. I¡¯ve been sitting for too long and I¡¯m fit to explode. Those giants aren¡¯t so tough. By itself? Psh! I¡¯ll show you how to fight.¡±

    ¡°Changa, if you manage to kill a giant by yourself¡­¡±

    ¡°Oh I will! Been awhile since I felt my blood rush. Hunts have gotten so¡­ by the book. I¡¯m tired of it. Next round goes to me.¡±

    ¡°Aye. Then stop talking and lead the way¡­¡±