Upon the shoulders of kings

To be is to fight

His staff is the only thing left of him.

He was like a father to me and they cut him down like a dog. It was then that Barazin first came to me.

He fell from the sky, splitting the earth beneath them and sending dust clouds everywhere—shattering their bones, spraying blood and guts. Their screams lasted for a mere fraction of a moment, but are still audible to me.

I basked in their screams for so long, that now I cannot forget them.

* * *

I walked for hours.

Since they had bowed, I had not stopped. It was morning when I started to feel tired.

Waste extended in front of me, no end in sight. It was an expanse of ash mounds and firm flatland of sand, broken only by the occasional drake nests of feathers, quillrot and ashenoak, in shadows of great pillars of rock.

I walked towards one of these, entering the shadow of the tall, uneven rock giant. There I had made my bed, tired from the long miles that were now behind me. I first ate some salted jerky and then sleep took me easily. I drifted. I remember seeing great mountains of water rise on the horizon as men ran towards them. There were humongous birds flying overhead, roaring at the expanding wall of deep, swirling blue and frothing white. The air smelled of blood. A dreary wind blew, hardly felt, blowing dust at the charging ocean. It seemed that all the world was against it, yet it engulfed it all the same. The water spread over the cities and forests, leaving life to ruin, uprooting trees and mountains alike—it washed away both men and beasts, taking them to the depths. I remember drowning under the wings of the gargantuan wave, a tyrant unto itself.

I awoke with a star. I felt feverish and hazy, sore from laying on almost bare stone. The day was almost behind me, and I had no intention on walking through another night.

With some effort I built a fire, using quillrot and feathers as fuel. The ashenoak would not burn, so I left it.

I watched the sun setting over the mountains to the north-west. It was a beautiful sight. I drank some warm water from my waterskin, swishing it around in my mouth before I swallowed. The dream was haunting me. I couldn’t help but think it prophetic.

The view pulled my gaze—the bare skies reddening, no cloud in sight.

It was freeing—to be away from people. To view alone, what I once could not with many—that was the true gift. The weight of what I had done in summoning my sword was slowly lifting from my shoulders. I told myself that it would not take me again. This didn’t get rid of the constant itch in my arm.

I prodded the fire with my staff, watching the bone-white wood absorb the flames. It seemed to breathe with the fire, its golden veins almost glowing with a pulse.

“Agashīn, traveler,” a gruff voice said from my side. I turned rather sharply to find myself staring at a tall tuskar, shirtless and tanned. His tusks were almost as long as my forearms, protruding from his graying beard and touching his chest as he stared down at me, looking puzzled. “Mo would ask what you are doing.”

He wore brown tweed pants and no shoes. “I am sitting,” I said, saying the first thing that came to mind.

He nodded and sat next to me. “Mo thinks this good place,” he admitted. “What is name of this traveler?” he asked of the air. He didn’t seem to be talking directly to me, but rather just voicing his thoughts. I threw some more debris into the fire.

“My name is Jazia,” I said. “You are Mo?”

“Mo Ferik,” he said, not looking at me. “Mo is curious. What is strange man doing in middle of desert?”