The road came to an end two and a half days out from Yadesh.

  It did not fall slowly into ruin, but simply ended; a stark reminder of where strife in the Inner Realms had brought the Imperial conquest of the continent to a standstill, and, eventually, an end. The flow of resources had stalled, seasoned administrators had taken the impetus with them when they were drawn home along with the best of the remaining trenchers, thereby exposing the stonemasons to banditry.

  They were another emblem of just how far behind them the war felt to the continentals. In times of deep war, stealing was sanctioned by the state under the title of looting. But you had to be part of an army to indulge in such spoils. So bandits became guerilla units, officially, while in reality they simply switched masks for a time. But with the region relatively stable once more, trade between provinces had resumed, and there were fewer obvious enemies roaming the countryside. So these groups lost the sense of comradery with their nation, and returned to preying upon their own.

  They did not prey upon us, however. They were wary of our strength, for we were ready looking sorts. And so, when we passed their broken down wagon, they did not raise a call for help in fixing the wheel, so as to lure us into their ambush.

  It was similarly easy to convince the Sunsuga we were a band of mercs, for they would have killed Imperials on site. However, our long leather coats were non-standard for Imperials, and we pulled our hats down and our collars and sand-masks up, hiding the lightness of our skin.

  The further out we got from the Imperial border, such as it was, the more frequently we encountered these continental forces. With the flame of external war dwindling, the Fingers were sending out their tendrils once again to reestablish their disrupted holdings and expand into those of their rivals. Each small army we encountered was suspicious. They flew no banners, wore no colours. It was impossible for us to tell which Finger each group pledged allegiance to, and they thought the same. It was only a matter of time before one took an interest. When they came over the dunes towards us, my fingers twitched once again. Though which blade did they long for? I could not be sure.

  Compared to the blocks of Imperial infantry, they moved as a mass with rippling borders, swarming across the sands. Some wore loose fitting robes about their bodies, although many exposed their dark, tattooed skin to the sun. I knew from experience that there were plates of metal sewn into the wraps they wore around their forearms, but the Sunsaga trusted in their fluid, dancing style of combat to cause any slices to miss. Each carried their weapon of choice: scimitars and curved daggers, javelins and bows.

  The only consistency was in their headgear. Tucked between mascada and headscarves adorned with feathers, beads, and trinkets of bone, every warrior wore a bronze half-masks. The raiders’ piercing eyes scowled at their enemies from above tusked, appearing more demonic by proximity.

  At the edges of the mob loped riders on bareback Delvin. The mounts had long necks and wide, proudly plumed breasts, tan with smatterings of amethyst and emerald. These feathers thinned around the creature's supple midsection, before blooming again at the rump into a long, crescent tail. Despite hooked beaks edged with serrated ridges, and three fearsomely clawed toes on each foot, Delvins had to be trained in the kicking and goring of men in the press of battle. In the wild, the beasts passively scratched for seeds, insects, and small reptiles to eat, or in the regenerating period, when fresh life was sprouting, stripped the husks of the tall grasses. Their true utility was their speed and dexterity, allowing the tribes to redeploy across the battlefield in an instant, and across the Continent in only slightly less time. The beasts could race over the land thanks to their three taloned toes with webbing between, which allowed them to push the sand away much like a flipper works the sea for a fish.

  The mob’s Tysir was somewhere amongst the riders, where there was the most danger, but also the most chance of glory. He made himself known when he signalled to his retinue of ysirack, his proven killers. The mob should have passed a hundred metres to our left, but all of a sudden the riders pulled on the lengths of cord muzzling their beasts, and they broke off from the main group to come towards us.

  The Captain told us to halt, and to keep our hands away from our hilts. She motioned me up to her side.

  “I’ll need you to translate,” she asked.

  “At the end of a spear tip?” I said.

  At that moment, I truly did not believe I would be called upon. I believed we would be ridden down because we were interlopers on this mob’s trail, or because they suspected us of being an enemy, as they suspected everyone at this time. Or simply for the sport of it. It didn’t matter. We would be ridden down, and all my useful knowledge of words and their meanings would feed the sands as well as anyone else’s pulverised brain matter.

  The riders broke left and right about ten metres from us, like a waterfall upon a protruding rock. They began to circle us, in wide loops at first, but drawing closer, until we had our backs pressed up against one another, and they were flashing past, choking on the sand that whipped up with their passing.

  The riders had Tal eyed them, judging her bow against the curved shortbows and quivers of dark arrows bouncing on their flanks in terms of effective distance, speed, accuracy, and stopping power.

  The ysirack hollered and clicked their tongues at us. We did a good job of pretending not to be intimidated, enough so that the tysir eventually tired and brought his mount around to face the Captain. She made no attempt to get out of his path. The tysir screamed, a dismaying cry taken up by his entourage, and then the rest of the army that had by now gathered around us. Still the Captain would not be moved. So the tysir charged her.

  To break now would be to cut down a million times from every conceivable angle. Some small, primitive part of my brain had performed that calculation, and managed to convince me that not only could we survive this charge, but that we could somehow topple the tysir and win our freedom from this ring of death. So I planted my feet.

  The tysir reigned in at the very last minute, practically trampling the Captain’s toes. She did not even flinch as the tysir brought his mount back under control. The ysirack came to a halt, too, encircling us, and suddenly all was silent.

  “Who do you serve?” he said.

  I was relieved to find I could understand him, as he spoke Union.

  The shared language combined the best from all the dialects of the continent in an attempt to bring the continent together as a whole peoples. Unfortunately for the original architects, enmities between tribes ran long into the past, and many speakers of Union were diligently petty in excluding words contributed by their rivals, substituting words from their own dialects in their place. One could get by well enough, picking up a few regionalisms depending on what tribes you interacted with regularly. But what use then a shared language when it involved, in reality, working around sentences pockmarked with unfamiliar words?

  However, I realised, with some relief, that I could use this to my advantage. So long as he wasn’t familiar with Realm-Common, he would assume we were members of a far flung tribe.

  “What should I say?” I asked the Captain, not taking my eye off the tysir. He didn’t show any comprehension.

  “Tell him we serve Azhur,” said the Captain.

  The tysir recognised that last word, at least, and snarled when I translated.

  “So do we all!” he proclaimed. “But who speaks for Azhur to you?”

  Each raiding mob was fiercely loyal to the Finger who raised them, and any efforts to disrupt the plans of another, rival Finger would be greatly rewarded. Raiders of all colours were raised to cheat and kill and profit all they liked in order to get themselves ahead, first, and then improve the standing of their tribe. There was only one caveat: the facade of truce between the members of the Hand could be broken so long as such actions did not interrupt the greater plans of Azhur himself. This was a tenant above all others, and everyone on the continent knew of it. Including the Captain.

  “He speaks to us himself!” she said. “No one can speak on his behalf!”

  I tried not to quail, challenging the tysir. The delvin’s beak looked wide enough to swallow me whole. Fortunately I was only in charge of the words. The Captain provided the tone.

  The tysir snarled again. The delvin beneath him shifted restlessly. Its eye, hidden slightly behind a nictitating membrane, was half as big as my head. I had never been this close to a one that wasn’t intent on ripping my head off. Above his demonic half-mask, the tysir’s eyes dared me to give him justification to allow the beast to do exactly that, the sign of the noose be damned.

  But something was keeping him in check.

  Despite me being the one to speak, his eyes were locked to the Captain, rank recognising rank. Or perhaps power recognising power. But he did not look her in the face. He was being drawn lower, to her waist. I followed his gaze.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Captain had hooked her thumb into her belt and curled up all of her fingers except her pointer, which she crooked slightly.

  “What is that?” I whispered.

  “Azhur’s own sigil, the hook of the noose,” Dassem answered for her. “Works the same way as the Imperial Crest.”

  The tysir may not have believed it. He certainly didn’t like that the Captain knew it. But he clearly had to respect it. Azhur had eyes everywhere, so it was said.

  “You hear the word directly from the mouth of the god-king, eh?” said the tysir.

  Then he laughed. His mask made it sound metallic and aggressive. Which, apparently, is not what he wanted. He unclipped it from one cheek-plate, swung it aside. Beneath the mask, he was grinning. There was a single, long braid of thin hairs hanging from the tip of his chin.

  “Well, so do we!” he said. “Which means we are family, no?”

  His mob cheered. I think they were simply glad to have a break from the march.

  The tysir jumped down from his mount. From a bag provided by one of his ysirack, the tysir offered the Captain a strip of jerky before taking another one for himself.

  “Don’t swallow it,” I told her.

  They worked the meat between their molars. The tysir watched her all the while, grinning. Soon he spat his piece into his hand. I do believe he made sure it had an extra helping of drool. He offered the pulp to the Captain.

  “Like the delvin to its chicks,” he said. “Because we are family, after all.”

  The Captain followed his lead, and they exchanged pieces. They brought it to their mouths. The tysir licked his hand for good measure, daring the Captain to do the same. She did not shy from the pulp or from the gesture.

  Next the tysir brought forth his flask. I could smell the fermented milk from a metre away the moment he unstoppered it. The Captain drank long and deep, again without a hint of disgust.

  To the tysir, this was not a test, but the mere formalities of a kjuram, a treaty of equals. Having acknowledged them properly, woven rugs were unstrapped from backs, and a small gathering circle was quickly created. More jerky, milk, and a kind of dry flatbread was brought out and shared with the rest of us by the gathered warriors. We sat in communion with the tysir and his favoured. The rest of his mob forms rings around us. The squad bristled at the thought of sitting with their backs so exposed, especially Briggs and Church, but to face outward would be insult enough to stain the rugs with their blood.

  “Where are you headed?” asked the tysir.

  “Qalyon,” I said.

  It was a settlement far to the north, with practically the entire continent between us at our current location. I chose it in the hope it would be far from the tysir’s mind. How foolishly hopeful I was.

  “Qalyon has returned to sand,” he said. “There are none of its people left.”

  He said it so casually, and proceeded to pick something from between his teeth. I tried to match his tone, to not betray that I was scrambling beneath his interrogation. I hadn’t known that about Qalyon. Possibly because it wasn’t at all true, and he was lying and laying a trap in which I could break my own leg.

  “There are some, clearly,” I said, sweeping my hand at the squad. “And we know where to find others, even if you do not.”

  “Of course, of course. But tell me, sister. You and the rest of your immediate family are awfully light skinned, even for brothers and sisters from all the way up in Qalyon.”

  We had to pull our bandanas down around our necks in order to eat. The Captain was tanned, but it was obvious that was all it was. A part of my mind wondered if she was from the Frigid-Realms: a snow princess, or a priestess of the bear. The rest of my mind quickly whipped this wandering part back into line. Focus on the problem.

  “Perhaps my brothers should roll you in the dirt a little, sister, to get your proper colour back,” the tysir continued.

  Several of his men shifted just slightly, as if readying themselves to beat the others to her at the jump.

  “We are all bastards, from the early days of the invasion,” I said. “Our mothers did not expect our fathers to ignore the code of the desert, and, once begot, they could not abort us. But we have no allegiance to the empire of our seeders. Our skin may be as light as the grasses, but our blood is as dark red as the sand.”

  “Bastards,” said the tysir. He chewed on that, along with his jerky.

  “Well, aren’t we all!” he declared eventually, and laughed. The rest of his mob laughed too, but I could tell it was a faked laughter by the way it passed in rippling waves from one layer to the next.

  “And yet, we are not the same,” the tysir continued. “For one, I am younger than you. For another, my mother wanted me. I am one of the sons of the dead seed.”

  He waited. I shook my head: I hadn’t heard of them. The tysir grinned. He had hoped that would be my answer. He wanted to tell his story.

  “My mother was part of a special Claw,” he said. “She ambushed my father, rising out of the sands like a snake. First she cut his tendons, here” - he indicated between his calf and his ankle - “then here” - disabling the arms - “until finally she slit his throat. But she made sure the cut was shallow. And as he lay there, paralysed and dying, she took his seed by force. And all the while she told him how she would raise me as a warrior, so that the empire’s own lineage would rise against them.”

  The jerky was like ash in my mouth.

  “I have killed many of my fathers,” said the tysir. “As, I’m sure, have you.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Then tell me, why do you flee from the enemy? Turn around and come with us towards the city.”

  “We cannot,” I said. “We must return to Qalyon, to rouse several new claws. We are fierce, but we are only seven. We cannot contend with the likes of your lot.”

  “No you cannot,” said the tysir.

  He turned to one of his ysirak, and I allowed myself to relax a single degree. We might have just passed through the storm.

  Then the Captain decided to throw our necks back on their knives.

  “Ask if he’s going to attack Arradheim,” said the Captain.

  I had long since stopped translating for her, and I certainly didn’t start again at that. But the tysir seized upon the name like a jumping mouse on a swarmfly.

  “Tell me, why do you use the name our enemy has given to our stolen city?”

  Was that all he understood? Or did every word that passed between us also pass clearly through his mind? The back of my neck was an ocean of sweat. I dared not wipe at it.

  “No,” I said. “That’s three already.”

  One for the sky, one for the sand, and one for the water. That was the law of the desert. An even more inviolable rule than the sign of the hooked noose.

  The tysir turned to me for the first time throughout the whole conversation.

  “Perhaps I am not asking her,” he said. “Perhaps I am asking you. It’s bad enough you follow a woman as tysir, but what is worse is the way she lets you pretend for her. Tell me, who are you all really? Can she not speak Union?”

  “I can speak Union,” said the Captain.

  The tysir froze. I clenched my teeth, careful not to smile. I was looking behind his eyes, where he was running over the conversation to see if he had been unforgivably rude, thinking she was ignorant of what he was saying.

  I waited, but it seemed the Captain would add no more, so I again took up her place.

  “I speak because she does not deign to deal with the likes of you,” I said. “You know that some Fingers are women, and that even some who aren’t choose their servants based on their strength, and their cunning, rather than what is in their pants. Lucky for you it is only some. Otherwise you would clearly be on the outer rings.”

  All the while the tysir’s eyes had been widening, first in fear, then in fury. He hissed at us through his teeth. Then he was up, so quickly that his mob were caught out, and hastened to rise with him.

  “May you serve the Hand well in whatever it is you do,” he said brusquely. “But hear this: the hawk is still a hawk when hunting carrion-mice, no matter its gender.”

  “Bring the carpets!” he called to his followers. “The lush forest dogs will have slackened their pace, thinking they have escaped us!”

  He stormed out of the circle, lesser ranked warriors falling over each other to make a path for him. His ysirack flowed after him, and then, layer by layer, the mob peeled away. The squad stood frozen, like an animal continuing to play dead in case its predator circled back. We only moved when someone pulled hard on the rug beneath our feet, sending us stumbling. Eventually we were alone again, watching

  “Someone say it,” said Briggs. “Someone of rank, so I don’t get done for dissent.”

  “That was a close call,” said Dassem.

  “Close call!” said Briggs.

  “We’re still breathing,” said Dassem. “Which downgrades a mistake to a close call.”

  Tal laughed. It had a manic edge to it.

  “Piss you pants there big fella?” she said.

  “Can you smell it, then? No? Didn’t think so! Heavies don’t piss themselves, not even when they’re lying dead. Hardest pricks in the Corps.”

  I let the squad drift out of hearing distance, to regather themselves in their own ways, before I turned to the Captain.

  “You, however, undeniably made a mistake,” I said.

  “The Arradheim thing?” she said. “Yes. I didn’t think he would understand.”

  “He understands the few bits of Imperial that are most important to him,” I said. “Just as you’ve picked up bits of their language. Or, I’m confused: do you speak Union fluidly, and you’re playing both friends and enemies as fools?”

  The Captain was nonplussed, but I could see Dassem lurking behind her, ready to do her dirty work for her.

  “That one line has always proven useful for putting men in their place, as you just saw,” said the Captain. “The truth is, no, I don’t know enough to hold a conversation. I need you to translate. I want you to stop me from making missteps.”

  I didn’t respond. The squad was lingering, waiting on an order. But it wasn’t just that. I wasn’t sure I could make her such a promise.

  “What’ll it be, Cap?” said Dassem. “Shall we put some distance between us?”

  “Will it make a difference?” she said.

  “Probably not.”

  The Captain scanned our surroundings.

  “This place is as good as any,” she said. “A bit further over there, at least, in lieu of those taller dunes. Gives us a good angle.”

  “Right then,” said Church. “Spread the camp. Briggs and I either side, goes without saying. But Chuckles, you and the Doc on opposite sides too. Tal, find yourself a spot where you can split the difference.”

  Everyone jumped to it. I came alongside Church.

  “Why the sudden sleeping arrangements?”

  She grinned at me.

  “You don’t really think you’re getting any sleep, do you?”