The 36th of Lumord, 1251

The Oasis of Cehn, Sunam

Sand hissed under the horse's hooves as An'thor trotted north. He was silent, but alert. His eyes fixed to the ground. His clothes were made for bitter cold and glaciers, but the hardy leather and top few layers were suitable for Sunam’s dry heat and cold desert nights. The swath of sand abutting the mountains was hard-packed, closer to his native tundra than desert. Far easier to track when the sand doesn't move with each breath of wind. He tugged the silk wrap normally insulating his jacket tighter around his face. An’thor was not lucky enough to be protected by the rich Sunamen tan. His skin was a clear white, the blood vessels a visible purple network just under the surface. Being born in a country where true summer lasted only one of the forty-nine-day months made him less accustomed to sunlight.

Like the Laen, the Nenev were an ancient, dying race. A people of ice and progress, their minds turned like gears. Isolation made them legends, but they were rarely the heroes. A tattoo curled from his bicep, up his throat and across the left side of his face like an eddy of wind. Black ink had long ago faded to an ashy gray from age and weathering.

He noted where hooves kicked aside rocks or scuffed the parched earth. Seven horses. A wagon. Fewer than when we were separated. He found one body three hours before, the simple arrow notably Mirikin. He wondered how many Laen would be left when he finally caught up with them in Cehn. His horse's head hung low, gray coat shining with sweat. He looked as tired as An'thor felt. “Almost there, Theriim. We'll rest when we reach the city.” He rubbed the weary animal's neck. He felt more guilt from the failed promises to his horse than those to himself.

When he first joined the Laen’s escort, there were dozens of the women. Forced to separate during a skirmish to buy the women time, he and the others were days—if not weeks—behind their charges. Did that cost them even more? His long life bore witness to too many cities and lives rising and falling to disbelieve that life came in great cycles, but the Laen were the epitome of balance. And he feared they would soon break.

His gaze followed each irregularity of the ground, and it was several moments before he saw the smoke. Even in early autumn, heat haze hung on the horizon. Despite the distorting ripples in the air, An'thor’s gut twisted. This is wrong. He urged his gray mount into a lope, heart sinking in certainty. Wind moaned as it whipped through the still smoldering city at the edge of the oasis. Loose sand and ash rasped across the sandstone and burnt wood. Even the lower levels of the manor were razed. “This was a massacre.” Theriim’s ears twitched in response to the low words.

Bodies littered the main street. Those who survived the initial attack and the following flames were methodically killed as the army moved out. An'thor's gaze slid over the light clothes of the residents searching for a gray dress, a cloak. Grappling marks on the sandstone told him the manor was attacked first, and he nudged his mount into the private courtyard. The fountain was mercifully clean, save for a layer of sand. An’thor refilled his waterskin and wiped his face clean, leaving Theriim to drink his fill.

Sticky blood dragged at his boot soles. Desert heat raised the stench of rot, even as the sun desiccated flesh beyond recognition. The household staff had made a stand, and just inside the building’s ruins lay the ihal and his sons. Still no Laen. Could they escape this? Darker thoughts of capture followed on the first's tail. Children's bodies clustered in the garden behind the manor and a pregnant woman sprawled several paces farther. The blood covering her belly told him it was fruitless, but An’thor’s pale hands fumbled with her clothes, hoping someone, even a squalling infant might have survived. Instead, his blood-stained fingers closed her dark eyes. A chill unrelated to his sunburn crept through his body. He was accustomed to violence, but he did not enjoy it, and massacres were a different breed from battle. Azirik, what are you doing?

Only after searching each building did he admit the Laen were gone. He led Theriim from the manor and through the eastern gate. The Mirikin would be well across the mountains, and he knew Azirik planned to cut across the Feld de Barran of Athrolan. Muscles ached when he crouched to touch the tracks marring the sand. I'll rest when I know where they've gone. Hundreds of hoof prints and Mirikin boots disturbed the ground. He noted ridges from wagon wheels and winced. “They easily could be captured.” He examined them for a few more paces then turned to call for his horse. If the Laen were captured, he would follow.

Theriim nosed a pile of horse dung on the smaller road north. He frowned. The desert sun made quick work of any moisture. Most of the bodies in the city were already desiccated. The metal toe of his boot broke open the dung. “This can't be more than a week old.” His gaze inched over the road's bricks. It was less obvious than the open ground, but he could see where sand was scuffed away. His careful paces turned into a jog as he followed the trail farther north. No more than a dozen riders, many bearing stretchers, if he gauged the depth of the prints correctly.

A toppled league marker heaped by the roadside. Brushing sand away, he tilted his head to read. He could decipher little of the language, but he recognized one name. Vielrona. His cracked fingers paused in their exploration. A square of gray linen was wadded into a crevice. Leaving a note was too great a risk, but a tattered piece of clothing was enough. He swung himself onto Theriim's back and turned north.

An’thor knew better than to pray, but the familiar weight of despair in his stomach told him they sorely needed hope.