Even if they didnt understand what the brands on my hands meant, a brand was hardly going to help me reach Talithe or Lanithe- especially if I had to deal with more of those damn pilgrims. I took a swig from the waterskin which hung from the pouch swung across my chest. I carefully held the wooden tube to my mouth, making sure not a single drop reached the starving desert ground. If Thaki was truly a fertile land, as they say, I think that the people, just as I do now, refused to share their water with the land.

The soft, squishy scraping of the camel's hooves against the sand had long since blended into the background. On my right, far in the distance I can make out the brown form of the so called death mountains- known for both their remote nature and for the array of deadly wildlife which seemed to have found a haven in the heart of the desert. I am following parallel to the ridge of the mountains out towards the west coast of Thaki, at least I think I am, if Chaghil's words were to be trusted; I would hardly consider her untrustworthy at all, but 13 days of desert travel have a way of making you doubt your own name. At least the water had not yet run out.

 A bright whistle rose above the quiet din of the wind and broke my thoughts; my blood ran cold. In Chaghil's stories, a screecher was more or less certain death; desertfriends would not even call them by name. I could hear the scraping pitches rising from the dunes, seemingly echoing on all sides. shit.

---~

"Why do I need to learn something so useless?" my brother asked me. As had become usual I ignored him; I would not tolerate his asking every time I was to spend another half-day to teach him how to put ink on paper. Instead I asked him "How can you expect to be a great deulist when you cannot even read an invitation?" He let out a long groan, but after slamming his head against the dark writing desk, he lifted his quill and began copying the symbol before him.

"Lets see an A, captial." I said. It should not be to where I must teach Wren when father could easily afford to buy enough tutors that the whole of the house did not have space to walk. I moved my head in towards the desk to study his work. "Thats more like a V" I told him, "you've got it upside down. Lowercase f." Simply because we were in no position to inheret the family name, both Wren and I were more or less living like guests at best and servants at worst. "Good. capital G." Guests always liked to praise father for his 'generosity' because he kept us around, but really, I think he just doesn't care enough either way to rid the house of us. "There should be a line going towards the middle on the right. like this. capital L." Still, that we had access to the whole of the library was something which I did appreciate, even if father simply did not care. It almost was enough to balance out dealing with my half-siblings who more often than not mistook me for a punching bag. "Spell sand"

...

"Thats enough, good job Wren." I toussled his hair and he gave me a grin. Doing his lessons wasn't entirely bad, I guess. He looked up at me and asked "can we go practice?"

"You did do well today, so fine."

Though Wren had wanted to duel in the carefully pruned hedges near the center of the house, I decided it would be best to the yard near the old house; mostly since I was already in hot water with the house staff for leaving books scattered around the house. The old house itself was something of a mystery. We, me and Wren, had both been in there before but we still had no idea of its purpose. Compared to the main house, it was honestly a trash heap. Where father's house was stone and decorated with all manner of inlays and etchings, it was wooden and falling apart at the seams. Probably only the tan stone foundation kept it from tumbling in the most recent storm- still, it had been a nice place to sleep which protected us both from the cold on those nights when the house was full or else one of my siblings thought they could wake me up with a thorough beating.

The yard itself was hardly a yard anymore, with small shrubs and tall grasses growing through the sandy, dry soil. Nevertheless it was clear enough that we could step apart and duel with the sticks wren carried everywhere with him. We each took one and took ten steps backwords, heel to toe. "That you will see my brother a champion among duelists, and above all, safe" I whispered to the 'blade' which was across my face. Across from me, Wren whispered something into his 'sword' while atanding in nearly identical posture. Who can know if he has even reached the age where he understands the nuances of swordsprayer; I hardly understand it myself, but Im not one to refuse help from any diety. With that done he charges forward and I feign a missed block, grinning as I let him land a hit on my shoulder.

---~

The swampboar raised its head to peek above the muddled green water. Dense foliage of ferns, vines, and skinny green trees tries its best to hide the prey from my eyes. The boar is perhaps 50 paces from me, but experience with hunting in these parts has given me enough sense to get another 20 closer. I watch my feet carefully to ensure that I am stepping mostly on softfoot or else not something which may give rise to the dreaded crunch. The ground begins to dip and the cloth on my foot sinks just a touch. Probably I am 40 paces away, now, but I have no easy way to get to the boar without a lot of time or noise. Instead, I slowly lift an arrow out of its woolen pouch to my side and raise the back towards my already strung bow.

The arrow flys true and strikes the boar right around its front quarter. Quickly I grab another arrow from the next pouch and nock it, facing towards the now sprinting boar. Unable to land another shot without risking losing my arrow, I release the string tension. Likely the boar will bleed out within the next few minutes. With that in mind, I hug the left shore of the pond which I had shot across. I brush by a ton of plants as I go, uncaring of making a racket now that I've already struck my quarry. A trickling stream lies ahead of me, so, bow in hand, I step back and leap across both the stream itself as well as rather dangerous mud surrounding it.

On the other side a small pool of blood marks the spot at which the boar was hit. Looking the way the boar ran I can see another bloodstain on a nearby cyla tree, the red blood easily contrasting the sickly green shade of the cyla. Judging by the amount of blood there, I hopefully wont have too long of a drag back to the canoe.

---~

There are those who say killing is wrong, or even that it is disgusting. To them, I would ask if they've ever won a duel. My opponent, who is bleeding from a stab wound to the chest, would agree with me. There is nothing like putting all of your worth, all of your training and your life on the line against another. It is both the most sacred, and most intimate act one can ever have with themselves and with Khelar. Every parry is a demonstration of the devotion to the self and to improvement of it. Every thrust is devotion to honor and ambition. Truly, without the duel, a man is purposeless in life; How can you expect honor to mean something when you do not allow honor to exist in its truest form?

The crowd roars my name. I instead stare at the face of my opponent as he bleeds out with a smile on his face-he had landed a solid blow on my side, though it was nonfatal. Few have shared his place, and as duels are becoming less popular I deeply fear no one will.

I wonder what it would be like to lose. Would I scream out in pain before succumbing to it? Or would I stare straight ahead and slowly crack a smile as my opponent did? What would I think? Would I be upset I have been bested, or would I look back and be proud of the work which I have done to improve myself?

Perhaps with some more training.