Morgan Rice - A Joust of Knights

The commander slowed his zerta as he noticed another change in the trail. It narrowed dramatically up ahead, indicating fewer people, and immersed in the sand, he also saw the remnants of corpses. Up ahead, he saw some bones scattered about, and he brought his zerta to a stop.

His men all came to an abrupt stop beside him.

The commander dismounted, walked over to the bones, long-dried, and knelt beside them. He ran his hand along them, and as he did, he drew on his expertise to look for the signs. The Empire—Volusia herself—had chosen him for this very purpose. In addition to being an expert torturer, he was known as the Empire army’s greatest tracker, able to find anyone, anywhere—without fail.

As he fell silent, studying them, his men came up and knelt beside him.

“They are dried,” his men said. “These people died moons ago.”

The commander studied them, though, and shook his head.

Finally, he replied: “No, not weeks ago. You are deceived. The bones are clean, but not due to time. They have been picked clean by insects. They are actually quite fresh.”

The commander picked one up, to demonstrate, and tried to break it in his hand—it did not break.

“It is not as brittle as it seems,” he replied.

“But what killed them?” one of his men asked.

He studied the sand around the bones, running his hand through it.

“There was a scuffle here,” he finally said. “A fight between men.”

His men surveyed the desert floor.

“It looks like they were all killed,” one observed.

But the commander was unconvinced: he looked out into the desert, studied the floor, and saw a glimpse of the trail up ahead, however faint it was.

He shook his head and stood to his full height.

“No,” he replied decisively. “Some of them survived. The group has splintered. They are weak now. They are hurt—and they are mine.”

He jumped onto his zerta, lashed it across the face, and broke off at a gallop, following the trail, eyes locked on it, determined to hunt them down, wherever they were, and kill whoever had survived this group.

The commander charged into the afternoon sky, the two suns hanging low as great balls on the horizon, heading ever deeper into the Great Waste. His zerta gasped and his soldiers heaved behind him, all of them on the verge of collapse. The commander did not care. They could all drop dead out here in the desert for all he cared. He wanted only one thing, and he would not stop until he had it: to find Gwendolyn.

The commander fantasized as he rode; he imagined himself finding Gwendolyn alive, torturing her for days on end, then tying her to his zerta and riding back the entire way that way. It would be fun to see how long it would take until it killed her. No, he realized—he could not do that. He would lose his prize. Maybe he would just torture her a little bit.

Or maybe, just maybe, her trail would lead him to the fabled Ridge, the holy grail of the Empire quests. If he found it, he would sneak back and report it to the Empire, and lead an army out here personally to return and destroy it. He smiled wide—he would be famous for generations.

They charged and charged, every bone in his body aching, his throat so dry he could barely breathe, and not caring. The suns began to dip below the horizon and he knew that night would soon fall out here. He wouldn’t slow for that either, but ride all night if he had to. Nothing would stop him.

Finally, up ahead, the commander spotted something in the distance, some break in the monotony of this flat landscape. They bore down on it, and as they did, he recognized what it was: a tree. A huge, twisted tree, by itself in the middle of nowhere.

He followed the trail until it ended, right beneath the tree. Of course it would end here, he thought: they would seek shade, shelter. He could use it himself.

He came to a stop beneath the tree and his men all followed, all of them gasping as they dismounted, beyond exhausted. He was, too, but he did not pay attention. Instead, he was too focused on the trail. He looked down and studied it, baffled. The trail seemed to disappear into thin air. It did not proceed in any direction once they reached it.

“They must have died beneath the tree,” said one of his men.

The commander frowned, annoyed by their stupidity.

“Then where are their bones?” he demanded.

“They must have been eaten,” another added. “Bones and all. Look there!”

There came a rustling noise, and the commander followed his men’s worried glance as they pointed to the tree branches, way up high, hiding scores of tree clingers. The beasts watched them carefully, as if debating whether to pounce.

His men hurried out from beneath the tree, but the Commander stayed put, unafraid. If they killed him, so be it—he was not concerned. He was more concerned with losing the tracks, with reporting back to Volusia as a failure.

“Let us go,” said one of his men, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Night falls. I am sorry. Our search is over. We must return now. They died here, and that is what we must tell Volusia.”

“And bring back no proof?” the commander asked. “Are you as stupid as you look? Do you now know that she would kill us?”

The commander ignored his men and instead stood there and looked out, peering into the desert, hands on hips. He listened for a long time, to the sound of the blowing wind, of the rustling branches, listening for all the signs, the faintest clues. He closed his eyes and smelled the dusty air, using all of his senses.

When he opened his eyes, he looked down and studied the ground, his nose telling him something—and this time, he spotted a tiny dot of red.

He knelt beside it and tasted the dirt.

“Blood,” he reported. “Fresh blood.” He looked up and studied the horizon, feeling a new certainty rise within him. “Someone died here recently.”

He smiled as he stood and looked down and began to realize.

“Ingenious,” he said.

“What, Commander?” one of his men asked.

“Someone tried to cover it up,” he said. It was indeed ingenious, he realized, and he knew it would have fooled any other tracker—but not him.

“Gwendolyn is alive,” he said. “She went that way—and she’s not alone. There are new people with her. And I would bet anything, anything in the world, that she will lead us right into the lap of the Ridge.”

The commander mounted his zerta and took off, not waiting for the others, following his instincts, which were leading him, he knew, toward a new horizon—and toward his ultimate glory.

Kendrick woke to a cool breeze on his face, his head on the hard desert floor, and knew immediately that something was wrong.

He sat up quickly and looked all around him, on alert. The warrior within had always told him when danger lurked, when something had imperceptibly shifted in the air. He saw Brandt and Atme, Koldo and Ludvig and all the others lying about the fire, now just embers, as the first of the two suns began to rise, lighting the sky a scarlet red. Everything was still, and at first glance everyone seemed to be here and all seemed to be well. He squinted into the horizon and saw no threat, no monsters of any kind.

Yet still, some sense within him told him something was not right. Kendrick wondered if it was just the nightmares he’d had, plaguing him all night as he tossed on the hard desert floor, swatting away bugs. Yet he knew better.

Kendrick slowly rose to his feet as the sun rose higher, the sky lightening just a bit, and as he surveyed the camp once again, suddenly he saw it: there, in the distance, were tracks, leading away from his camp. Footprints.