James West - Crown of the Setting Sun

Invariably, Adham would continue his tale, stirring in parts about the Faceless One. “Some believe he journeyed from the darkness between the stars,” Adham would scoff. With hard eyes and a contemptuous tone, he would add, “He came from darkness, yes, but it was the black from beyond the grave, the eternal night reserved for the damned. Unseen by all save the Alon’mahk’lar , he moves between the world of the living and Geh’shinnom’atar , the Thousand Hells, the realm of Peropis and of the Fallen.”

Adham would then explain that the Faceless One held an enduring hatred for the rebellious King of the North and his followers-the ice-born people of a far-flung land called Izutar. “We are of that land,” Adham would say, as if it were the most important thing. “We carry in our veins the blood of that great and mighty warrior king.” This last he would mutter in a hush, as if fearing anyone other than Leitos might hear.

Leitos had never believed there was anything of strength and nobility in his blood. What he knew for certain, as taught by the Alon’mahk’lar , was that he was born of a defiant people, whose opposition had earned chains and hardship. For the men of Izutar, there would be no quarter given, and everlasting enslavement was the only answer for their crimes.

It was far easier to believe the slavemasters, than his grandfather’s hopeful fantasies. After all, if his people had done no wrong, then why would any god of goodness ever allow such sorrows to fall upon them? Adham’s explanation was that Pa’amadin had created the world and set it adrift in the eternal heavens, so what men made of their lives, good or ill, was their choice and their responsibility. “As to suffering, it serves its own purpose, child, by building strength in the hearts of men.” That had never made sense to Leitos. All he had ever known was suffering, yet he was not strong….

As the day stretched long, the sun’s heat eventually shattered the defense of hiding within memory. Leitos’s head began to ache, and a ringing noise filled his ears. He ran on in a stupor, weaving erratically, lost in a strange dream where he could smell, taste, and feel water on his tongue….

At some point, he found that he had come to a stop. He was not sure how long he had been standing in place, arms dangling, tongue like a tacky stick in his mouth. He had been thirsty often, but never like this. His throat, his very flesh, ached for moisture, but there was none to be had.

Remembering a slave’s trick, Leitos picked a pebble from the ground and popped it into his mouth. It burned his tongue instead of bringing saliva. He spat it out and pushed on, the day becoming the longest of countless long days he had known.

Overhead, the molten-bronze face of the sun scorched the heavens to a hazy white. Weaving now in broad sweeps, he tried to ignore his discomforts, telling himself they were nowhere near as bad as the bite of the lash, which often led to corrupted lesions and left crisscrossing scars. This he knew well, for his back and shoulders were marked so. Such was the branding of every slave.

Sometime after midday, he slowed to a dragging walk. The hardened soles of his feet had begun to crack and bleed, leaving faint red stains on the ground behind him. He did not go much farther before stopping again. He stood with his head hanging, his dark hair smelling burnt as it waved before his nose. He rested that way for a long time, slitted eyes red and puffy, his heart laboring to push thick, sluggish blood through his veins.

After he caught his breath, he straightened slowly, like an old man. He winced as rippling cramps wracked every inch of his body. He looked one direction, then the other, but found only blinding nothingness looking back at him. Despair fell over him. There was no escape, and the wasteland would surely serve as his open tomb. As if his soul had separated itself from his flesh, he saw his body fall and lay still. Caught in this terrible vision, he witnessed days flashing by, becoming years…. His skin dried and withered, became a tattered shroud cloaking bleached bones. In the fullness of time, blowing sands scoured away that parchment skin, then devoured his skeleton. The only proof that he had lived were the bits of white bone scattered over an unknown parcel of desert -

Leitos came back to himself with a horrified gasp. For the first time since taking flight, he gave full thought to turning back. The Alon’mahk’lar were cruel, but fittingly so, he reasoned. They might grant him continued life. Doubtless, they would deliver upon him pains beyond reckoning … but after, perhaps, they might favor him with shade and water and food…. Or they might take him away, like they did a select few slaves. Where do those slaves go? he wondered absently, not for the first time. Are they truly sent to serve the Faceless One, as it is whispered? To find out, to end his suffering, all he had to do was turn-

A noise, soft yet so unexpected that it might as well have been a mountain crashing down from the sky, obliterated all other considerations. Leitos’s muscles seized up, and he could scarcely breathe. His eyes slowly rolled, seeking the source of that stealthy noise.

Sand and rock baked under the sun. Nothing moved, yet that sound, a click of stone striking stone, rang loudly in his skull, changing … becoming the sound of stalking feet, hard leather soles studded with iron hobnails, like the sandals the Alon’mahk’lar wore.

All thoughts of being blessed by the chance to serve the Faceless One perished. Fear fell on Leitos, as intense as that which had driven him from the mines. This time, his legs and feet remained fixed. Waiting for death to fall, Leitos squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders. The brightness of the sun reflected off the barrens, spearing through his eyelids with a crimson glare. Another soft click made him flinch again, but he could not bring himself to open his eyes.

Silence fell, gaining weight. It took greater courage to finally crack an eyelid and look around than anything he had ever done. He was sure that he would find one of the slavemasters looming nearby, uncoiling a lash, or hefting a cudgel or a sword. So strong was his certainty that Leitos actually saw one of those creatures grinning at him with sharp teeth, an abomination formed by the forced union between the demonic spirit of a Mahk’lar and a woman.

Leitos choked on a scream, even as the image vanished. Only the desert’s cruel face gazed upon him. Leitos blinked, fearing his mind had broken. Without warning, a very real shadow flickered over him. He flung his arms over his head, and collapsed into a tight ball. He huddled there shuddering, waiting….

Death did not come. The shadow passed, came again, fled and returned. When he chanced to peek through his crossed arms, he saw no Alon’mahk’lar standing over him, but a circling vulture. It drifted high above, a dirty scrawl against the sun-seared sky.

Then came that furtive clicking sound, much softer and less threatening than before. Leitos looked to a nearby scatter of rounded boulders. After a moment of scrutiny, he made out a coiled serpent resting in a band of shade under a stone protrusion. Relief washed over him, and his laughter came out as a desiccated rasp. Before his mirth evaporated, an idea drove away his despair and thirst and fear.

Leitos struggled to his feet, one hand gripping a smooth, fist-sized stone. He took one wary, unsteady step, then another. He paused, still seeking out the slavemasters. Except for the glaring adder, he was good and truly alone.

Arm cocked, he advanced, moving slowly so as not to provoke the serpent. Senses heightened by anticipation, he keenly felt each blistering pebble dig into the bottoms of his tattered feet. The serpent coiled tighter. Leitos halted two paces away when the adder vibrated its tail in warning. His arm shook from the strain of holding still. All at once, the snake struck, and Leitos barely leaped clear. At the same instant, he threw the rock, but it flew wide by a foot or more.