By morning Colton and Tyran were far from the city, and ready to drop dead from weariness they took shelter in a few sparse trees that struggled to grow beside a stream. When Tyran awoke the sun was already at its peak in the sky, and he groaned and climbed to his feet. Leaving Colton to a few more moments of rest, he refilled the water skins they found in the saddle bags and began to saddle the horses.
Colton, pulled from sleep by Tyran’s movements, forced his eyes open and lay squinting at the horizon, his eyes on the faint gray line that marked Vellatha. As he grew more awake movement became visible in the distance, and he jerked himself upright at the sight.
“Tyran?” he called. “Look there.”
Tyran followed his gaze across the plain, his eyes falling on several moving shapes.
“Riders,” he said under his breath.
Colton was on his feet in an instant, his gaze frozen on the horsemen as Tyran sped to hide any sign of a camp having been made there.
“How did they find us already?” Colton asked.
“We slept too long.” Tyran was suddenly beside Colton, already mounted, pulling him away. “We have to go,” he said.
Colton limped to the horse and mounted with a pained grimace, aware of Tyran’s eyes on him. Tyran wheeled his horse and was off at a gallop, and Colton urged his horse forward close behind him. For nearly an hour they rode through the desert, a vast expanse of barrenness ahead of them and their ever-nearing pursuers always behind. Sand flew beneath the horses’ hooves, dust coating their sweat-soaked sides. The world had become a desolation—one great span of sky above and sand below. But where all was usually still and silent, the riders moved with fierce speed across the plain.
As their own horses grew gradually wearier, those of Colton and Tyran’s pursuers pulled ever nearer, till they were nearly upon them. Then bright swords flashing in the sunlight, as the opposing sides drew forth their weapons.
The pursuers reached Colton, who lagged behind Tyran, first. Two riders pulled beside him, and then one leapt from his horse onto Colton’s back. Colton slid nearly from his saddle, blocking his opponent’s attempts to throw him from the horse. A glance at the ground flying beneath him renewed his efforts, and finally he struck the man from the horse. Righting himself in the saddle, he turned to swing his sword at the next rider. Knocking this man also to the ground, he turned to find Tyran struggling and surrounded by riders.
Colton charged the tight ring they had formed, breaking it and allowing himself to be immediately overpowered by them. He withstood only a few blows before one sent him tumbling to the ground, and then the soldiers leapt from their saddles upon him. He would have been killed then, or at the least beaten and taken captive, had not Tyran come charging down upon them.
Beneath Tyran’s blows fell one after another of the warriors, till blood soaked the sand all around them. Colton seized the bridle of a horse as it pounded past him and pulled himself to the saddle. Astride the horse, he pulled it to a stop and looked down at a suddenly quiet, still scene. He turned in his saddle, looking in every direction at an endless expanse of desert, met only by the sky. Several feet away Tyran’s gaze met Colton.
“There’ll be no more,” he said quietly, turning his horse slowly and setting off at a trot.
Colton sat still on his horse, staring down at the bodies lying motionless in their own blood upon the sand. This was what Alastor’s lies had achieved, then, he thought wryly. A dozen men lying dead on the ground, themselves fugitives in an endless desert, and seventy men who would spend the year training with every ounce of strength within them just to be killed when the Games arrived again. And where could they go? Tyran had set off as if he had some destination in mind, but there was nothing but desert around them, no way to tell east from west, nothing but sand and sky. If there was an edge to the world, they had reached it. And everyone knew there was no returning from the edge of the world.
Lost as they might be, Colton urged his horse forward after Tyran, and they continued their ride into nothingness. They had no destination, no path to follow, but they rode as straight and confident as if there were a sure destination before them. Perhaps it was an illusion, perhaps some way to keep up their spirits, to pretend as if there were a way to know the desert—as if they were not lost, not fugitives waiting to die.
Whatever drove them on—hope or the very absence of such—within three days there was nothing to occupy their minds but the aching in their stomachs and the heat of the day. Night brought a little relief, but could do nothing to ease their hunger. Colton tried to think back to the last time he had eaten, but his mind could not order the events of the past week and he gave up in weariness. Forever they traveled through this endless barrenness, without any sign of life or habitation. Willing to spare little water for the horses, the beasts dropped to their knees upon the sand and would rise no more. Still Colton and Tyran struggled on, but the next morning marked the end of their water supply and the heat of midday sapped all their strength from them.
Colton had lost all sense of time and his bearings, aware only of the heat and the pain. His once-sure strides had turned to staggering footsteps, the pain that had once stabbed his ankle now shooting through his entire body. Ahead was Tyran, always leading, always a blur, somehow distant and far from mind. His mind spun and each thought fled like wind from his mind—except the one idea looming behind all else, like a ringing bell, silently telling him over and over that he was going to die there in the desert. Ealric had once said that no man really wanted just to survive—he wanted to thrive and become great. The words came to Colton’s mind with a bitter irony, and Colton laughed wryly to himself that such an idea could be true. He would be content only to live, to survive any place but this land of lifelessness and misery. But soon the thought had melted away, and a dozen other thoughts—mad or sane, he could not tell—fled to and from his wandering mind.
Then the world disappeared slowly into blackness and all memory departed, and Colton fell strengthless to the sand. Tyran was there, standing over him, speaking, but the image did not form before his eyes, nor did the words make any sound in his ears. There was only blackness and distant confusion, telling him something was wrong, but even that was far remote, part of a far-off world from which he was departing. But as his mind let loose its hold on reality—on life—an image came vividly to his eyes, quickly, suddenly. It was a bright face, a gentle smile on soft lips, blue eyes sparkling in the starlight, calling him back from a dark otherworld. A quiet, tender voice spoke in his mind, calming his heaving chest and offering long-sought peace.
Tyran knelt beside Colton’s still body, motionless but for quiet breathing, and lifted him from the ground. With a heavy draw of breath, he faced the horizon as the sun began to sink out of sight and set off once more, willpower the only thing carrying him on. Every step was forced from the last of his strength, and his mind refused any thought other than to push his way on—always another stride, another step, till he should drop dead. And for Tyran, to long for death was weakness. Death was release, freedom—failure to endure life.
For Colton, there was only darkness, not threatening, not welcoming, but still and calm. It was when the pain began to return that he knew he still lived and had come back to reality. He opened his eyes to find himself lying upon a bed, well-rested but sore and hungry. He sat up in vaguely alarmed confusion, his eyes searching a small but neat room. Fumbling to push back the covers, he stumbled from the bed, underestimating his strength and falling to the ground as he put weight on his injured ankle. Colton groaned at the pain, but pulled himself to his feet and threw open the curtains to a window. There was the desert, spreading wide before him, the sun beating down upon the sand.
“You’ll rip down my curtains if you don’t get back in bed,” a voice spoke suddenly from the doorway.
Colton turned to stare at an old man, hunched over a walking stick, staring back at him with sharp eyes.
“I’m serious, you know,” he went on. “Look at yourself. You’re hardly fit to be on your feet.”
Colton realized suddenly that he was gripping the curtains for support, and released them to fall back on the bed.
“Tell me this isn’t just a dream,” Colton said, still staring, uncomprehending, at the man.
“Do you want it to be a dream?” he questioned, his expression unchanging.
“Where’s Tyran?” Colton didn’t seem to hear the question.
“Your friend is asleep. Arrived on the doorstep carrying you, both of you looking like dead men.”
“Dead men don’t walk.”
The old man was still staring sharply at Colton. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Colton sighed and glanced around the room. “Who are you?” he asked finally.
“Just an old man living alone in the middle of the desert. An odd occupation, I know, but these are not normal times.”
Colton was silent, suddenly tired again, at a loss for words and feeling vaguely overwhelmed.
“You must be hungry,” the man said.
“Famished,” Colton said.
“I’ll bring you some food. Just…” he glanced at Colton’s swollen ankle. “Wait here.”
“I can walk,” Colton said shortly.
“You think you can walk, but you couldn’t stand on that foot for more than five minutes. Wait here.”
Colton was annoyed, but he was left no opportunity to object. The man left and returned a few moments later, bearing a bowl of soup and bread. Colton forgot his anger quickly at sight of the food, and the man left him to devour it. When he had finished there was no sight of the man, and Colton limped from the room, where a table and small kitchen formed the rest of their host’s accommodations. Tyran sat on the floor with a plate of food.
“Colton!” Tyran greeted him as he entered the room and fell to a chair.
“Where’s our host?” Colton asked.
“Outside, I believe.”
“I need an explanation,” he sighed. “What happened? Where are we?”
Tyran was staring into space. “You passed out a few miles back.”
Colton nodded. “That I remember.”
“I carried you until I was ready to drop dead, and then I saw a house somewhere in the distance. Everything was a blur at that point, but somehow I ended up on the doorstep and the old man took us in. That must have been last night.”
Colton was frowning, still confused. “Do you know who he is?” he asked.
“I know nothing more than you,” Tyran said. “But so far he at least hasn’t tried to kill us, which is one step better than everyone else.”
Colton laughed bitterly in remembrance of the past week.
“We were fools not to see the truth,” he said.
“And now Aiza will be out of reach forever,” Tyran said quietly.
Colton looked up at his words, but Tyran was still staring away. His tone was lifeless, but there was sorrow in his eyes. Pain struck Colton’s heart, and he looked away before Tyran saw the regret in his own eyes.
A long moment later Tyran shook himself from his daze to ask, “How’s your ankle?”
Colton grimaced at the reminder. “I’ll be thankful if I can ever run again,” he said.
His mind grasped for anything to say to stop that despairing silence from falling again, but he found nothing. To his relief the door creaked and the old man entered, not seeming to notice them. Tyran rose to face him.
“I’d like to thank you for your hospitality,” he said.
“Don’t mention it,” the man said, his words emotionless.
“Pardon my putting it so bluntly, but… who are you?”
“Who am I?” He chuckled, a peculiar laugh with no enthusiasm. “I was once called the Mechanic.” He released a long sigh, settling himself at the table across from Colton. “Years ago, I lived within Vellatha, of primary importance to King Alastor.” He spoke the name with little respect. “I was his engineer. It was Alastor’s wish to build… ships. Flying ships. Vessels that could carry him to other planets.”
A light entered Colton’s eyes at the man’s words. “I was taken from my home on such a vessel,” he said. “Where are they now?”
“Safely guarded in a building north of Vellatha, unless Alastor destroyed them.”
“Could you build another?”
The man laughed again. “Not without the proper equipment, which is not to be found here and not to be granted within Vellatha.”
“What brought you to live here?” Tyran asked.
“If I’m not wrong, the same that drove you to the desert. The king is a fool and a coward, more so I would guess in his older days now than when I knew him. He would kill me if I returned.”
“Then you know of his deception,” Tyran said.
“Which one? He is a very deceptive man, and only to keep safe his own head and the crown upon it. He offers lies to the weak and death to the strong. There are perhaps a dozen men in his entire kingdom whom he trusts—admittedly a very dangerous position for a king, though it is his own fault.”
“From our own experience,” Tyran said dryly, “it would seem the victor of each year’s Games is killed—and by an old woman.”
A peculiar light entered their host’s eye. “Mazhura?”
“Yes,” Tyran said, frowning.
He laughed. “There was always an evil side to that woman,” he said, more to himself than to them.
Colton was frowning too. “She seemed to be nothing but evil,” he said.
“Murderess or not, there’s more to that hag than meets the eyes.” He chuckled again. “But let me see,” he addressed Tyran, “You won the Games?”
Tyran nodded.
“And the king tried to kill you?”
He nodded again.
“Very good. Then all that rubbish about spirits will have been pounded out of your head. And you,” he turned to Colton, “I supposed you never believed any of that in the first place.”
Colton shook his head.
“Then you did one better than me. It took me twelve entire years to see the truth about that. Can you imagine? Twelve years! Hah. Not all of us are so ready to accept the truth, even when it is thrown right before our faces.”
He eyed them each.
“You’ll be wanting to clean yourselves up,” he said. “And you, Colton, back to bed. You’ll have to let me put a splint on that ankle.”
Colton didn’t know how the man had learned his name—and it occurred to him that they had never learned that of their host—but he had no wish to argue and so he consented. As for Tyran, he went outside to wash himself at a crumbling well, seeming overwhelmed.
This little exchange made me laugh:
“Your friend is asleep. Arrived on the doorstep carrying you, both of you looking like dead men.”
“Dead men don’t walk.”
The old man was still staring sharply at Colton. “I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Great work!
Interesting turn to the story!