Chapter IV

Your father never told you much about our camp, did he?

“No, he didn’t. I mean, we never spoke that much anyway…”

No matter- I can remember for the both of us. He laughs. I suppose I must try not to overdo it. Thirty years makes things much bigger in my mind than it likely was.

If you were a bird flying over, you would see a sea of canvas fluttering in the breeze. Our camp was something akin to a thousand tents scattered haphazardly in a circle about a quarter of a mile wide. 

“No organization of any kind? That’s strange.”

What did you expect? We weren’t a military group- we had no generals or leaders other than Cyphus. Yes, he reported directly to the Four, but none of them were going to leave their padded thrones to come and inspect us in the blistering sandy heat. We set up our tents to our liking, and a bunch of mercenaries were not going to set up their camp orderly. At least there was usually room to walk between tents.

There was a sort of market in our camp- there were prime spots to set up, and men would capitalize on it. I don’t remember his name, but there was an older Reclaimer who sort of ran it all. If you wanted to buy a spot close to the bar, or next to the mess hall, or right around the corner from the… He coughs and blushes slightly. The “Recreation Hall”, then you’d go to him and he’d give you the name of a man who was looking to sell and you’d hammer out the details. It was a booming business- Hym and I sold our spot a few times when we needed a bit of extra money to make ends meet. 

Naturally, when you have a fluid, rearrangeable space, you’d get subsequent “regions”. Hym and I lived in the Halivarian “district”. Maryk lived in the Venxorian, and Jems and Jone were on the “border” of Danshyv and Sanklat. It was a good spot, surely- their dark skin and black hair allowed them to pass for either side. 

At the center of this “circle” was the only true building- Captain Cyphus’s quarters. Built on the ruins of a Jitdon village, his quarters were a steady, solid edifice unlike our little canvas shanties. Now, I generally despise buildings made from stone, especially in the heat of the desert, but Lire make me dust if that wasn’t one of the most beautiful and functional buildings I had ever seen. The ruins had been fixed by Venxorian architects, and so it was a strange amalgamation of both extinct and modern styles that fascinated my eyes. It made me wonder if, in another life perhaps, I might have been an architect. He laughs, but with a bitter edge to it. Look at me. Talking about such things as reincarnation even as I remember what happened in Cyphus’s halls.

“If it pains you to speak of it…”

No, I brought it upon myself. That building… the emotions all conflict when I think of it. But I have digressed too much. Where was I?

“You and Maryk were about to get roaring drunk.”

Right, right. He sighs. Oh, how I wish I could go back to those days. Those days when I had no cares, when I and others could go and revel until the sun came up and we stumbled away to our cots.

“I will admit,” Maryk said as we walked. “I haven’t been to the Starving Seagull much. I never seemed to be able to have the good time the other mercenaries were having.”

“Ah, well that’s no good.” I laughed. “It’s the best tavern I know of, and trust me,” I gave him a wink. “I’ve been to a few in my time.” He chuckled as we stepped through the wooden doors, one of the only set in the entire camp.

“Pytyr!” a jolly voice shouted- Zanlyn, the bartender. “You rogue! I thought I told you that you weren’t allowed in here anymore!”

“And I told you before,” I shouted back, leading Maryk through the throng of boisterous men. “I’m your best customer. If you lost me, you’d have to close your doors!”

“Get over here!” He laughed, and we clapped each other on the back. “You’re over here far too much, you know that?”

“No such thing,” I shot back. “Besides, I have to be here tonight to introduce my young friend to the glories of you ale.”

“A rookie, eh?” The grin on Zanlyn’s was mischievous. “Well, I just so happen to have some Venxorian grut just in.”

“Grut?” I scratched my chin. “Are you sure he can handle it?”

“Oh I’m almost certain he can’t.” Zanlyn bellowed a laugh. “But that’s the fun of it, right?”

Maryk looked skeptical, but he gave no objection. Zanlyn lead us over to a circular table in the corner and set the bottle and two glasses down. “Of course, drinking is always more fun with a friend.”

“You’d be right about that as well.” I laughed. “Care to be our third? Two men together may kill themselves, but with three it becomes a true contest.”

“I could be persuaded.” He reached into his pocket and took out a third glass, adding it to the fray. “It’s damn good grut.” He began to pour out the fine green liquid, and we began to lose ourselves at the bottom of it. Maryk seemed to be doing well… At least, he wasn’t coughing up a lung or anything. The boy could hold his liquor.

But, while we were partaking of glorious nectar, Hym was falling fast.

Neither I nor Maryk had noticed when he had slipped away after we spoke with Simun, and neither of us really cared. But we should have. I’ve known Hym for so long, I should have been able to see when he was hurting, when he was a danger to himself and others. But, Lire to dust, it happened so rarely that I had grown lax.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

How can you say that? It isn’t the cornered beast’s fault that he kills an attacker- it is the fault of the keeper who let the attacker through. Such is the way with beasts, such is the way with man. Because of my inability to care about anyone but myself, a man died that day. You know. You’ve heard the stories, seen the accusations.

“I have. But I would like to hear it from a direct source.”

Direct source. He snorts. Even I heard it from Hym, hours after it happened. But I suppose he isn’t here to tell us anymore. He takes a deep breath.

Hym was reeling at the time, for a number of reasons. A fight with a Stingclaw, the revelation of seeing Simun, the horror of knowing Simun was going to die- choose any one of them. A single factor would have brought a lesser man to his knees. A cacophony of traumas… it gives some sort of justification to his actions.

Hym was much like I was currently attempting to become- drunk. He stumbled through the camp, scarcely avoiding knocking over tents and cooking fires. A few of my comrades mentioned that he ran like an insane man, and they were frightened because of it. Hym paid them no mind. He just kept running.

“Why run? He wasn’t in any danger.”

Why does any man run when in pain? Would you walk calmly through the camp while a storm raged in your head? For that matter, if Hym was calm enough to do so, why would he leave me in the first place?

“Where was he running to?”

Nowhere. He just wanted to run. But he stopped at the edge of camp, where the footprints leave the sand. Now, remember, this is Hym telling what happened, not I.

He stood at the edge of the camp, breathing heavily as he furiously ran his fingers through his hair. His mind was filled with fire and wind. Chaos roved through every niche of his thoughts. 

What can I do? He thought. Simun isn’t even supposed to exist. I shouldn’t even exist. There is nothing that I can do to stop his execution. Because that’s what it is. No use calling it what it isn’t.

But…

Why should he be executed? Why were the Dusters killed in the first place? There is nothing that I can do that makes me wicked, makes me evil. There is nothing about being a Duster that makes an entire people a race of murderers. I should be standing up to Cyphus, not cowering out here like a frightened child.

He went on like this for hours, pacing back and forth in the sand and having a difficult conversation with himself. It’s completely understandable, if you think about it. He was, in almost every sense, two men in one body. One man was the mercenary, the dishonorable man who does what he needs to so he can support his loved ones. This was the man that he needed to be, the man who wouldn’t be killed for revealing himself. But the other man… the other man was the proud Duster, the remnant of a lost people. He was the man filled with honor and dignity, and he bitterly resented having to stay hidden. Hym never wanted to admit it, but I know that he felt somewhat like a god. I know that sometimes he wished he could do what Simun did that day in camp- reveal himself and proclaim his superiority. But he couldn’t.

Enough. He finally said to himself. Enough of this madness. You know what you cannot do, and it is impossible to convince yourself otherwise.

And that would have been the end of it.

“Would have?”

Yes. If he hadn’t decided to practice at that point.

Hym knew that he could never reveal himself, and I believe that he could live with that. But the one thing that he refused to admit was that he needed to swear off his power. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And he didn’t. But that is ultimately what began this ordeal.

He took several deep breaths before summoning a tendril of sand and forming it into a long pike. Eyes closed and breathing steady, he began to whirl in a beautiful pattern, stabbing and swiping with the end of his weapon. Hym knew how to handle his power very well, and it showed in his routines.

“You speak as if you were there.”

Come now. You asked for a story. A true story, no doubt, but a story nonetheless. And what bard can resist a few embellishments for the sake of a good tale?

But if you insist, I suppose I can keep it brief. Brief, violent, saddening, but accurate. Suffice it to say that Hym spent several hours fighting with himself, both inwardly and outwardly. He swung that pike, and later a sword, mace, and various other weapons, late into the night. By the end of it, he had worked up a sweat despite the cold night air of the desert.  With a sigh, he let the sand fall back to the ground.

And turned around when he heard a sound behind him..

A young man, one of the newest recruits stood behind. Travyn, I think his name was. He had his hands at his trousers- it seemed like he had come out to relieve himself in the sand when he discovered Hym’s training.

“Reclaimer Hym?” he said quietly. “What’s going on? What were you doing?”

“Travyn…” Hym stuttered, his face blanching. “I… I don’t…”

“You’re one of them,” Travyn accused. “You’re a Duster. You’re a murderer.”

“No I’m not!” Hym shouted. “I am no such thing!”

“All Dusters are!” Travyn began buttoning up his pants while he shouted. “Captain! Captain Cyphus!”

“Travyn!” Hym hissed, running forward and jerking the young man back. “You’re making a mistake!”

“No, you made a mistake!” Travyn shook Hym’s arm away. “You made a mistake ever coming near us, killer!”

In that split second, Hym made his decision. He chose the path to take in that instant, and nothing we did afterwards could have changed it. He flipped a small tendril of sand up from the ground and shot it forward through the air, impaling Travyn through the back. Travyn fell to the sand without a sound, blood leaking out of a near perfect circular wound in his spine.

Hym was stunned as he stared at Travyn, watching the crimson circle in the sand grew larger and larger. His breath was ragged, his hands were shaking, but for the first time that night he could think. The chaos in his mind was suddenly replaced with a single cold, clear thought: survive. There were few ways that this could end, and even fewer ended with him staying alive. He needed to think of something, and he needed to think of something quickly.

And, suddenly, it hit him. 

It was the perfect solution. It allowed him to both stay alive and repay what he felt was his debt to Simun. And most importantly, it would allow him to assign the blame far from him. No one would suspect. 

With a much lighter step than before, he began to run through the camp with nary a sound.

“And during all of this, you and Maryk were destroying your minds with drink.”

Forgive me, but don’t listen to anything those Alchemysts say. Alcohol may give you very strong language and a hangover the next day, but it doesn’t do any more than that. I’ve been drinking myself into insensibility for years, and I’m still kicking. 

But, yes, me and Maryk drank grut for a few hours before we both passed out as Zanlyn laughed. Such is the way most of my nights ended, and I thought the morning after would be none too different. How I was wrong.

Zanlyn woke Maryk and I up with a violent shake.

“Rise and smell the dust, boys,” he said gravely. “The alarm is sounding, and there’s nothing good about when that happens.”

“Is that what that is?” I grumbled, sitting up from the table and rubbing my temples. Lire to dust, it felt like war drums were being playing on my skull. “I thought it was the twittering of a few songbirds.”

“Don’t be snippy with me, Pytyr.” Zanlyn raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one who sounded it. Now get out there before I get in trouble for keeping you in here while the alarm was going.”

With a grunt I grabbed Maryk’s shoulders and hoisted us both up. He actually had the gall to smile at me.

“Morning,” he said with a yawn. “What’s all the noise?”

“Don’t be so cheerful- you could at least have the decency to pretend that you feel as horrible as I do.”

“You were the one who chose grut, mate. I can’t help the fact that it’s like mother’s milk to me.”

“Shut up. Anyway, the alarm is sounding and we have to get out there.”

Maryk looked surprised as we walked out into the dust, weaving ourselves into the crowd of soldiers making their way to Cyphus’s quarters. 

“What’s the occasion? Has an army been spotted marching on us?”

“Good luck be with them if they have.” I snorted. “They don’t know the desert like we do.”

“Then what is it then?”

“Nothing good,” I heard Jems say behind us as we stopped moving. “I’ve been hearing rumors, and it isn’t something that’ll make Cyphus happy, if you know what I mean.”

A hush fell over the throng of soldiers and Cyphus stepped out on his balcony.

“Gentlemen,” he shouted, a grim expression crossing his face. “I will level with you. The Pontyff has escaped. And somebody let him out.”

A gasp went through the crowd, like a hiss of steam from water thrown on a fire.

“Nothing was broken, and there were no signs of any Duster powers. The guard’s were knocked out with some sort of bludgeon to the head, and their keys were stolen. Unfortunately, I’m saddened to tell you that Recruit Travyn was killed as he attempted to prevent the Pontyff’s escape.” He held up a hand to forestall any outbursts. “I will be appointing a squad to investigate this and recapture him, but I need you all to be on the lookout. If you find any sort of hint or information, come to me immediately.” With that, he spun around and walked back into his chambers.

 I had a sneaking suspicion. I turned around quickly, as I suspected, to see Hym standing there behind me. He held no emotion as he looked back at me, and I knew that he wasn’t just an innocent bystander.

“Hym,” I whispered as I walked closer to him. “What did you do? What in Lire’s name did you do?”

“Not now,” he hissed, and suddenly I could see the fear in his eyes. “Don’t make me say anything now, Pytyr.” He held up a hand, and I could see it shaking. “I’m barely holding up as it is.”

I grabbed his hand. “You’re coming with me, and you’re going to tell me everything.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

We pushed through the crowd as fast as we could get away from the haunting whispers of the men who were now hunting him.