The road was sandy and rutted, fresh tracks braided over old ones. Horse droppings weren’t in short
supply. The clatter grew louder until a cart crested the hill.
Algar crouched, one hand close to his axe, and watched carefully.
The driver looked ancient—the skin of his face the color of ash, his eyes fixed ahead and lifeless. Several
people rode in the cart. A child clung to his mother, who cradled a bundle in her arms. Beside them sat a
man with half his face wrapped in bandages. Blood seeped through the cloth, but he said nothing.
They drew close. Algar lifted a hand in greeting.
“You’re alive…” the old man whispered, disbelief heavy in his voice. “From where?”
“A village below Leon’s Fortress. We were attacked—” He broke off. A few people on the cart sucked in
a breath. He didn’t finish the sentence.
“Same with us,” the bandaged man said. “They came out of nowhere. Their eyes burned with black fire.
They killed anything that moved.”
“You bound for Starburn?” The old man tugged the reins, cutting short the torrent of words.
“Yes.”
Algar climbed onto the back, next to a sleeping boy—six springs old at most, dark smudges under his
eyes, his hands raw and picked at. Even asleep, he trembled.
“Do you have anything to eat?” the woman whispered. Her voice shook.
Algar handed over the last of his meat. He didn’t dare meet her eyes.
“Thank you. Ekomi bless you.” He could have sworn he saw a tear glimmer there.
He looked up at last. Her face was gaunt and frightened, yet warm and gentle.
They rode in silence for a long while. The cart creaked; wheels knocked against stones. The wind carried
dust, the scent of the forest—and fear.
“They do it for sport,” the old man muttered. “We brought vengeance upon ourselves with our sins.”
Algar looked at him. He didn’t want to believe it.
“You think it’s punishment?”
“Worse than punishment. Like hell cracked and spilled onto the earth.”
The cart halted at the edge of a small clearing. The sun hung just above the treetops, throwing long
shadows. The driver slid down from the bench with a soft groan and began to make camp. The mother
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and children settled beneath a low oak, clutching the baby and the boy. The wounded man leaned
against a trunk and closed his eyes. His breathing was heavy, but he said nothing.
Algar scanned the road.
On the far side came another group—ten, maybe fifteen souls. Some pushed handcarts; others carried
bundles. One man bore a body on his back, wrapped in linen. They passed without a word, their eyes
empty.
Like ghosts.
“That’s the third such procession since we set out,” the woman murmured, watching them go. “It
reminds me of a war caravan. Only now the war has teeth in its maw and fire in its eyes.”
Algar nodded. He stayed quiet a long time, then sat beside her.
“Where are you from?”
“Warven. There were more of us. I saved the neighbor’s children. Their parents…” Her voice faltered. “I
didn’t make it in time.”
He didn’t know what to say. His hands trembled, though he forced himself to sit still.
The old man snorted a laugh and jabbed a finger toward the sky. “Punishment, I tell you! Punishment for
pride and debauchery! Tynos Himself has turned His face from us—and rightly so! I saw mothers bear
children not their husbands’, peasants drink themselves blind at the tavern,” he spat, “and sinners
befoul sacred ground without a shred of remorse!”
“Grandfather’s been like this,” the woman whispered. “Before everything fell apart, he helped at the
shrine. Then something in him broke.”
Algar glanced at the bandaged man. He sat deaf as a stump, staring at the dirt. Feeling Algar’s gaze, he
only shook his head. His eyes were hollow.
Silence fell. Only the fire snapped softly. As the sun tilted west, everyone drew closer to the cart.
Algar finished the last heel of bread—hard, nothing like what his mother used to make.
A rustle sounded behind him.
He stood. His sickle was in his hand before he fully realized it.
Two men burst from the brush—young, bearded, gaunt, something feral in their eyes.
“Hand over the food—quickly,” one snarled. “And the purses. No need t’ die for it.”
Something swelled inside Algar. A primal anger rose.
“Shut your mouth, whelp!” the other shouted, lifting a knife.
The old man cried out. The woman threw herself over the children.
Algar slashed with all his strength. The thief never saw it coming. Blood sprayed from his arm,
splattering the boy.
“Agh! Kill him!” the wounded bandit screamed. His knife clattered to the ground. Birds exploded from
the trees.
“You’ll pay for this with your life!” the second bandit snarled and charged.
He cut from the left, from the right—but Algar slipped away with ease, stepping off the line as if he’d
done it all his life. He slid under the man’s arm and chopped at his throat. The axe bit deep. The head
rolled across the ground, eyes frozen in terrified surprise. Blood fountained in every direction.
“No! No! Go away! You can’t!” shrieked the first.
He pushed himself backward, smearing blood across the dirt. Tears streaked his twisted face. He soiled
his trousers.
Algar walked toward him, slow and methodical.
At last, he cut the man’s throat.
Silence followed. Only the fire crackled, uncaring.
The sickle dripped blood.
The boy felt nothing—no pride, no fear, no remorse.
He turned. Every survivor stared at him.
He met the woman’s gaze. He couldn’t tell whether he saw gratitude there—or horror.
His grip on the axe began to tremble. Only now did he feel his breath racing. He tried to steady it and
failed.
The woman still held the children. One wept softly. The bandaged man said nothing. The old man
muttered prayers under his breath, as if stopping might invite something worse.
Algar sat on a fallen log and lowered his head. At last, he set the sickle down. It lay there like something
foreign—an instrument serving not him, but whatever had seized him.
He didn’t speak. No tears came.
But as he stared at his blood-smeared hand, a single thought surfaced.
Who am I?
He walked a short distance away and said nothing to anyone.
