They began the journey to Nearv that night. Utgar could hardly believe what had happened. It seemed almost too good to be true that he had Runa back, was reunited with Vraen – the only true friend he had ever had in the Volcarren – and was on his way to the only place the Empire wouldn’t look for him. But it was real. Vraen’s men – around thirty of them – moved off down a nearby canyon, Utgar, Runa, and the other prisoners in their midst, Vraen leading the way.

Utgar held one end of a stretcher, on which Runa lay. The angular-faced prisoner held the other end. She had not stirred since they left the tent.

As they moved along the canyon, the sky slowly lightened, from black, to deepest blue, slowly growing lighter and lighter. The canyon gradually took form around them as the light began to reveal its crags and crevices.

Utgar shifted his grip, and Runa rolled slightly upon the stretcher. A tiny ray of the new sun fell upon her, and it lit her arm, which had fallen from the black robe Vraen had placed over her against the cold of the night. The skin was badly burned.

Utgar nearly dropped the stretcher. “Runa!” he cried, lowering his end to the ground and kneeling beside her on the hard rock. He took her arm gently and looked at it. In the darkness of the tent, she had been hidden, but now, in the daylight, he saw that her whole arm had been burned. And not evenly, as though by fire. The burn marks were spaced evenly, and all the same size and shape. She had been burned by irons.

“Runa!” Utgar cried. “What have they done to you?” He quickly threw aside the robe covering her and held up her other arm: it too had been burned. There were burns all over her body. Each black mark made Utgar’s muscles clench. His body shook as he saw what had been done to his daughter.

The young prisoner, the boy, came up beside Utgar. He stared at Runa, his eyes wide with horror.

“You,” — Utgar turned to him — “Do you know why they have done this?”

The boy shook his head, mutely staring at Runa.

“Gods above,” breathed Vraen, who had come to see why they had stopped. “She’s been tortured! Quickly,” he said to the soldiers about him, “bring water for her burns.”

Utgar was already unstopping his own waterskin. He tipped some of the precious liquid down Runa’s throat. She swallowed in her sleep, but did not wake.

“Why?” he whispered, “why would they do this?”

Vraen put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said. “But the sooner we get her to Nearv, the better. She probably knows more than we do; she’ll be able to tell us when she wakes.”

Utgar nodded, staring at his daughter. The flash of anger he had felt slowly cooled as he looked at her. “Yes,” he agreed. “We must get to Nearv.”

Nearv was less than a day’s journey away. Utgar walked slowly, his eyes fixed on the still form of his daughter. Every few steps, anger would flare within him at the sight of one of her burns, but it never lasted long. Runa was the priority. Vengeance could wait.

By the time the sun was again touching the horizon, Nearv was in sight. It was, as Utgar had suspected, the same large village he had seen when he left the desert. Vraen’s party moved straight for the gate, which was thrown open as they arrived.

The village consisted of only a few large lean-tos, and several small huts. But it was full of people. Hide tents were everywhere, and the ground had been worn down to sand. Raiders, wearing a collection of Volcarren and Imperial armor, lined the way to the largest building, and Utgar glimpsed women and children behind them. Vraen was powerful indeed if he could protect all these people.

They went straight to the middle of the village, where there was a large building constructed from rock, mud bricks, bones of various animals, and many hides. This was, Utgar guessed, where Vraen lived.

“Take her inside my hall,” Vraen said, motioning Utgar into the building. “There’s a small room on the right. You can put her there.”

Utgar and the angular-faced prisoner carried the stretcher with Runa on it into the hall, turned into the small room Vraen had indicated, and set her down gently on the hard stone floor. Her head lolled, but otherwise she remained still.

“I’ll leave you alone with her, Utgar,” Vraen said, who had followed them. “Don’t worry; the Empire won’t look for her here.”

“Thank you, Vraen,” Utgar said, looking up. “Thank you.”

“It’s time you owed me for a change,” Vraen said, with a flicker of a smile. Then he turned and left, leaving Utgar alone with Runa.

It was several hours before Runa finally stirred. She took a long, slow breath without opening her eyes. Utgar, who had been sitting against the wall, moved forward, but at the slight sound, Runa squeezed her eyes tight shut, rolled onto her side, and curled up, holding her head in her hands, as if to ward off blows. The position sickened Utgar.

“Runa,” he said softly, kneeling beside her, “Runa, I’m here. It’s over. You’re safe.”

For a moment Runa didn’t react. Then slowly, she opened her eyes and turned her head towards him. They widened when she saw him. “Father…?”

“It’s me, Runa,” Utgar said.

And then she moved. Runa grasped at him like someone floundering in loose sand, and Utgar caught her, and held her close. She curled against him, crying, shaking, clutching him as though at any moment he would turn to smoke.

For a long time Utgar held her, holding her just as tightly as she did him. Finally, she began to calm. Her tears stopped, her shaking stilled, and she loosened her grip on his arm. But she was still curled against him, like an animal seeking shelter, and the occasional tremor still shook her.

Utgar looked down at her, intending to ask her what happened, but the question died in his throat as he saw her. Her eyes were closed, and she was resting against him. He held her closer. Soon. Soon, she would have to relive it. But not yet.

Well after Runa had gone to sleep in Utgar’s arms, the hide door to the room was pulled aside softly. It was Vraen.

“Utgar,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but something has happened. You should come with me.”

“My place is with my daughter, Vraen,” Utgar said.

“This… concerns her,” Vraen said. He glanced at Runa with a strange expression, one not unlike the look he had once given Utgar, years ago: a flicker of fear. “You need to come,” he said, turning back to Utgar.

Utgar hated to leave Runa, but Vraen’s tone unsettled him. Something was wrong. Gently, he laid Runa down on the stretcher, and then rose. “I’ll be back soon,” he whispered to her. Then he followed Vraen out of the room.

“What is it?” Utgar asked immediately.

Vraen walked out of the hall, and into the village. Utgar followed.

“You’re not the only person who’s come here to escape the Empire,” Vraen said. “Every now and then, someone escapes Srung and comes here.”

Utgar waited in silence.

“One such fugitive,” Vraen said slowly, “was held in Srung for nearly a month, for killing soldiers who attacked his family. He was tortured. When they tired of torturing him, the guards threw him out, and he came here, seeking sanctuary. That was two months ago. 

“This fugitive came to me a few minutes ago with a most curious story. He said that he remembers the faces of every kyrie who tortured him while he was in Srung. He said they were burned into his memory. And he said… that one of those kyrie is among the prisoners we just rescued last night.”

It took Utgar a moment to realize what Vraen was saying. “What… you mean he’s… he’s a spy?”

“Decide for yourself,” Vraen said. He stopped outside a low hovel, and motioned Utgar inside. Utgar hesitated for a moment, and then pulled aside the hide and went in.

One of the prisoners – the one with stubble – was on the ground. He had clearly been beaten; his face was bloodied, and one eye was swollen shut. Two guards stood over him, stone axes at the ready.

Vraen ducked into the hovel. “This is Utgar, spy,” he said. “You should recognize him.”

The kyrie didn’t move.

Vraen kicked him. “Sit up,” he spat.

The kyrie coughed up some blood and struggled into a sitting position.

“I want you to tell Utgar here everything you just told me,” Vraen said. “Start with who you are.”

The kyrie looked sullenly at Vraen, but when one of the guards twitched his axe menacingly, he began to speak.

“I’m a soldier,” he said, coughing some more. “A soldier… of Ahnvad. I guard… the prisons.”

“And torture the prisoners,” Vraen growled. “Go on. Tell us why Runa was taken.”

Utgar knelt down, listening carefully.

“The girl,” the spy said. “Ahnvad has been looking for her… been trying to find her…”

“Why?” Utgar asked.

The spy looked at him through his one good eye. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Ahnvad knew it the moment he saw her… She was the one… She knows…”

“Knows what!” Utgar repeated.

The spy coughed. He glared at Utgar.

“She knows where the Wellspring is,” he said.

“Runa!”

“Quiet!” the angular-featured kyrie hissed, but Utgar ignored him.

“Runa!” She didn’t move.

“She can’t hear you,” a voice said from Utgar’s left. Utgar turned and saw that the boy on the far left had spoken.

“What do you mean?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“She’s drugged,” the boy said. “Don’t worry, she’s fine, but she won’t wake for a while.”

Utgar forced his breathing to slow. She was fine. Runa was fine. “Why?” he asked between breaths. “Why would they drug her?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know, but I do know the guards will come in soon if you don’t keep your voice down.”

Utgar nodded. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Who is she to you?” the bearded kyrie asked, his whisper more of a growl.

“My daughter,” Utgar said, turning to look back at the motionless lump which was Runa. “She’s my daughter.”

The night passed slowly. Utgar could barely tear his eyes away from Runa, but after several hours of staring at her unmoving form, he began to hear strange sounds coming from outside the tent.

At first all was silent. Occasionally there would be the clink of armor, which Utgar assumed was a guard shifting position. But once he heard a dull thud close to the tent, and several times he was sure he heard a soft tearing noise, as if fabric were being pulled apart very slowly and carefully. Utgar couldn’t guess what these sounds meant, but his muscles tensed, and his eyes strained to see in the near-darkness.

And then, just as the feel of the air had shifted, and Utgar guessed that dawn was approaching, a shadowy figure lifted the tent flap, and walked inside. The figure carried a sword, and against the light color of the tent wall, Utgar could see that something dark dripped from it. The figure slowly approached the five prisoners. Utgar tensed, ready for a fight. And then the figure spoke.

“By Migol,” he breathed, “I knew it was you, Utgar!”

Utgar recognized that voice. It was one he hadn’t heard in over twelve years, except for in his dreams.

“Vraen?” he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

“It’s me, Utgar,” Vraen said, “and you don’t need to whisper. The soldiers are dead; the camp is mine.” He knelt and began untying Utgar.

“But – You—” Utgar spluttered.

“My scouts have been following you for two days,” Vraen explained as he worked. “You were being tracked the moment you entered my territory. I had my suspicions it was you, because you came from the desert, and because you killed eight soldiers with only a scratch to show for it.”

Utgar remembered the black kyrie which had seemed to watch him, but other questions were more pressing. “Your territory?” Utgar repeated.

“That’s right,” Vraen said, finishing untying Utgar and moving on to the angular-faced kyrie. “My days of roaming the Barbarian Lands ended soon after yours did. I was tired of the constant fighting and moving from place to place. I wanted to settle somewhere and build something. Apparently, my idea was shared by quite a few of our band, because a year later we had a small village to our name and raiders were joining us by droves. By now I control most of the central Strip.” He moved on to Runa. “But what about you? How did you get captured?”

“I—” Utgar was still struggling with the sudden appearance of a friend he hadn’t seen in over a decade. “But… how did you find me? What are you doing here?”

Vraen finished untying Runa (she remained unconscious), and moved on to the other prisoners. “I’m the biggest clan,” he said simply. “No one dares threaten me except for the Empire. We try to stay out of each other’s way, but I keep an eye on them anyway. They could destroy me if they decided I was a threat.”

Utgar glanced at the blood dripping from Vraen’s sword. “What changed?” he asked.

Vraen glanced at his sword. “Nothing,” he said. “Like I said, I thought it might be you my scouts were following, and when the Empire captured you, I decided to pay this camp a little visit. They were far too close to my territory anyway. They should know better.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry,” Vraen said. He held up a black cloth hood. “They don’t know it was us who attacked them. There’s a group of extremists to the south – Vel they’re called – they’re always attacking the Empire. They wear hoods like this – it makes impersonating them dead easy.” He finally finished untying all of the prisoners and returned to Utgar.

“But I want to hear what drove you from the desert. My scouts say you were moving as if your life depended on it.”

Utgar stood and moved to where Runa lay. He knelt by her side and put his hand under her head; it was limp and lifeless, but he could feel her breathing slowly.

“This is my daughter,” he told Vraen. “She was taken by the Empire.” He quickly related how he had found his home burning and Runa gone. When he finished, Vraen was silent for a long time.

Finally he said, “what you’ve told me makes no sense. Why would the Empire abduct your daughter? She wasn’t exactly easy to reach.”

Utgar shook his head. “I don’t know. But I couldn’t let them take her.”

“They’ll be looking for her,” Vraen said. “The Empire. It only makes sense,” he added when Utgar looked at him. “She was halfway into the desert; there are far easier targets. That means she’s not just anyone to them.”

The shock of seeing Vraen was starting to wear off, and the reality that the Empire was after Runa was now sinking in. “We’ll hide,” Utgar said. “I did it once; I can do it again.”

“They found you once,” Vraen said. “They can probably do that again, too.” Utgar looked at him. “There’s only one place you can go right now, Utgar: Nearv, my village. You’ll be safe from the Empire there.”

Utgar was silent for a moment. “What about you, though?” he said. “If they find out that you’re sheltering me—”

“But they won’t,” Vraen said. “Not if we stay hidden on our way back, and use our Vel disguises if we meet any soldiers. Trust me, Utgar. I can hide you there until they lose their interest in your daughter.”

Now that he had Runa back, part of Utgar – a very large part – wanted only to flee back to the desert, and rebuild his life. But Vraen was right. The Empire had found him there once, and there was no reason they wouldn’t find him there again.

“Alright,” Utgar said. “I’ll go to Nearv. Thank you, Vraen. I’ll repay you someday.”

Vraen waved his hand dismissively. “You owe me nothing, Utgar. You’ve saved my life plenty of times. Kirav!” he suddenly called over his shoulder. A kyrie robed in black entered the tent. “These were the Empire’s prisoners, Kirav,” Vraen said. “Make sure they have food and water. We’re taking them all back to Nearv.”

Kirav nodded and left the tent.

Vraen put a hand on Utgar’s shoulder. “It will be like old times,” he said. “You and me together again.”

Utgar finally permitted himself to smile. “Do you still plot the Empire’s end around the fire every night?” he asked.

“Less so,” Vraen admitted. “I have to live with them if I’m to survive. But if you got me a Wellspring, I’d gladly flatten Srung and the rest of the Empire.”

Utgar smiled. “I know you would,” he said. “Wouldn’t we all.”

Utgar hoped he wouldn’t encounter any more soldiers until he reached Srung, but as he traveled, they became more and more common. Kyrie flew through the air in squadrons of three or four, or picked their way through canyons. While most wore the armor of the Empire, every now and then Utgar thought he saw a kyrie in black, sometimes with a companion, standing still far off, watching him. Every time Utgar turned back to look, the figures would have vanished.

Utgar couldn’t think what they all were doing here, but he didn’t have much time to wonder, as he had to double back countless times to avoid running into them. The soldiers he had encountered had been inexperienced, but if Utgar met a skilled fighter, he might not win quite so easily. So he avoided them, constantly moving as straight westwards as he could.

He spent an uneasy night in a shallow cave, and rose the next morning to find the rocky wastes about him crawling with soldiers. He hoped he could find a way through them.

Once again, he was unlucky.

This time, when he ran into a group of soldiers, they spotted him instantly. And this time, there were five of them. They leapt from where they had been sitting, and drew their swords even as Utgar drew his knife, stumbling backwards. He was out in the open, with no cover. The soldiers had been in a small gully, and he hadn’t seen them. There was no escape.

Two of them rushed him immediately. Utgar quickly moved to the right, trying to face only one at once, but they were coming at him too fast. Both of their swords sliced downwards at him.

Utgar was able to deflect one sword, and then twisted his body away from the second one. It missed him, but only just. Out of position and outnumbered, Utgar tried to fall back, but the soldiers struck again.

Again, Utgar was able to deflect one of the swords, and move out of the way of the second one. But this time the swords were traveling upwards, and the second sword came so close to his face that Utgar was sure for a moment it had scratched him.

It hadn’t touched him, but he staggered backwards all the same, the calm which had seized him when he first saw the soldiers slipping, giving way to a rush of cold fear.

Utgar’s brief moment of fear brought a new kind of clarity. Retreat was not an option, so, ignoring the swords before him, he lunged forwards.

The soldiers were caught by surprise. They hadn’t expected Utgar to attack so quickly, and as a result, were slow in bringing their swords up to meet his.

One successfully warded away Utgar’s blow, but the other wasn’t as lucky. Utgar beat his sword to the side, punched him in the stomach to distract him, and then plunged his knife downwards, striking the soldier’s collar. The knife plunged deep. Utgar didn’t know if it struck the heart or not, but the soldier collapsed just the same.

All of this had happened in an instant, and now the other three soldiers joined in the fray. As swords descended towards him, Utgar’s fear became absolute, but he didn’t retreat. He couldn’t. There was nowhere to go but forwards, and no way forwards except through the soldiers.

The first soldier which leapt at Utgar got stabbed in the stomach before he even knew what had happened. He staggered backwards, tripping up two of his companions. Utgar knew he would bleed out quickly. The remaining soldier, suddenly finding himself facing Utgar alone, brought his sword up, guarding his chest. So Utgar dove and tackled his legs.

They crashed to the ground, Utgar pinning the soldier’s legs. Unable to reach any higher, Utgar stabbed his knife through the unprotected side of one leg. He must have hit an artery, because blood spurted outwards instantly.

The other two soldiers had by this time regained their footing, and now came at Utgar, who was on the ground. Utgar punched the knee of the first soldier, causing him to fall backwards. He then shot up, met the blade of the second soldier, and slammed his shoulder into him. The soldier stumbled back, and Utgar, seeing he was quickly regaining his balance, set his feet, and swung his elbow cleanly into his face. The soldier was not wearing a helmet.

The soldier reeled, but somehow kept his footing. However, Utgar could see that he was completely dazed, and took advantage of his distraction. He grabbed the soldier’s breastplate, yanked it forwards roughly so that it slipped slightly, exposing the side, and drove his knife between the soldier’s now-exposed ribs.

The soldier crumpled. Utgar pulled his knife free as the soldier fell, and then turned to the only remaining opponent: the soldier whose knee he had punched. Limping, the soldier eyed him warily. Utgar saw his eyes flick upwards, to the sky. He couldn’t let that happen.

He feinted right, saw the soldier’s blade swing wide, and tackled him from the left, knocking his sword out of his hand as he did so. They landed on the ground, Utgar on top. He grabbed his knife with both hands, saw the soldier’s eyes widen with fear, and then brought his knife down. It pierced the armor as if it was made out of hide, and sank into the soldier’s chest, lodging deep.

Utgar watched as the soldier’s eyes faded, their position becoming locked, their stare blank. He stood and looked about him. All of the other soldiers were dead, either by the knife, or from having bled out quickly. Utgar was covered in blood, but as far as he could tell, none of it was his own. He had escaped completely uninjured.

He turned, grabbed his knife, and pulled. It was stuck. He pulled harder. It didn’t move. He gripped it with both hands and pulled with all of his strength, his muscles straining, sweat washing the blood from his face. Finally, as the soldier’s bones cracked and his lifeless body shuddered, the blade came free.

Utgar staggered backward, away from the body. He glanced at his knife, now covered in gore. Blood pounded in his ears. His arms seemed to shake as he held his knife. Cold and heat washed over him in equal measures.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the blood, the death, the things he had done. But they stayed with him, playing before his closed eyes.

Runa. He needed Runa. There was nothing else.

Utgar opened his eyes, grabbed a fistful of sand, and wiped most of the blood from his face, arms, armor, and knife. Then he stowed his knife behind his breastplate, picked up his waterskin, which he had dropped, and continued west, leaving the dead soldiers behind him.

He had to get to Runa. 

Utgar had been walking less than five minutes however, when several kyrie dropped from the sky. Soldiers. Ten of them this time. They already had their weapon out, and were in a circle surrounding Utgar.

“That’s the one,” one soldier told another, likely the commander. “I saw him: he killed five.”

The commander surveyed Utgar with caution. “One kyrie killed five?”

“I saw it,” repeated the soldier. “I couldn’t believe it, but I saw it.”

The commander was silent for a moment. Then he spoke to Utgar. “Drop your weapons,” he said. “I don’t care how skilled you are; you can’t beat all of us.”

Utgar knew he was right. He felt the cold clarity of battle slowly emptying his mind, but he fought it. “Let me pass,” he said calmly. “You’re right; you would win. But do you really want to find out how many of you I can kill before that happens?” He drew his knife from behind his breastplate as he spoke, letting it draw the commander’s eyes.

“I don’t need to find out,” the commander said evenly.

His voice was calm. Too calm. Utgar knew he had missed something. And then something heavy slammed into the back of his head, the knife fell from his grasp, and Utgar fell to the ground, stunned, as the soldiers converged on him.

A few moments later, clarity returned to Utgar. His armor was gone. His knife was gone. His hands were bound with leather thongs, and he was being forced to stumble across the barren rock. He could feel his hair matted at the back of head. The commander had distracted him while a soldier crept up behind him. He had been fooled by a simple trick.

He was surrounded, with two soldiers on either side, and one behind and in front of him. None were looking at him.

“Where are you taking me?” Utgar asked of no one in particular.

“Camp,” came the commander’s voice from behind him. “Anyone who can fight like you will be of interest to Ahnvad.”

“Who is Ahnvad?” Utgar asked. He wasn’t getting out of this any time soon, and Ahnvad seemed to be in charge of all the soldiers here. He might as well get as much information as he could, until an opportunity for escape presented itself.

None of the soldiers replied.

“He is the general of the Volcarren forces,” the commander said. “We all answer to him.”

“And why would he be interested in me?” Utgar asked.

“Why wouldn’t Ahnvad be interested in you?” the commander said. “Violence? Murder? They’re what Ahnvad lives off of. And from what I’ve seen, you’re full of both.”

“What does he want with me though?” Utgar asked after a moment.

“He probably wants to compare notes,” one of the soldiers said in a carrying whisper. A few others laughed, but the sound was forced, and died off quickly.

“That is not for me to say,” the commander said. “He may wish to use you. Or he might just kill you.”

Utgar was silent. He might be a captive, but at least he was going in the right direction. The soldiers were moving almost straight west, and if this Ahnvad was at the camp they were going to, there was a chance Runa might be there too. Once there, all Utgar had to do was escape.

As these thoughts circled in Utgar’s mind, the sky darkened. The sun fell behind clouds, streaking the burnt sky with orange and yellow, quickly followed by rapidly-darkening blue. Finally, they crested a last ridge, and Utgar saw their destination.

Tents with thick walls – to keep out the sand – were pitched in a low ravine. A few campfires flickered amongst them, and Utgar could see the shadows of guards patrolling the borders. A larger tent sat in the middle of the others, and it was towards this that Utgar’s captors took him, stumbling and tripping over the loose stones and sand.

Utgar tried to look in every tent he passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Runa. This Ahnvad seemed to be in charge of everything which was happening in the Volcarren, so it made sense that Runa would be taken to wherever he was. But nearly all the tents were empty. This struck Utgar as odd. Only a few held soldiers, and then only two or three. The vast majority were empty.

They reached the large tent, and Utgar was shoved inside. A soldier grabbed Utgar by the shoulders and pushed him towards the back of the tent, where Utgar could make out several shadowy shapes lying on the ground. Once against the back wall, he was shoved roughly to the ground, and his hands were briefly untied, and then retied around a heavy stake. The soldier left, and the commander approached him.

“Ahnvad will decide what to do with you in the morning,” he said. “Until then, get some rest.” He turned to leave. “You’ll need it.”

Once he left, Utgar immediately turned (as best he could) to look at the others about him, doubtless prisoners. On his left was a kyrie with a week’s growth of stubble darkening his face. Beyond him was a younger kyrie, not much more than a boy from what Utgar could tell through the dim light. Neither looked at him. Both were lying still, apparently exhausted.

He turned to his right. Another grown kyrie lay there, the dim light from outside the tent playing across angular features. He grimaced as Utgar looked at him, but said nothing. Beyond him was a fourth prisoner, an unmoving lump of shadow. Utgar tried to raise himself up some to see the kyrie’s face, and saw a flicker of light play across it.

It was Runa.

The dream flickered, and Utgar saw himself, younger, before Runa had entered his life. It was a memory, one he had long suppressed. Utgar didn’t want to watch, but he was still too deep in sleep to wake.

“It’s them or us, Utgar.” The voice echoed to him from the past.

In the dream, Utgar turned, and saw Vraen, a friend in a world of hatred.

“Them or us,” Vraen repeated, coming closer and putting a hand on young-Utgar’s shoulder.

Utgar looked down at the blood splattered across the sand. His arms were dyed red; his chest splashed with gore. Blood pounded in his ears, and his breathing still came quickly. He looked up at Vraen, and thought he saw a flicker of something close to fear pass over his face.

“Them or us,” Utgar repeated.

Utgar finally wrenched his mind from sleep. His breathing was quick, even as it had been in the dream, but thankfully no blood coated his arms. He closed his eyes, trying to rid them of the memory he had seen. He could still see Vraen’s face, watching him, that hint of fear still upon it. That look had haunted Utgar ever since.

Runa. Think of Runa.

Utgar’s breathing slowed. His muscles relaxed; his fists unclenched. He opened his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He had made good time through the night, but a few hours before dawn his exhaustion had caught up with him, and he had been forced to sleep in the shadow of a large boulder. The Strip was littered with such boulders, and along with the canyons which gouged their way across the surface, navigating the harsh landscape was no simple task. But it would take a lot more than uneven terrain to keep Utgar from his daughter.

He stood, taking a deep breath as he did so. The air was clearer here than in the desert. Less filled with sand, and not quite as sulfur-tasting. But it still reeked of heat and dust, and Utgar coughed as the foul air filled his lungs. He took his waterskin, which he had filled before he left, and took a measured drink. He couldn’t afford to waste his water. It was all he had.

“I’m coming, Runa,” he whispered. He replaced the waterskin behind the breastplate of the soldier, which he still wore, and stumbled down a slope into the nearest canyon. It ran due west. Towards Srung.

Utgar had stayed well away from the Strip ever since Runa was born. He had seen enough of it for a lifetime, and he had no desire to see it again. When he had roamed it, it had been an unforgiving land, ruled by marauding groups of bandits and raiders. A few kyrie had tried to erect villages and form clans, but they never lasted longer than a few years.

It didn’t take Utgar long to realize that the Strip had changed. As he crested the lip of a canyon, he saw far off in the distance a village. It was large, with a palisade of bones and rock surrounding it. Whoever lived there must be powerful indeed, to be able to thwart the raider attacks which would have surely come. No sooner had Utgar thought this though, than he realized that he hadn’t seen a single raiding party, nor a hint of bandits. The Strip seemed virtually deserted.

Realizing this, Utgar turned on the spot, scanning the horizon. Nothing moved. No – a speck of motion caught Utgar’s eye as he turned. He tried to find it again, but the barren rock was lifeless. But he had been sure he had seen something: a kyrie, far off, seeming to watch him. Utgar scanned the desolate landscape again, but there was no one there.

Utgar shook himself. He couldn’t waste time wondering what had happened to the Strip, or where all the raiding parties had gone. He had to somehow get to Runa before the soldiers made it to Srung. Somewhere deep within his mind, logic told him it was impossible. The soldiers could fly twice as fast as he could run. There was no way he would catch them before they reached Srung.

But Utgar ignored his logic, got a firmer grip on his axe, and plunged into the next canyon heading west.

Utgar didn’t see anyone until after midday. It was then, upon rounding a bend in a canyon, that he almost walked straight into a group of soldiers.

They didn’t see him, and Utgar was able to scramble backwards and hide behind a rock just in time. He found a space near the base of the rock where the sand had blown away, and looked through it, his heart pounding.

There were only three soldiers. They were clearly resting. Two were drinking from waterskins; the third was tugging at his wings, trying to rid them of sand.

One put down his waterskin, having drunk his fill. “Back and forth, back and forth; when will Ahnvad make up his mind?” He glanced at the other two. “I’m tired of flying around this forsaken land.”

“So am I,” said the wing-cleaning kyrie calmly. “But orders are orders.”

“Blast the orders,” the first kyrie muttered. “I have a family I haven’t seen in two months.”

“Ahnvad has a family too,” the wing-cleaning kyrie said.

The first kyrie gave a bark of laughter. “Like that could be called a family. Hah! Does it count if your family would run away given half a chance? Does it count if they’re kept under lock and key?”

“Those are just stories,” the other kyrie said delicately.

“Well I have no trouble believing them,” the first kyrie said. “Ahnvad. Bah! I’d rather have guard duty in the moldering ruins of Montfre than take another order from him.”

“That could be arranged,” said the third kyrie, who had until now been silent. He had an oily voice. The first kyrie looked down at him.

“What? Are you going to report me?”

“Of course not,” the oily kyrie replied. “But Ahnvad has spies everywhere. If you aren’t careful, you may very well find yourself assigned elsewhere. Even to Montfre. Then you’d be even further from your family.”

“Ahnvad doesn’t scare me,” the first kyrie said.

“That makes one of you,” the wing-cleaning kyrie observed. “Look, I’ve been stuck in this wasteland a lot longer than you have. You don’t want to defy Ahnvad. You’ll regret it.”

“What’s he going to do?” laughed the first kyrie. “Kill me? He answers to the emperor. He can’t just do anything he wants.”

“Yes, he can,” said the oily kyrie. “And he does. The emperor doesn’t care one whit what happens in the Volcarren. Ahnvad might answer to him in theory, but down here, he’s in charge. If you mess up, if you do one thing he doesn’t like, you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

Utgar had heard enough. He backed away slowly. Soldiers and Volcarrens generally stayed away from each other, but each would easily kill the other if they could get away with it. Utgar had no desire to be found by the soldiers, alone and walled in by a canyon.

Unfortunately, luck was not with Utgar that day. As he backed away, hidden by the rock behind which he had crouched, one of the soldiers rounded the corner.

For a moment they stared at each other, soldier and Volcarren. Utgar felt a wave of cold flood through his body. He had hoped to avoid this.

The soldier reached for his sword, but Utgar was on top of him before he had even gripped the hilt. Utgar clamped his hand over the soldier’s mouth, hoping to avoid having to fight the other two, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The soldier let out a strangled cry before Utgar silenced him. Pulling his long knife from behind his breastplate, Utgar slit the soldier’s throat without a second thought, and quickly moved backwards as the other two soldiers ran around the corner.

They let out cries of fury as they saw their dead companion, his blood on Utgar’s blade.

“You’ll pay for that!” the wing-cleaning kyrie said. He pulled his sword and ran at Utgar, brandishing it wildly. He was completely exposed, but then perhaps he thought he could intimidate Utgar.

He was wrong. Utgar waited until he was close enough, then darted forwards and stabbed him cleanly through the gut, where his armor was weak. Then he leapt back, pulling his blade free as he did so. The kyrie fell backwards onto the ground, crying out in pain and trying to staunch the flow of red from his stomach.

The third kyrie, the oily one, wisely stayed back. He began to circle to the left, trying to come at Utgar from the side. Utgar knew the smart thing to do was to circle to the right, and keep the soldier in front of him. It was far better to be attacked than to do the attacking; the attacker was always the first to make a mistake.

But Utgar also knew he didn’t have time to wait. The soldier could fly, and could easily escape and return with help. Utgar had to kill him before he could consider that option.

He lunged forwards suddenly, watching the soldier’s blade, ready to pull back in an instant.

The soldier moved forwards and to the side, so that Utgar overshot him. Utgar tried to turn to face him, but the soldier moved forwards, slamming his shoulder into Utgar’s chest. Utgar was knocked to the ground, and his dagger flew from his grasp.

The soldier was on him in an instant, his blade slicing down towards Utgar’s unprotected chest. But Utgar had been in far worse situations than this, and knew what to do. He kicked his legs out, striking the knees of the soldier. The soldier lost his balance, and fell forwards, causing his sword to change trajectory. Utgar slid to the side, just as the sword embedded itself in the sand where his head had been moments before.

It struck stone, and for a moment, the ringing filled Utgar’s ears, and the quivering blade held his gaze. A flicker of fear woke within him, a hint of anger, a small cloud on the blank expanse of the calm in his mind.

The soldier rolled, trying to get a hold of Utgar. Utgar saw him coming just in time, and grabbed him about the shoulders. They grappled, the soldier trying to get at Utgar and simultaneously pull his sword from the ground, Utgar clinging on, trying to get to the soldier’s throat.

Utgar won. His hands finally found the soldier’s neck, and clamped around it, squeezing mercilessly. The soldier scrabbled at Utgar’s hands, but he couldn’t get a grip. He tried to buck Utgar off of him, and when that didn’t work, rolled, trying to scrape him off. Utgar clung on. Sand flew in his face and filled his mouth as the soldier rolled, but Utgar only held on tighter, and tighter, and tighter…

After a few moments he realized that the soldier had stopped moving. Utgar released his grip, shoved the soldier off of him, and sat up, his breathing heavy and quick. He wasn’t calm anymore. He felt hot, flush with blood and heat. A cold sweat prickled his skin at the familiar sensation. He glanced at the three dead corpses around him, and closed his eyes.

Them or me, he thought, the words slow and measured. It’s them or me.

Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Utgar opened his eyes, saw a pile of clean sand nearby, and wiped the blood from his knife on it, before returning it to behind his breastplate.

He stood. He already had armor and enough provisions, taking more would only slow him down. So he left the three kyrie where they had fallen, climbed out of the canyon, and continued his journey west. 

“I’m coming, Runa,” he whispered.

Utgar wiped some stray blood from his face and knelt beside the dead soldier. His dagger was still embedded in his chest. Utgar grabbed it and pulled it out, wiping the blood on the sand. Then he began untying the soldier’s armor. It was far too valuable to waste.

Runa rose slowly from the wall she had been crouching against.

“Go inside, Runa,” Utgar said. His voice was automatic. She didn’t move.

Utgar got the chest-plate off and began checking for rations or water. 

Runa slowly approached the dead soldier. Utgar didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at the soldier. He looked only at how to get the rest of the soldier’s armor off.

“He was young,” Runa said quietly.

Utgar finally looked at her. She was looking at the soldier’s face, his eyes now staring blankly into the sky above him. She didn’t seem shocked or frightened; merely a little curious.

Utgar glanced at the soldier as well, but only for a moment. He returned to the armor. “He would have killed you,” he said. The words fell flat upon his ears, devoid of any emotion. “He would have killed us both.” He stooped, trying to undo the fastening of a bracer. It was a moment before he realized that Runa had not replied.

He looked at her. She was still looking at the soldier’s face. “Runa?” he said.

She nodded, almost absently. Then she stooped, and gently put her fingers on the soldier’s eyes, closing them. Then she stood, turned, and entered the shell. The hide fell back across the entrance behind her, hiding her from view.

Feeling was starting to return to Utgar. His entire body felt cold, his muscles tight as cords. But his mind remained clear, completely empty of anything except what he was doing. He pulled off both bracers, stacked them on top of the chest-plate, and then stood, picking up the soldier as he did so. With the body over his shoulder, he clambered back up the drift the soldier had so recently come down.

At the top, Utgar set the body down. He glanced at the face. Runa was right: he was young. Very young. Utgar looked at the face for a moment, his mind still perfectly clear, the chill now leaving him.

“I wish you had turned around,” he said.

The words reverberated in his empty mind, dull, flat. But there was nothing else to say. Utgar stooped, and rolled the soldier down the dune. He came to rest at the bottom, halfway covered with sand. By the morning, the dune would almost completely cover him.

“Where did you put him?” Runa’s voice was quiet.

“In the loose sand,” Utgar said. “On the other side of the dune.”

Runa was silent. Utgar turned around, feeling the inside of the shell for where he knew a single lamp lay. It was the jawbone of a Taklay, hollowed out and filled with what little fat Utgar could scrape from their kills. Utgar found it, and concentrated on it.

A small flame burst into existence, clinging to a wick of hair set in the fat. Utgar set the lamp down on a ledge of rock as its light slowly filled the underside of the shell.

Utgar possessed no more magic than any other kyrie. He had used his inma, the magical connection all kyrie possessed. Some, like him, could create heat and start small fires. Others could cause sickness with only a touch. Still others could cool burned skin. It varied from kyrie to kyrie.

“Maybe he wouldn’t have hurt us.”

Utgar turned at the sound of Runa’s voice. Runa was watching him with an almost-pleading look in her eyes.

“His sword was drawn,” he said quietly.

“But maybe he was just as afraid as I was,” Runa said. “Maybe all he wanted was shelter. We could have—”

“No,” Utgar interrupted. “Don’t do that, Runa. Don’t doubt.”

“But—”

“We can’t doubt,” Utgar repeated. He put his hands on her shoulders. “If I had questioned his motives, if I had hesitated, I would be dead now, and so would you.”

A wave of cold washed over Utgar as he said the words, suddenly realizing how true they had almost become, but he focused on Runa, emptying himself of everything else.

She was silent. He held her for a moment longer, and then turned away. Small tuber-like plants were growing in an alcove against one wall, and Utgar pulled a few of them out. Strips of dried salted meat were lying next to them, and Utgar picked up two of these as well. He turned back to Runa and placed the meager meal on the flat stone which served as a table.

Runa looked silently at her food. Utgar watched her for a moment, and then put his arm around her. It was cramped under the shell, and his arm knocked something which fell to the ground, but Utgar didn’t look to see what it was.

“Put it from your mind,” he said gently, pulling Runa close to him.

She rested her head against him. “He was so young,” she said quietly, a slight thickness to her voice. “He must have had a mother somewhere… now she’ll never see him again.”

Utgar was silent for a moment. “It’s them or us, Runa,” he finally said.

She looked up at him.

“I wish it wasn’t so, but it is.” He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and she lay her head against him once more.

“Somewhere,” he said, “somewhere beyond the Volcarren, it isn’t so. Life can be different. But not here.”

Runa was silent.

After a moment, Utgar glanced to see what he had knocked down. It was a piece of metal, glimmering dully on the ground as the lamp shone on it. Metal, like wood, was nonexistent in the Volcarren, but this was no weapon or tool. It was an heirloom. It was an ancient relic, passed down from Utgar’s father, and from his father. It had seen Migol’s fight for freedom against the corrupt Imperial Valhalla. It had seen his defeat, and it had seen the imprisonment of those loyal to him, here in the Volcarren. And one day, Utgar knew it would again see the lands beyond the Volcarren. He put it gently back in its small alcove on the wall.

One day, it would see a better life. They all would.

The next morning, Utgar told Runa to stay home. “I’m going to find the soldiers again today,” he told her. “They are much too close; I’ll try to find out what they want. Perhaps I can lead them away from here. Stay here, where it’s safe.”

Utgar refilled his waterskin – which was really the stomach of a Taklay – from the spring he and Runa had found and dug out beneath the shell. It was only a tiny trickle of water, bubbling up from the ground into another hollowed out stomach, but it was what allowed Utgar and Runa to live this far into the desert. Drinkable water was virtually nonexistent here; without the spring they would have needed to live much further west, among the clans.

Utgar took his axe from where it lay, and pulled on the armor of the soldier. While the armor was well-crafted (if weathered from the Volcarren), the axe was merely a long bone with jagged rocks tied to the top by hide strips. It was crude, but still quite effective.

“Don’t go outside,” Utgar told Runa. “And don’t worry,” he added at her look. “I’ll be back soon.”

Then he shoved aside the hide covering the entrance and let it fall behind him.

He could just make out the lump in the sand which was the dead soldier as he crested the first dune. He paused for a moment and looked at it.

Runa didn’t understand. Utgar turned away. He hoped she never did. There were some things he hoped she never felt, and the sensations he had felt last night were one of them.

Utgar searched all day for the soldiers, but he couldn’t find them. He found plenty of tracks. They had gone all through the canyon he and Runa had been in yesterday, in caves and up cliffs, but it seemed they had moved on.

As dusk arrived, the wind began to blow, forcing Utgar to turn towards his home. Quite apart from blowing away any trace of the soldiers, wind this far into the desert also meant a sandstorm, something Utgar definitely didn’t want to be out in.

He struggled out of the canyon as the sun fell below the horizon, and stumbled across the sand dunes as the wind blew harder and harder. Loose sand was flung into his hair and against his new armor, and Utgar had to keep an arm in front of his face to keep it out of his eyes.

At last, he crested the last dune, and looked down upon his home.

It was on fire.

Runa. Utgar half-ran half-tumbled down the dune. Tongues of flame were streaming from the underside of the shell, nearly horizontal in the wind. The hide across the entrance was gone, and smoke was coming from the dark hole it had covered.

Runa! Utgar’s insides were clenched painfully, and his legs seemed locked in position, but he forced himself to run forward, through the dark entrance, into his smoke-filled home.

“Runa!” Flames licked across the walls. Utgar’s collection of axes, carved from bone and rock, were scattered across the floor. A glint of light caught Utgar’s eye, and he saw the relic lying in the sand, as if it had been knocked aside. Smoke and flame curled up from the ashes of the tiny tuber plants Utgar had so carefully grown. The home was empty.

“RUNA!” Fear licked at Utgar’s sanity like the flames licking the wall, threatening to overcome it. He turned on the spot, looking for something, anything.

Footprints. There were footprints in the sand of the floor, many footprints. They all wore boots. Soldiers. There was blood also. Utgar’s stomach clenched painfully at the sight of it, but it was only a small amount. Soldiers had come here. They had taken Runa. They had burned his home. Utgar opened his mouth to call Runa’s name once more, and inhaled hot smoke.

Coughing, eyes streaming, Utgar lurched out of his home. The wind hit him like a charging animal, and he fell to the sand, doubled over. The wind howled over him, sand plowed across his back, and fear and despair clamored to take Utgar’s mind.

She’s alive. But she was gone, taken from him by soldiers. She’s alive. They would have left her if she were dead. Therefore, she must be alive. Why they had taken her, Utgar couldn’t guess, but it didn’t matter. Shoving aside his panic, Utgar surged to his feet. He had food and water. He had weapons and armor. And soldiers had Runa.

Srung. They would go to Srung. They wouldn’t stay in the desert with a captive. Srung was almost directly west. It didn’t matter that it was four days away, or a fortress manned by an entire army. That was where Runa would be.

And that was where Utgar must go.

Utgar lay flat against the sand, his breathing shallow. He blinked his eyes to rid them of the sweat from his brow, but it did little to help. He pulled himself forwards across the sand ever so slightly, and peered over the edge of the dune.

Below, in a canyon between two dunes, were at least fifteen kyrie. They were soldiers. They wore the armor of the Empire, and were equipped with spears and swords; far more elegant weapons than the crude axe which Utgar gripped. Fifteen. Utgar counted them. Fifteen. That was hardly a large number. They must only be a scouting party. But what were they doing this far into the Volcarren?

Beside Utgar, Runa moved up and glanced over the dune. Utgar put a warning hand on her shoulder, but it was unnecessary; Runa knew to be cautious. She looked at the soldiers, her eyes darting from one to another.

Utgar turned back to the soldiers. They were resting, or at least they were trying to. Many were sweating in their armor, unaccustomed to the Volcarren heat. None of them appeared ready to fly anytime soon. Now was their chance.

Utgar tapped Runa on the shoulder. “Time to go,” he whispered.

She nodded, and began inching her way backwards, slithering across the sand like a Volcarren Viper. Utgar copied her, and they both slid soundlessly down the side of the dune, coming to rest against a rocky outcropping.

“Why are they here?” Runa asked immediately, her voice still a whisper.

Utgar shook his head. They were still far too close. He beckoned to Runa, and they inched along the outcropping until they came to a small opening, just big enough for a kyrie to crawl through.

Runa went first, quickly disappearing into the dark hole. Utgar followed, crawling along, his chest nearly touching the rough, rocky floor. After a few moments of discomfort, the hole widened, and Utgar was able to stand up next to Runa.

They were in a large cavern, roughly circular in shape, its walls a maze of boulders and crevices. One end narrowed into a tunnel large enough to walk in. Its walls were lit with fading daylight. Utgar and Runa crossed to it, and soon emerged in a vast canyon, its walls lined with caves like the one they had just left. They turned right, and began walking along the canyon.

“Why are they here?” Runa asked again as they walked.

“I don’t know,” Utgar said slowly. “But whatever they’re after, it can’t be good.”

“Maybe they’re just looking around,” Runa said fairly.

Utgar glanced at her. “Looking around?” he repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth despite his best efforts.

“Why not?” Runa said. “Maybe they’re just… just scavenging or something.”

“They’re soldiers,” Utgar said. He let his breath out slowly, feeling his muscles relax finally as he did so. “They don’t need to scavenge.”

“Well,” Runa said, “maybe they’re just… just…” — Utgar glanced sideways at her — “maybe they’re just flying,” she finished. “Maybe it doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad.”

Utgar’s smile slowly faded. Runa was only twelve, and had never gone far from her home. She didn’t know the soldiers and the world they came from as he did. Her optimism was a rare blessing in the Volcarren, but still…

“Their presence never means good,” Utgar told her gently. “They’re here for a reason.”

Runa was silent. Utgar glanced at her. “They’re soldiers,” he said. “They are the enemy.”

“They aren’t just soldiers,” Runa said, her eyes on the ground. “I mean… they’re people.”

“People, yes,” Utgar said. “but they are still the enemy. If they come between you and survival, you must know who they are.”

Runa didn’t reply.

They didn’t have far to go. The canyon ended in a rocky slope, which Utgar and Runa had to climb. They couldn’t fly. Something in the Volcarren air made their wings wilt, causing them to lose their feathers and turn black and leathery. Neither Utgar nor Runa had ever flown in their life.

Once out of the canyon, they set off across sand and loose rock, making for a nearby sea of high dunes. As they walked, Utgar scanned the horizon for the soldiers, but they appeared alone. The desert was dark; the only light came from the east. There, the clouds glimmered with the faint reflected light of a thousand far-off toxic fires and vents. That was the Wasteland, a broken terrain of poisonous fumes and hidden lava floes. Not even the soldiers could go there. 

Utgar’s home soon came into view, hidden in the midst of several tall sand dunes. It didn’t look like a home. It looked like the skeleton of some large creature which had long since died there, the remains now almost entirely buried in sand. In fact, that is what it was. But in the Volcarren, where there was no lumber, and only rock and bone to build with, it was a better home than most.

Utgar felt his tense muscles relax again at the sight of it. He and Runa had dug it out themselves, excavating beneath the shell which made up most of the skeleton. It was cramped, but it kept them warm and sheltered during the nights.

“Go on in,” Utgar said to Runa as they approached the shell. “I’ll have one last look around.”

Runa nodded and pushed aside the hide which covered the entrance. Utgar, grabbing the rim of the shell, flung one leg onto it, and then the other. He stood, and walked to the middle, where the shell was highest, giving him a clear view across the tops of the dunes.

Everything was still. To the north and south, the desert stretched, an unending field of sand and dunes. To the west, it gave way to barren rock, and far beyond that, the undersides of the clouds were lit with a dull orange glow. That was Srung, fortress of the Empire, put there to guard the Volcarren. That was where the soldiers came from.

Utgar turned on the spot, trying to detect any movement, but there was none. They were alone.

Or were they?

A thin stream of sand fell down the side of the nearest dune, barely making a sound, but its motion obvious in the stillness. Utgar instantly fell flat on the shell, his eyes locked on the top of the dune. There was a shape up there, a black shadow, barely moving. It shifted, and more sand trickled down the dune.

Utgar watched the shape. It couldn’t be anything good. It could be a night predator, such as a Taklay. Spider-like, about as big as Utgar’s torso, they hunted with venom. He and Runa would have to kill it. The shape could also be a kyrie, a raider from a clan. He would take everything Utgar and Runa had if he could. Or the shape could be a soldier. In which case more were certainly nearby.

The shape moved. It rose, slowly, and Utgar saw that it was a kyrie. And judging by the spear it held, it was a soldier. But it seemed alone. Utgar saw no other shadows with it.

The soldier descended the dune, stumbling and tripping in the loose sand. It reached the bottom, righted itself, and Utgar was at last able to discern a face in the faint moonlight filtering through the clouds above.

The soldier was young, and one look at his face was enough to tell Utgar that he was lost.  He turned on the spot, staring around himself, and saw the shell upon which Utgar lay. Utgar was perfectly still. To the soldier, he probably appeared as no more than the shadow of a lump of sand, or perhaps a few stones.

The soldier took a step towards the shell. It was impossible for him to know anyone lived there; he was probably just hoping to spend the night beneath it for shelter.

Turn around, Utgar thought. Please, turn around.

But the soldier didn’t turn. He advanced towards the shell. And then he stopped suddenly, and Utgar saw why. Below him, Runa had emerged from the shell, doubtless wondering why he hadn’t come in yet.

She saw the soldier and froze. They both stared at each other, neither aware that Utgar watched them, his entire body frozen. Then the soldier drew a short sword from his belt, and began advancing slowly.

Runa backed away. The soldier moved towards her, sword held ready, still walking slowly. A dull thump told Utgar that Runa had backed into the shell.

And then Utgar’s muscles unfroze. He launched himself off of the shell, directly on top of the soldier, who looked up, vague surprise his only reaction, before Utgar flattened him.

Utgar’s mind was perfectly clear. He was careful to grab the hand holding the sword and twist it, forcing the soldier to drop it. They rolled for a moment, sand flying everywhere, and then Utgar found the soldier’s neck and wrapped his arms around it. The soldier kicked and struggled, so Utgar wove his legs around those of the soldier, pinning him down.

Despite his age, the soldier was skilled. He managed to create a gap between his throat and Utgar’s arms, and worked his hand into it so that Utgar couldn’t choke him. He writhed and fought, wriggling out of every hold Utgar put him in. Finally, he slipped from Utgar’s grasp like a snake, leapt to his feet, and lunged for his sword, a short distance away.

He never got there. Utgar leapt after him, drawing from his hide jerkin a bone dagger. The dagger was at least as long as Utgar’s forearm, and was honed to a sharp point. Utgar collided with the soldier, found the place where two plates of armor overlapped, and slid the dagger neatly between them, up and into the soldier’s heart.

The soldier let out a screech of pain and staggered backwards from Utgar, collided with the shell, and fell to the sand. He scrabbled at his chest for a moment, coughing blood into the sand, and then Utgar saw his body tense. The soldier mouthed soundlessly for a moment, and then rolled over onto his back, completely still.

A lot of frustration goes into writing. Oftentimes, it seems like you know what you want to do, but pesky things keep getting in the way, like the laws of space and time, general physics, or the fact that characters can be far more stubborn than you like. You know, the usual suspects. Eventually though, those difficulties sort themselves out.

What’s even more frustrating? Wanting to write, really, really wanting to write… and having nothing to write about. Having your source of stories sucked dry, suddenly making you realize it was what defined your life and shaped your thoughts. That is really frustrating.

I know because it happened to me for six months.

Six of the most productive months I have known.

Never, ever, focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else. For around ten years, I focused on my writing like it was my calling. It was ‘my thing’, and it was the only thing there was in my life. Sure, I told myself, I’ll do that other stuff I need to in order to survive. But writing – that’s what I need to focus on. That’s where my future is.

I won’t say I was wrong, simply because I haven’t an inkling where the future is (and know it now). But I will say that I was blinded. I had come to rely on writing so much that when it spontaneously stopped eight months ago now, I stopped with it.

It took me awhile to find other ‘things’ to fill the gap. Things I needed to do. Things I needed to learn. And then, by January, when I was finally back on track with where I should have been all along, writing came back.

And here I am, once more, with another fan fiction.

So, during my six month hiatus, what’s changed? Basically everything. I’ve detailed a lot (but not all) of it in my FFC blogs on Heroscapers. Essentially, I’ve found a lot of information, created (and disproven) a lot of theories, and tested a lot of ideas. It would take way too long to list everything here, so I’ll settle with just telling you about this fiction.

So back before the great void swallowed my creative writing juices, I wrote Rise of the Valkyire – Utgar. It could have been better. But I’ve long since learned that you can keep editing and rewriting a story forever if you let yourself. It’s better to write it, get it done, and move on. Keep up with the flow of interest. So that’s what I did. Utgar had some good parts and some bad parts.

But those bad parts kept bugging me.

During my productive six months, I had plenty of time to think about how the story of Utgar should have unfolded. I had so much time, that when I was finally able to write again, I found that my interest was there more than anywhere else. Well, follow the interest, right?

So I literally rewrote a story I had already published.

Don’t worry. Valkyrie is completely different from Utgar. I mean, sure, Utgar is in it, and he starts out in vaguely the same place, but that’s about it.

Now you might be thinking that the stories have got to be more similar than that. And you would be right, if not for one thing: during those six months, I had time to look at twists, and specifically how to craft a plot around twists. Not complications, but game-changing twists which take what you thought you knew and chuck it out the window. And not those expectation-subverters of Rian Johnson’s either. I know where to draw the line.

… We won’t go there.

Point is, there are twists in this story. This is the first time I’ve built a plot specifically around twists, and I really look forward to hearing how you, the readers, like them.

But by now, you know enough about the story. It’s time for me to stop talking, and you to start reading.

So dig in!

The Volcarren, prison to the red-skinned kyrie, known simply as ‘Volcarrens’. The Volcarren is dominated by the Bone Desert, so named for being populated with the bones of those foolish enough to try to cross it.

Beyond the Bone Desert is the Wasteland, a sunken rift, an expanse of volcanic rock, formed and reformed by constant underground magma pools and vents. The Wasteland is scarred with countless fissures through which toxic fumes seep, creating a permanent poisonous fog over the entire area.

To the west, the Bone Desert gives way to the Strip, a piece of barren rocky land, and the only remotely habitable part of the Volcarren. Dry, scarred by countless canyons, and hiding vicious predators and marauding barbarians, the Strip is divided into several small territories, each controlled by a warlord who has acquired some advantage in this broken land.

The Volcarren is guarded by two fortresses: Vesng to the south, and Srung to the west. They guard the only safe passages out of the Volcarren. All else is toxic water, poisoned by the nearby volcanoes and gases of the Wasteland.