CHAPTER 3
"What do you mean?" I asked, still unsure if I had heard Erik correctly. Gern was dead?
Erik squeezed my shoulder tightly, painfully. It sent a shock wave through me, forcing me to focus. I grunted, but he seemed not to notice, or perhaps he simply did not care. He held me upright, my own strength barely able to manage it on my own in my condition. My head spun, and I wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep.
"Look at him," another voice called out, one of three villagers with Erik. He carried a small wood ax, brandishing it as a weapon as though he expected me to attack. ""Look at his clothing!" he cried.
Erik released my shoulder and took hold of my left arm, raising it to examine its length. My leather coat, soaked from a night spent sleeping in the rain, was still stained red. He turned my hand over, palm up. The creases of my hand were red, and when he turned them back over, the underside of my fingernails were likewise caked in red. I was covered in blood. I held my breath, as horrified by the sight of so much blood as these scared villagers.
Erik looked at me, a piercing stare that seemed to push past my eyes, as though he expected to find his answers carved into me, awaiting his discovery. I held silent, and so did he.
"Erik," one of the others, this one with a pitchfork in hand, began to speak. He pointed an accusing finger at me.
"Quiet!" Erik barked. "Hold still, Arno. All of you, quiet. Let me think."
We all stood there, silent, unmoving. Erik was deciding, calculating. I knew the look. I could hear him breath in deeply through his nose. He could smell the strong drink on my breath. I likely reeked of it, clothing and all. The stench of it mixed with the iron tinge of blood. It filled my nostrils and Erik's as well. I pulled my arm away from him, set it to my side. He took my right hand, then, and held it up.
"What happened?" he asked as he glared at my right hand.
My knuckles were bloody and bruised, with a small piece of glass still stuck in a small cut. He pulled out the shard and examined it. After a moment, he let it drop. The tiny bit of glass made a slight clink on the cobblestone, but in the tense silence about us, it sounded as though the entire Glass Cathedral of the South had come crashing down.
"What happened?" he asked again.
I shook my head. "I do not know, Erik," I replied, trying to remember something, anything about where all of this had come from.
"The glass," Erik said, "it comes from one of Gern's glasses. The other men in Gern's last night, they say you argued with him and he threw an ale glass at you."
I strained, trying to remember. My head hurt, as much from the hang over as from the effort. I had the vaguest recollection of something being thrown at me, and me striking out with my fist as though I were punching at someone. Was that it?
"There is far too much blood on him, Erik," Arno said, tightening his grip on that pitchfork of his. "There is no way it all came from his hand."
"I know that!" Erik snarled, not even looking over his shoulder. "I know. Let me deal with this. This is my job."
"Erik," I started, "I did not kill Gern. I think I argued with him, but I remember him yelling for me to get out as I walked out."
Erik nodded. "And so others have said, as well. He was killed about an hour after you left, just as he was locking up. Where did you go after he threw you out?"
I shook my head again. "I do not remember. Here, maybe?" It was as much a question as a suggestion. Why could I not remember?
I started to say something else, but I felt nauseous, and then sick. I pulled away from Erik, and steadied myself against the wall of the house I had been sleeping against. The putrid smell of the vomit added to the miasma that already swirled about me, all of that strong drink and blood. I must have stood there for several minutes, and I noticed the three villagers backing up a bit, sickened by what they saw. I could only imagine how despicable I looked. Erik, to his credit, did not waver. He had seen far too much in his life to be bothered by a sickly drunk.
After several minutes of retching, and several more of deep breathing, I picked up my head.
"Water, please," I pleaded.
Erik's strength and force caught me off guard. He grabbed me by the back of the neck, and forced me forward. I stumbled, trying to keep upright. He led me along, his hand a steel grip around my neck. The world seemed to move in spurts, as though I were blinking so quickly that everything flashed before me. He led me to the next house over, where an open rain barrel stood. He thrust my head into its open top.
The cold water was a shock, and I gasped. The water rushed down my throat, and I struggled against Erik's insurmountable grip. After a moment, He pulled me backward, out of the water. I gasped for air, and between the gasp, and me vomiting up the water, I heard the three villagers goading Erik on. In I went again, this time thrust deeper into the barrel, until I fear he would upend me and leave me to drown with my head at the bottom, and my arms trapped at my sides. Instead, he simply held me until the water reached my shoulder blades. My arms flailed helplessly, but at least I held my mouth shut this time.
After perhaps half a minute, he pulled me out. The force of his arm threw me backward. I tripped over something and fell, my head smacking into the cobblestone road. I heard the crack, and so did Erik's three hangers-on. The villagers winced. I heard their voices. I did not see them, though, as the world went black.
***
"Wake up, Jovan."
It was Erik's voice, reaching out to me from behind those horrid eyes. The blackness about me was dreamless, save for those relentless statue-eyes. That damned statue seemed to gloat, and smirk, to snarl in vile pleasure at my predicament. Erik's voice, angry as it was, was a savior, pulling me away from the endless glare of the nameless Dark Lord's eyes which haunted my dreams.
"Wake up," he said again, nudging me with a boot.
I awoke to find myself lying in a storage room. It was full of sealed barrels, the sweet smell of fruit preserves all about me. The small room had shelves with jars, all full of fruit. The barrels had honey and other such things. The floor, boarded, creaked as I shifted my weight away from my sore right shoulder. A crack in the door allowed in some light, streaks of it which shot at me like bolts of a mage's magic.
Erik stood between the door and I, his massive frame illuminated by the fierce sun that peeked through the cracks in the door. I knew this place. It was the storage room behind Janell's house. My first encounter with Jeannine had been in here. It had been dark then, the moon barely visible through the clouds. The floor had been covered with a blanket she had stolen away with, when she slipped away from her Uncle's house. The room had seemed so much nicer then, though the embrace of a beautiful young woman would likely make anything more kind to the eye. Now the room was a prison.
Erik was still as fierce as before. He was quiet, but his eyes were anything but kind. He threw a bladder of water at me.
"Drink it," he said.
I uncapped the small bladder and drank. There was a bitter taste to it. A restorative, no doubt. I recognized the taste from my days as a soldier. I felt my head quickly clear.
"Better?" he asked, not at all concerned for my health.
I simply nodded, setting the bladder aside.
"Good," he said, sitting down on one of the barrels nearest him. "Now, tell me what happened."
I reached for the back of my head. It was sticky, and my fingers came away with blood. My shoulder was sore. Both came from striking the cobblestone. Erik's doing.
"I cannot remember," I whispered. "I really cannot."
His face twisted in disgust. "You had better remember, and do it fast, Jovan." He pointed to the closed door. "Right out there, on the other side of that door, there are a lot of angry people. They want me to drag you out and hand you over to them. I doubt they will care what you say. They have already decided on your guilt."
I coughed, spat. After taking a breath, I replied. "I did not kill Gern, Erik. I could never hurt him. We argued, sure. I remember that much. Kill him?" I shook my head. "Never."
Erik shifted his weight slightly, and crossed his arms. "I saw you about an hour after Jeannine threw you out. You were already very drunk. Gern said you were on your second bottle."
I nodded. "I drank a lot, but I do not remember how much."
He pulled a small coin purse from inside his jacket. He jingled it. It was full.
"Based on what was in his pockets, I think it was quite a bit. Three or more bottles of that high-priced sludge you like."
"How do you know all of that was mine?" I asked.
"You were the only one in the tavern that night who paid in coin." He dropped the purse at my feet. "The others all paid in barter."
I knew he was right. I collected coin as payment for my runs between the villages. Most villagers, who rarely left Clearlake at all, generally used their own work as barter for what they needed. I hefted the purse. It was indeed very full. I did not have to open the purse to know that they were Esian ten-pieces, given to me when I left Meekwood a few days ago, before visiting the keep.
"When I saw you," he continued, "like I said, you were on your second bottle. You could barely stay upright, and could not even get out of your chair."
"I do not remember you,' I said. His face was a blur in the evening, and I could not be sure of anything before he awoke me from the gutter.
"If you drank three bottles, Jovan, I doubt you could have found Gern with a man to guide you, let alone do him any harm when you found him."
I nodded. "I told you, I did him no harm."
He pointed to my leather coat, which had been stripped from me. It was draped on a nearby barrel. I had not even noticed until now that I had been stripped down to my pants and shirt. My jacket and shoes were off. I was barefoot, and my feet were shackled.
"Where did the blood come from?" he asked.
I just shook my head.
"Unless you killed an animal that we have not found," he went on, "I cannot imagine that it came from anyone else. Gern was gutted. He was bled white."
I sat in stunned silence, awaiting his next words. Instead, he reached behind him and took hold of a sword that had been resting against the door. He held it by a cloth, so as not to touch it. I recognized it as my own. It was covered in blood.
"This was found beside him, Jovan. It was driven into the ground, like a stake."
I felt the color in my face drain away. "I do not know what to say."
"Jeannine says she tossed your sword out into the rain, along with your pack, a few minutes after she slammed the door on you." He watched me closely, waiting for some sign, as though he suspected I was lying. I had seen him do this to soldiers under his command who had been caught stealing. He never missed the cues.
"I do not remember, Erik, honestly." I pleaded.
"The pack is gone," he continued as though he did not hear me. "Of course, the sword is proof all on its own."
"Anyone can swing a sword, Erik," I returned. "Remember last year, when Arno's son..."
He interrupted me. "Jovan, Arno's son can barely pick up your sword anymore." He shook his head. "What was done to Gern was not done by some flailing, incompetent fool with a good blade." He swallowed hard, shaking his head with closed eyes. After a deep breath, he continued. "I have seen that sort of bloody work before. So have you."
I squinted at him, as though to do so would make his words more clear. They did not. His face was half-lit by the light from outside, and it gave his grim expression an extra sense of despair. Considering that I was the accused here, I could not imagine what it could be. I did not have to wait long.
"He was gutted," Erik whispered, as though to keep those outside from hearing. No doubt, many ears were pressed to the walls and door of this small shack. "He was gutted, just the way Kronan outriders used to cut our scouts when they found them."
I felt my mouth open, my jaw going wide. The image of Gern drew itself in my head, like some terrible artist was doing his worst upon the canvas of my mind. Without ever having to see the body, I knew of what Erik spoke. I knew what the body of poor Gern would look like.
Kronan outriders, charged with keeping their lord's borders free of our spies, showed no mercy to those watchers when they caught them. They started by slashing into the stomach, just below the navel. They swept upward quickly, opening up the poor scout from his waist to just below the neck. It was enough to draw forth terrible cries, since the throat was spared. The sword then swept downward from its high point just below the throat, down the left side, underneath the arm. The Kronan butcher would then sweep up until he severed the muscles under the left arm. The blade then slide its way across the chest, likewise cutting down the right arm.
The pattern of slashes was uniform from victim to victim. It was, or so we were told, some manner of offering to their terrible gods, who demanded helpless, yet very much alert victims. From the destruction of the arms, the blade worked its way downward, in a pattern that could only be described in words not fit to hear. When death came, it was likely welcome. I had seen several such victims. There was always more blood about the bodies than within them.
The faces of the victims were twisted in terror and pain, the final stroke designed to render the facial muscles in such a way that the death-scream held, even after death. I could picture Gern's face. It would be so very different than the cheerful man who served drinks to the villagers. I closed my eyes, but the image did not go away.
"Erik," I said carefully, "this is not me. I would never do that."
Erik nodded. "And yet here you are, covered in blood, with your sword used as the murder weapon."
I tried to stand, but found the shackles kept me sitting. I held out my hands, pleading.
"This is ridiculous, Erik," I said in a strained voice, my throat holding back tears. "Obviously, this is some Kronan's work."
Erik's eyebrows raised. "Really? A Kronan? Really? The entire army of Krona followed their Dark Lord to the mountains. There are none left."
"Obviously that is not true," I retorted. "Obviously, someone stayed behind. Maybe this is vengeance for my trespassing in the keep."
Erik nodded. He did not believe a word of it. I could see it in his eyes. "Obviously. So, a Kronan spy waited behind, and held his sword for all these years? Why not kill you at the keep, or during your travels? Why not kill you while you lay in a drunken stupor, last night?"
I shrugged. "I have no idea."
His head shook with disgust. "Neither do I, Jovan. The truth is, I think you were too drunk to wield the blade. Unfortunately, the sword is yours, and I know full well that you have the ability to do what was done to him. I can only assume that the time spent in that dammed keep has only improved on your knowledge of how those monsters did things. The village is already convinced of your guilt. Truth be told, they were convinced of your guilt years ago. This just happens to be something they can actually blame you for."
"This is absurd, Erik. Please!" I did not ask for anything in particular. What could I ask him for? The 'please' was a plea made in desperation. For my freedom? For my life?
"This is the reality of your choices, Jovan." He stood up straight, brushing the dust of the barrel of his pants. "This is what I warned you about. The keep has poisoned you, or sent something back with you. This is exactly what everyone warned you about when you started telling all of those stories about your visits. You have given tired, scared, superstitious people exactly what their fears most needed to fester."
I shook my head violently, as if to shake this reality loose, and find myself safe and free. It was not so. "I wish I had never visited that damned place!"
He nodded again. "I wish a lot of things, Jovan. And I wish this did not have to happen the way it is going to."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
He did not answer, instead turning to leave. He took my sword in hand, and opened the door to the shack. Outside, a large crowd had gathered. Perhaps the entire village was present. They yelled and cursed at me. A fair-sized stone flew over Erik's shoulder and struck me on the forehead. I blinked through the blood, watching as the villagers howled at me with unfettered rage. Erik merely stood there at the door, his back to me.
After a moment, the crowd grew silent. Even without the screaming and cursing, the angry words that stung with their viciousness, I was burned by the hatred emanating from the mob. Erik nodded to them, and walked away.
Two men, whom I could not properly see through the blood which covered my vision, hurried in and grabbed me under the arms. They lifted me up and dragged me into the blinding midday sun. The screaming returned, and between the blood and the sun, I saw very little except the blur of movement, the waving of hands, and the burning hatred in the eyes of those closest to me. Those eyes seemed to pierce the cloud of brilliance and red that blinded me. I sensed that somewhere in the crowd, the eyes of that unknown Dark Lord were watching me, pleased with what they saw.
Hands swiped at me, striking me. I was battered back and forth, my body a slab of meat beaten mercilessly. Something, another rock perhaps, struck the left side of my face. I felt my head snap to the right, and the world began to spin. I felt myself go limp, but I did not pass out. The two men dragged me through the crowd, their grips painful in their malicious strength.
After perhaps a minute, though it certainly seemed an eternity, I found myself held before a large wooden stake, which had been set into the earthen fire pit at the center of the village square. I struggled, a sudden wave of fear drowning me in its smothering grip. I screamed, thrashed about, kicked as best I could, but to no avail. I felt my back explode in pain as it was thrust violently against the stake. Chains were wrapped about me, and my head was fastened to the stake with cord. The rope was tightened until it stretched and broke the skin. More blood dripped down onto my face.
The crowd formed a circle around me, and my two assailants backed away. Erik stepped out through the crowd. He set my sword, still covered in the dried blood of its last victim, on the cobblestones before me.
"We are going to leave you here for a few days, Jovan." His words were wooden, without feeling. He did not even look me in the eye as he said them. "Let the people all see what you have become. I want them to gaze upon one final reminder of what kind of evil Krona was."
"Why not just kill him?" someone in the crowd cried. It was a woman's voice. I knew it, and it crushed my soul to hear the words.
Jeannine stepped out from the crowd. I felt my breathing go ragged, panicked. Her eyes seemed to look right through me. I was not the man she once loved. I could see that well enough.
"Why not just kill him?" she repeated. Several cries from the crowd demanded that very thing.
Erik nodded. He picked up the sword, and brought it to her. "Go ahead, daughter. He was yours. Take his life, if you want it."
She hefted the sword in her hand. It was familiar to her. She knew its weight, its balance. She had held it many times before. Once, years ago, I had given her the most basic education in its use. It had ended as so many things had ended for us in those early days. We had ended up in the fields, in each others' arms. Not now, nor ever again.
She strode over to me, looking over my broken, filthy form. She looked down at the blade, and then back to me. The crowd hushed, no doubt awaiting her killing stroke. Just below the chin, Jeannine. Below the chin, just like I taught you. My thoughts were not given voice, though I hoped she would hear them nonetheless. I waited silently. I closed my eyes.
I prepared myself for the end. Perhaps it would finally, mercifully, send those terrible angry eyes from my dreams. Perhaps in death I could finally shake free from the keep which I realized far too late was a poison to me. I smirked, in spite of myself. Freedom was at hand. When the sword stroke did not come, I opened them to look upon her once more. She was as she had been, still, with the blade in her hands.
"Do it, girl!" someone cried out in earnest.
"Kill him, the way he killed poor Gern!" another demanded.
Jeannine looked once more at the sword, and then again at me. She shook her head, and with time seeming to slow down to emphasize the moment, she dropped the sword. It clanked and rattled upon the cobblestones.
The crowd was dead silent as it watched her retreat from the scene, followed closely by Erik. The crowd stood in silent, furious awe. Most eyes were upon me, but many looked down to my fouled sword.
Though she had not walked away with my blood spattered upon her, leaving me instead to live on, I felt my fear and panic increase tenfold. I watched the angry crowd slowly close in on me. My breathing quickened and the air would not find its way into my lungs. My vision swirled as though I was fast sinking to the bottom of a gloomy, fouled lake. I felt a sudden rush of blood in my head, and with an outward exhale of fear and breath, I passed out.
***
The sound of horse hooves upon the dirt awoke me. Everything was black. The world rattled about me, shaking my sore, swollen body. I tried to move, but my hands were bound tightly behind my back with cord. My feet were likewise bound, though by what I could not say. My boots had been put back upon my feet, and though my toes tingled, I could not move them. I had been in this position for a fair bit of time, though I could not say for how long.
The air was foul, the smell of fish all about me. I was in some manner of cart, obviously one used to carry fish to market. There was a tarp over my head, its stinking material touching the right side of my face as the cart rumbled down some old road. I could hear the horse breathing, and it complained as it hauled the cart up a steep climb. When it finally leveled out, the cart rattled all the more, as though we rode across a field of small stones. The sound was painful to the ears, as the wood of the old cart rattled and crashed around me. I worried the cart would simply disintegrate, but it held.
I cannot say how long I lay there, suffering the travels of this cart along its unknown path. Perhaps it was several hours, though likely it was far longer. I drifted back to fitful sleep several times, as much from the nausea of the bumpy trip as exhaustion and lack of food. When finally the cart stopped, I was barely able to focus. I had been without food or water for some time.
A pair of feet thumped upon the stones beneath the cart. They walked heavily toward the side of the cart, and I heard the sound of a sword hefted, the blade making the slightest of scraping sounds as it left its leather strap. It was a back-slung sword, and I knew instantly who it belonged to.
The tarp suddenly came away, pulled back to reveal a clear night sky. The stars were bright and plentiful, and the few clouds in the sky were but wisps against the canvas of twinkling darkness. The air was clean and cool. Into that vision of serene beauty, Erik appeared. His eyes were sunken. He had not slept in some time. He had no care in his eyes for me. Somewhere between our arrival in Clearlake and the next morning, Erik's fondness for me had been replaced with disgust.
His powerful hand grabbed at me and hauled me from the cart. I was set upon the ground with only the slightest care, though as swollen and bruised as I was, I felt little at all. With his sword, he cut the cords holding my hands and feet. I lay there, motionless, unable to move. I was helpless, and looked up to him, this towering figure that loomed over me, with the uncaring stars behind him.
"Where are we?" I asked, after some few moments of silence spent staring at him, as he stared at me. "Where are you taking me, Erik?"
"No further than this, Jovan." He looked past me, though I could not see at what.
I strained to look, but my body would not obey me. My entire body felt as an arm does when slept upon. I must surely have been tied up in the back of the cart for some time. When Erik saw my ordeal, he pushed me with his foot, so I rolled over. I saw what he saw.
Mountains. He had taken me the entire three day journey from Clearlake to the Eastern Mountains. They loomed over me, over us, like motionless gods. We were at the foot of the mountains. I saw the Winding Pass, the only easy road through the range. Beyond it, perhaps a walking journey of three days, was the endless expanse of the Great Waste, the desert which had but fifteen years ago swallowed up our king, his people, and his enemies.
"Why did you bring me here?" I asked, still staring at the pass. "Why take me all this way, just to kill me?"
"I did not," Erik replied from behind me. "I did not bring you here to kill you."
"Then why?" I asked again.
"You hung from that stake for three days, Jovan." I could hear the sadness in his voice, though I felt that it was not for me he mourned. "The villagers watched you for hours. Some watched through the night. By the second day, not even the children came to watch you, as you hung like a piece of rancid meat. By the third day, none would even look upon you."
"You offered them my life," I started. "Why did they leave me be?"
There was a pause, and then a deep breath. "I think they have seen enough death in their lives. I think we all have. Nobody wanted your blood on their hands. Perhaps they just wanted you dead elsewhere, instead of in the middle of the village. I do not know, in truth, but I know that after three days, I had had my fill of seeing you hang there, limp and broken."
I heard him reach into the cart and remove something. There was the sloshing sound of a water bladder, and something leather dropped behind me. A pack, likely.
"This is not mercy, Jovan," he continued slowly, exactingly. "This is not mercy. I have nothing left for you. Neither does Jeannine. I poured water down your throat every few hours of this journey, and was happy that you were never more than partially awake. Now I have nothing left to say to you. I just want you to go. Go far away, Jovan, and never return."
"Where do you expect me to go?" I demanded, angrier than anything else. Was I not even worth enough thought to kill?
"Go through the Winding Pass." He nudged the small of my back with his boot, like some beast's master freeing his kept animal. "Go into that endless desert. After that, I do not care."
With that, with not a single word of goodbye, he stepped over my limp form, and mounted his cart. He goaded on the horse, and turned the cart back for home. His eyes would not even meet my own as he passed me.
I listened as the cart's rattling faded in the distance. To my fore, the gaping maw of the Winding Pass welcomed me with silence. Not even the wind blew.
I lay there for some time, and slowly, very slowly the feeling returned to my body. I was able to move my arms, and dragging them along the stone-scattered road, I set them in front of me. Eventually, I was able to pull myself into a sitting position. My wrists were bruised, swollen, and infected from the cuts received when they strung me up. My forehead was also cut and swollen. I reached behind me to the water bladder. The warm water stung my wounds, and though I would need the water, it would do me no good if I died of infection. I tore strips off my sleeve, and bandaged my wrists and head.
The pack left by Erik was stuffed with food, most of it traveler's fare; salted fish, hard bread, and dried fruits and vegetables. I took quick stock of my supplies, perhaps a week's worth of food and water in all. My clothing was not more than what I wore the night of Gern's death, but they would be adequate. The mountains were not cold at this time of year, and the desert certainly was not.
A small meal of fish and water helped restore my strength, and by the time the sun began to peak out through the pass, I was ready to rise and walk.
***
The journey through the Winding Pass was quick and without incident. The pass was wide enough to march an army through. The stone and sand strewn road was covered with the wind-worn remnants of abandoned carts, weapons, and everything else dropped by the people of the exodus. I saw royal banners, Esian and Kronan, dropped without care. These were the only markers upon the road, with not a single tree or bush or blade of grass to be found. This barren pass was a warning to the foolish; empty, lonely death awaited me beyond these mountains.
On the second day of walking, I came across a skeleton in the sandy edge of the pass, where the road met the mountain base. An Esian sword was driven through the ribcage and left there. In the sand beneath it, an Esian army badge lay half-buried in sand. This person was an Esian soldier, seemingly killed with the sword of a fellow.
I sighed. Obviously the exodus had started claiming victims, sanity and lives both in equal measure, long before the fleeing, exhausted people of my kingdom even reached the desert. I shook my head and wondered to myself which would find me first, madness or death. Would it matter? The former would likely lead to the later, especially in the harsh desert.
One day later, as the sun set behind me, I came to the eastern edge of the pass. The mountains, which had flanked me on both sides during my journey, now stood silently behind me, as though even they would not look upon me any longer.
The desert before me seemed endless. It was endless, in fact. This was knowledge handed down to us from the beginning. The dunes of gray sand extended outward before me, and to my left and right where they met the foot of the mountains. A warm wind stirred up the grains of sand before my eyes, and I held my arm up to shield my vision. The wind howled at me, beckoned me forward into the embrace of the endless, barren dunes which had swallowed up my people fifteen years ago.
I was at my end. I had nowhere to go. My people would not have me, and by now, word of me would have spread to other villages. Innocent though I knew I was, nobody would offer me shelter. I had been a soldier once, and knew well enough how to survive on my own. I could turn back, and live among the forests. I knew where the plagues did not churn violently. I could hunt, make shelter, stay alive.
I could turn back and live, but I did not want to. No. No longer.
I took the slightest drink of water, and replacing the bladder in my pack, set myself toward my death. I turned toward the desert dunes, toward the endless sands which would claim me as they had my people.
I began to walk.