The next day passed in a blur of heat for Ámmon. He spent the majority of the daylight hours preparing for the journey ahead, intentionally skipping the great gathering that took place at the central tent when the sun was at its peak. He knew what the Elders would say; he knew the prayers they would chant to silent gods, and he did not yet understand that those speeches about honor were not for the gods, but to stiffen the spines of men marching to their likely deaths.
I don't need prayers or speeches, Ámmon thought, wiping sweat from his brow. I need gear.
He sat in the sliver of shade behind his tent, methodically working through his meager possessions. First, the water skins, cured goat bladders that were more precious than gold. He filled them with air and submerged them in the last bucket of murky greenish water he and his sister had left, watching for bubbles, sealing the tiniest pinpricks with heated resin. Next were his boots. The leather was worn thin, so he reinforced the straps with strips of braided sinew, knowing that a broken strap on the Burning Flats meant being left behind to bake. Finally, the spear. He spent hours grinding the metal tip against a whetstone, the rhythmic shhhs sound silencing his anxious thoughts, until the metal shone like a tooth capable of piercing the thickest rock. By the time he wiped the grit from his hands, the sun was already bleeding into the dunes. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids. He crawled onto his mat, not bothering to eat, and fell into a dreamless sleep before the first star dared to show itself.
He woke to a pitch-dark night, jolted by an internal alarm that knew today was different. The air inside the tent was freezing, a stark reminder that the desert killed with frost just as easily as it did with fire. Dagma was a silent lump under her furs across the tent. He didn't wake her; he couldn't bear the weight of a goodbye. He glanced at Khepri's sleeping spot, but the rugs were empty. Probably hunting beetles, Ámmon thought. He simply got up and left.
Ámmon stepped out into the crushing dark. The camp was a graveyard of shadows, the only sound the wind hissing through the tents. He wrapped his scarf tight around his face and turned toward the northeast edge of the camp, where the war party was to assemble.
Suddenly, a slim shape detached itself from the darkness of a neighboring tent, blocking his path.
"You look like a ghost Icon." The voice was thin and reedy, like wind whistling through a crack. It was Ámenor. In the dark, he looked less like a seventeen-year-old and more like a desert Jerboa hopping in Ámmon's direction. He carried a sharp knife, with two more strapped to his belt.
"Did you sleep?" Ámmon whispered back, his breath pluming in the cold air.
"No," Ámenor grunted, falling into step beside him. The playfulness was gone from Ámenor's voice, replaced by a granite hardness that felt fragile, as if it might crack under pressure. They walked in silence. As they reached the outskirts of the camp, where the dunes began their endless roll toward the horizon, they saw the others.
A few warriors stood in loose clusters, shivering not just from the cold, but from the adrenaline of the unknown. The Captain was there, a dark statue checking the height of the moon. Standing like a sentinel near the front was Kaséti. He had clearly arrived long before anyone else.
"Did you guys sleep?" Kaséti asked. His voice was steady, but his eyes were wide, reflecting the starlight, and his knuckles were white as he gripped his spear. "The Captain has been staring at the moon for an hour. He hasn't blinked once, I swear he hasn't blinked yet."
"I didn't sleep a wink," Ámenor admitted. "My father passed the night giving me scout tips. He thinks that's the division they'll assign us to. He told me to watch how the lizards move. If they run, something bigger is coming. Hear the sand, and never, never lower your gaze."
"Scouts?" Ámmon hissed, his whisper a little too loud in the stillness night. "Fuck that."
"Careful," Kaséti muttered, a strange, eager light in his eyes. "You sound like you're actually worried. I thought the 'Living Icon' was made of sand."
Ámmon looked at his friend. Kaséti's excitement mirrored the eagerness he had shown two days before and he couldn't help but think that the big man was starting to like the idea of war a little too much.
"And your father, Ámenor?" Kaséti pressed, looking at the older warriors gathering nearby. "Which division will he be in?"
"Vanguard, apparently," Ámenor said, looking down at his feet. "He says someone has to be the first to bleed so the rest can kill."
The boys spent the rest of the night talking in hushed tones, finding comfort in the sound of each other's voices. Before they realized it, the horizon turned a bruised purple, and the first ray of sun pierced the night. Forty-five warriors were already in position to march.
"Form up!" The Captain's voice cracked like a whip. The men shuffled into lines. The Captain paced before them, his face grim. "Look around you," he growled. "You are not a tribe anymore. You are a weapon. We do not march for glory or plunder; we march to feed our sons, daughters, and sisters."
He then stepped aside, revealing a man standing behind him. He was a large man, almost as wide as he was tall, with a bald head that shone in the morning light and a friendly, open face that seemed out of place among the grim warriors.
"Our brother Sofoú," the Captain announced. "He will lead the eyes of this raid party." Sofoú stepped forward, flashing a quick, white smile that didn't quite reach his calculating eyes. His voice was deep and commanding, booming from his chest without effort.
Ámmon knew Sofoú. Everyone did. He was the kind of man who lingered too long at the communal fires, barking orders about how to properly roast a beetle or tie a knot, unsolicited advice that drove people mad. He carried a permanent, pungent odor, something like a lizard carcass left too long in the sun, a scent that surely explained why, despite his rank and strength, no woman had ever agreed to share his tent. He was loud, bossy, and often unbearable. Yet, as Ámmon glanced at the older warriors, he saw no annoyance, only fierce admiration. For all his stench and bluster, Sofoú was a legend among the spears. He was loyal enough to die for a friend and smart enough to ensure he never had to.
"Listen well, lads!" Sofoú bellowed, oblivious to Ámmon's judgment. "I am the Scout Captain. My job is to make sure you don't step on a viper or walk into a Grasslander ambush." He pulled a small scroll from his belt. "The scout party will be composed of Zontaníeikóna Ámmon, Ánemos Ámenor, and Putra Kaséti."
He walked down the line, eyeing the younger recruits, his gaze lingering on the trio. He motioned for them to follow him to a secluded corner away from the crowd, while in the background, the Captain continued barking orders, assigning roles and squads.
"We have three roles for scouts," Sofoú explained, snapping his thick fingers to call the attention of Ámmon, who was staring past him, watching Ámenor's father take his place at the very front of the vanguard line, the place where men went to die first. "Focus, boys." It was then that, suddenly, Ámmon caught a whiff of it, a sharp, sour stench, a mix of old sweat and something fermenting, reminiscent of the cheesy rot from an unwashed groin.
By the sands, Ámmon thought, fighting the urge to pinch his nose. He is going to give away our position with that reek. The Grasslanders won't even need to see us; they will smell us coming from a mile away.
Sofoú continued without skipping a beat. "Three roles," he rasped, holding up three thick fingers. "The Eyes, who watch the horizon. The Ears, who listen to the earth. And the Ghosts, who go where the main force cannot."
He dropped his hand. "Until we reach the Savanna, you will all march in formation with the others. We save our energy and once we see the first tree on the horizon... we will peel off. We will range ahead to spot villages, warriors, and beasts. If you see something, you don't fight it. You run back to me. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir!" the trio chanted back, their voices thin against the vast desert wind.
"Move!" the Captain roared from the main line. "The Burning Flats wait for no one."
As Ámmon adjusted his heavy pack, preparing to take his first step into the hellscape, he felt a strange vibration against his spine. A scratching. He froze.
"What is it?" Kaséti asked, pausing.
"My pack," Ámmon hissed. He swung the bag off his shoulder and undid the leather straps. As the flap fell open, a small head popped out, whiskers twitching in the morning wind.
"Khepri!" Ámmon gasped. The jerboa blinked his large, dark eyes, looking entirely pleased with himself. "You stupid ball of fur," Ámmon scolded, his voice a mix of anger.
"We can't go back," Ámenor whispered, looking at the Captain who was already marching. "Leave him here?"
"He won't go back home," Ámmon said, shaking his head helplessly. "He'll just try to follow us"
"Move it, ladies!" Sofoú bellowed ahead, turning to glare at them.
Kaséti didn't say a word. He simply reached out and flipped the leather flap closed just as Khepri chirped and dove back into the safety of the pack. Kaséti shoved the pack back into Ámmon's chest.
What in the sands am I going to do with this camel shit? Ámmon thought. But there was no time for answers. He slung the pack over his shoulder and forced his legs to move, falling into step with the column of soldiers as they marched toward the end of the world.