Sunset the Shimmerian

I. Shimmer Comes At Dawn

Scratching claws tore down the single pale road cutting through the desert towards the Ashen Wastes. The sands were still cold from a cloudless night, only just turning pink as the sun edged its rim above the horizon. Outside the safety of sheltered wagons, the caravan drivers that whooped and scampered into the sands at the coming sounds had only a fleeting glimpse of a scaled figure on a red zilard with a billowing black hooded cloak flowing out on the wind. Farther down the road, back the way to the great Tiphrates, the ruckus of a great hunt pursued the figure, though it did not turn back. She swept around the rickety carriages, effortlessly weaving the zilard around the carriages and taking shelter from pelting arrows.

“Please leave us!” cried one man wrapped in ragged white cloth and taking shelter behind his wagon. “We know the armour of the God-King’s medjay. Do not bring the manhunters upon us!”

“Then run or hide!” the hunted traveller roared over the clatter of approaching strider claws. She dismounted, roping her zilard to the side of a wagon and producing a bow and quiver from her saddlebag. “But I’m not going to face so many of them on an open road.”

On the road, the riders were shaking their swords and shouting threats to the caravaneers to drag the traveller out before them. But none made a move. The men were dressed in thick robes that flowed and let the breeze through, though their woven linen had been intertwined with overlapping lamellar plates, rectangular scales made of iron, and underneath Shimmer could just barely see their dark skin, darker than many tribes of the desert. Their zilards were savage beasts, not the plough-draggers common along the Tiphrates, or the thin sand-striders like the traveller’s steed. They were taller and heavier, with polished bronze fighting spurs fastened over their claws. Fangs wet with saliva dripped over the sand the way only well-watered and well-fed zilards could.

“You would do well to show yourself, thief. You cannot run forever. Return what you have stolen and I give you my word, you will not die slowly.” The man at the head of the hunt pointed a spear out, gesturing around to the other wagons. “There is a great bounty on this one’s head. Bring her out now, and you will be rewarded twenty silver rings.”

“Ituru rings,” the man hiding beside the traveller gasped as he moved to grab her arm. “Each one is worth double in the cities.”

But the traveller quickly pulled a dagger from a sheath within her boots and threatened the cowering man with it. “ Neither you nor anyone else will hand me over. Think of what treasures I have stolen for them to have come so far for it. Aid me and you will have more than a paltry ten rings. Cross me and I’ll give you an arrow in your face.”

The man swallowed his fear and crept back slowly, to hide under the neighbouring wagon, leaving the traveller to her own fate.

“You! Man in the front!” She called out. “What is your name?”

The man sneered. “My name is Ahmotep Mahoud. But do you really think you will last long enough to use it? My men will surround you if you do not make this easy on us.”

“I have heard of you, Ahmotep. You are the God-King’s head medjay. The people call you the Hammer of Law, a fearsome swordsman and a fast bowman. I have heard no man can best you at fighting.”

Ahmotep planted the butt of his spear in the soft sand and laughed. “Glad that my reputation makes itself known. Now, will you come and do the same? Let us see you, and return the Heart in the meantime as well.”

“Would you accept a wager? A duel! Tell your men to cross the Tiphrates, all but one to stand as your witness.”

“It would not be a duel without two witnesses, thief, and you are but one.”

“Not so. One of these caravaners shall be my witness.” She reached under her cloak and folded out a roll of silk sheets until it unfurled a smattering of jewels and golden trinkets. The cowering man’s eyes coveted the sight even as his body’s instincts demanded he stay hidden. “See me through and all will be yours after.”

“I will witness her!” he quickly shouted from beneath the wagon.

The traveller nodded and returned the treasures to her cloak, but not before rewarding the man with the smallest of trinkets, a golden earring studded with a polished and pure white diamond.

“Then it’s a duel!” The man cheered for himself, raising up his spear and waving it in a circle, signalling the other manhunters to turn around. “How long shall we wait?”

“Long enough for them to reach the Tiphrates and cross it,” the traveller answered back. “A day. By tomorrow’s bright dawn you will have had your duel.”

“Fair enough,” he turned to his men, the traveller counted about twenty of them, not including the witness. “The village we came by, north of Oruk, wait for me there. If we do not return in two days, ride home.” He then took a satchel and tossed it with some heft at the medjay nearest to him. The two nodded over some silent understanding, and then the man turned with the rest of the manhunters and rode back down the way they had come.

“Satisfied now, thief?” Ahmotep called out once the medjay had. “Step out so that we may discuss the terms of the duel.”

“What’s there to discuss?” The traveller stepped out from behind the wagon, an arrow still notched in her bow. She squinted through the dim of the early dawn, for the sky had only just turned to pale orange. “I will face you this time tomorrow.”

Ahmotep clapped his hands together and laughed. “But what weapons shall we use? And when at dawn? Who shall say when we start?”

Though her cloak hid her face, the tilt of her head showed she was just beginning to consider those details. Ahmotep smiled and sauntered forward two steps, stopping as the traveller raised her bow to him again.

“Allow me to make a suggestion,” he offered, “you may use whatever weapons you have with you. For me, I only have my spear, my sword, and my bow. We’ll wait for the first call of the dune birds.”

“And if one does not call?”

As if the world wished to disprove her, a shrill chirp echoed in the distance as the first true light of the sun peeked over the horizon, and the short, round sand-burrowing birds of the Ashen Wastes began to stick their heads out.

“There you have it, thief.” He clasped his hands together and moved to tie his savage zilard to the corners of one of the sheltered wagons, making a firm knot before settling down beneath its shadow.

“I’m no thief,” the traveller said. She slung her bow over her shoulder and tucked the arrow away in her quiver.

“Then what should I say when I tell others I have killed you?”

“You will be saying nothing,” the traveller growled. “But you can die knowing you were killed by a girl named Shimmer.”

II. Thieves in the Palace

The sun hung high in the sky when the caravan man, Shimmer had learned that his name was Ikwa, asked her about the treasure. Specifically, he wished to know when he would be paid. His relatives, nieces and sisters and brothers-in-law, all gathered around Ikwa’s wagon eagerly awaiting the sight of the traveller’s treasure.

“You are caravan folk,” Shimmer replied as she shifted away from them. The sun was hot enough, even with shade. She didn’t need their bodies warming her further. “If I pay you now you’ll begin thinking you can turn me over to the medjay. See me through this duel and you will have the treasure I stole. If I die, you can help yourself anyway.”

“We would never ally with the God-King’s manhunters. Half of our caravan are paupers from Ituru, we know the cruelty the medjay can inflict upon people. I just wonder, why would you give all your treasure? You should pay half now, and then I can be assured of your intentions.”

“I have no use for the gold I stole,” Shimmer growled. “Only the Heart has value to me. I took the other treasure incidentally when I hastily grabbed the Heart from the God-King’s treasure vault.”

“What is this heart?” Ikwa asked, looking at Shimmer very concerningly. “Surely you cannot mean the Heart of the Sky.”

“The very one,” Shimmer nodded.

At once the caravaneers dashed back, tripping over themselves to get away from her. They were all lean people, characteristic of the nomadic caravaning tribes, though their thinner frame gave them no advantage as they tripped over each other’s feet. Only Ikwa remained where he was, seated under the wagon shade beside Shimmer.

“That is the prized gemstone of the God-King,” he muttered. “I am surprised he sent only a few medjay after you, rather than putting an army on your trail.”

“I imagine he will, once I’m done with Ahmotep. But armies move slowly and must move from city to city to stay provisioned. I plan to escape east through the Wastes, perhaps then circle north to Valholl or continue on and find the Harappan cities north of Lemuria.”

“What do you plan to do with it?” Ikwa asked. “That stone is cursed, condemning all men to suffer the God-King’s wrath if they possess it. You will not find a single merchant on this side of the world who would be willing to buy such a thing.”

“It is fortunate that I don’t plan to sell the Heart,” Shimmer told him. “I found legends about it, written in an ancient script on cave walls in the mountains of Zag. I cannot understand it all, but with what I could read, I came to believe the Heart belongs to a larger collection. And as for its curse, I have not seen hair nor hide of magic or mystic powers.”

The old caravaneer leaned back on a rolled-up sleeping back, brought by his nieces along with flasks of cactus wine, which was readily shared between them. Ikwa passed on the golden earring Shimmer had given, inspecting its studded diamond one last time before one of his sisters took it into her robes for safekeeping.

“Well, while we wait for the medjay to cross the Tiphrates, I would very much like to know how a girl as young as you managed to steal the most prized possession of the God-King. That story by itself must be worth two dozen silver rings.”

“I don’t know if it would be a very interesting story,” Shimmer replied. “I did not do it alone, but for my part, I was mostly responsible for watching the guards and carrying an extra bag of gold. I worked with two thieves, a brother and sister, who had rescued me from my prison in Zagrea after I was arrested for trespassing on Har’Zag. Apparently, enduring the lash of Zag’s priests impressed them enough to enlist my help. I was grateful for their rescue, and I desired a way to reach the Heart, so I accepted. We travelled many days to the Ituru capital, where they knew of abandoned water tunnels that lead under the God-King’s palace. That is how we entered.”

“These thieves, what were their names?”

Shimmer eyed Ikwa curiously. “They were just two thieves, I doubt you would know them by name.”

The man laughed in his dry, papery voice. “You would be surprised how much the names of thieves circulate among merchants. They are important to know if you plan to protect your goods or acquire new ones. And if these two were skilled enough to rescue you from Zagrean dungeons, experienced enough to know secret tunnels running under the God-King’s palace, and confident enough to execute their plan, I would guess that they are thieves of some note.”

Shimmer sighed, relaxing her shoulders as she drew another sip of cactus wine. “It matters little now. Rahim and Raxa are dead, killed by some medjay in the midst of our escape.”

“You say they were just two thieves, but their names are well known among caravan folk,” Ikwa said, now sitting hunched over and peering intently at Shimmer as his eyes grew sullen. “Once they called themselves the Night Siblings, back when they were young and eager to make a name for themselves. How much did you learn of them?”

“We spoke little about ourselves, though they moved like desert cats walking prey, moving so smoothly between shadows and light that I am sure they could have abandoned me in the palace at any time if they so desired.”

Ikwa nodded as if Shimmer had just told him the sky was blue and the desert was hot. He motioned for his nieces to come closer and sit beside him as he poured fresh glasses of wine. “Well, wish they had made it here with you, even if only to see if they measure up to even half of the reputation they had created for themselves. I have often heard of how they stage extravagant heists, taking from the strongest and wealthiest from Ituru to Akaad as if it were glory they were seeking rather than gold. They once stole the schematics to the water canals of Oruk, using it to sabotage the flow and ransom the entire city’s water in exchange for a golden statue in their honour.”

“I have been to Oruk,” Shimmer interjected with knitted brows. “I have never seen a statue like that.”

“The king had it melted down as soon as the water returned,” Ikwa said. “Tongues may be cut for mentioning their name with its walls, but the story is still passed among us caravan folk.”

Shimmer sat with a hand on her chin, pondering the story. The sun had risen high enough now that even in the early hours of the morning the sand beneath her began to grow warm. The two medjay, sitting across the gathering of caravan wagons, laughed among themselves as they spent a silver ring on water and bread from the other caravan families.

The adventure from before seemed a distant memory now. Only three nights ago, Shimmer had found herself rappelling up a rope from a sealed waterway into pools where the God-King kept his pet crocodiles. Wading waist-deep into the water without a fire to light the way terrified Shimmer, for crocodiles were known to hunt at night. And yet Rahim led the way, his sister Raxa pushing Shimmer along a narrow path of stone which slowly rose above the water.

The sibling assured Shimmer that the crocodiles had been well-fed, for the God-King frequently threw banquets for his pets to flaunt his wealth. A leathery touch against her leg nearly dragged out a scream from her, though it certainly emptied her bladder, even as Raxa assured that it was simply the roots of the reeds, not a curious tail. Miraculously they crossed as Rahim promised, although her quivering legs could not immediately shake the fear. Perhaps if they had, she would have been able to keep up with the siblings and save them for the spear of the medjay.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Shimmer shook herself clear of her thoughts and returned to her conversation with Ikwa. “To have not known them, but still working so closely with them. Now that they are gone, I feel I have lost something without ever having had it.”

“And you are sure they are dead?” Ikwa asked.

“Certainly so. Two medjay speared them before my very eyes, though I was too far to save them.”

“Be glad you are here now,” Ikwa said, and then looked over to where Ahmotep sat. “For however long that may be.”

“You think I will lose?” She inquired, wondering what a travelling merchant would know of hunting desert savages or fending off zealots.

“I think that the God-King’s Hammer of Law has reasons to be known, just as the Raxa and Rahim.”

A grunt and a shrug from her shoulders were her only response. Shimmer stood and walked to her zilard, inspecting her saddlebags for her other weapons to choose from. It was important to be prepared, but not overcautious. Too many weapons would be impossible to handle, and a fumble may give the medjay an extra weapon with which to win.

Tied to the side of her strider was a thin copper shield and freshly oiled spear, wrapped together in a bundle of cloth to preserve the speartip from sand and pebbles skittering in the wind. She grasped her long dagger, which she kept concealed within her riding boots, and compared it to the clutter of swords she had stolen from the God-King’s guards.

After measuring the length and judging the similar and different blade shapes, she put the knife back to its proper place in her boot and then selected from the many swords a single straight blade made of polished iron. Though not much longer than her dagger, if she had a weapon that could find the gaps between the medjay’s scaled armour, it was this blade.

“Ware! Riders approaching.” Ahmotep’s voice, followed by shouts ringing through the air, caught her attention. She whirled around to face him, but found him armed and looking off into the Ashen Wastes. Coming close over the horizon was a line of black dots, quickly growing to the form of men on zilard backs. These were not of the savage Ituru breed, nor were they slender striders like Simmer’s, rather they were wide and stocky zilards accustomed to hauling and tilling, useless in a chase but enduring to a fault. And there were a great many of them.

The men riding were half-dressed in wrapped cloth, their faces and heads covered in the thin headdresses worn by desert tribes and their weapons were inconsistent between each man. Some rode with long, heavy spears, others aimed bows off their zilards, and others still carried multiple swords and sometimes a shield.

“Thief!” Ahmotep called out. “Our duel will never come if these savages take us. Will you fight at my back?”

Shimmer gawked at his boldness. If they fought together, either one could stab the other in the back and claim their reward. But as the savages neared, their line widened and Shimmer could count their full number. Fifty or so barbarians were riding to them, more than any single fighter, no matter their skill.

“Yes!” Shimmer answered quickly with a shout and then jumped on her strider’s back. She turned over the saddlebag and poured out her claimed weapons in the sand for the caravaneers. “There’s no time to ride off now. Those savages do not travel with the weight of wagons dragging them. You will have to fight.”

One of Ikwa’s nieces glared at her, picking up a curved bronze sword. “We would already be gone from here if you hadn’t come.” Shimmer nodded and made no effort to disagree, but focused on the only problem before her. She pulled on her strider’s reins and proceeded to ride up beside Ahmotep, who had already mounted his zilard and drawn his bow.

“Shall we have a wager?” he asked her. Shimmer stared at him with an incredulous eye but did not answer. He looked back for a response and laughed at her odd look. “Whether we perish or prevail, the day is still young and the battle will be over long before tomorrow’s dawn. We will have time to take bets.”

He gestured to the other medjay. “I have already bet five rings with Temud that I will kill at least five more than him. Five for five.”

Shimmer frowned and focused on the tribe ahead. “I do not sell the lives of anyone so cheaply, not even my enemies.”

“If that is how you fight,” he replied, “then you will die.”

III. The Skirmish on the Road

The three began firing volleys of arrows at the raging savages, taking shelter when they needed to behind the caravaneer’s wagons. As the women and children of the nomads hid their heads under their moving homes, the men grabbed what few weapons they had and joined the fray, launching stones from slings or using spear throwers.

Unwilling to lose the bulk of their vanguard to arrows and spears, the barbarian riders encircled the caravan camp, spreading themselves far enough apart that a directed volley could not be aimed against them. Then, the barbarians began their slow assault, with those armed by bows riding close to the wagons to shoot and then retreating before retaliation. Shimmer injured one man on his zilard by guessing at when he would slow down to turn back, but once he was hit the others learned and quickly changed their approach, changing their speeds randomly so it was harder to pick off approaching archers.

Taking cover behind a wagon, Shimmer took stock of what she had left. She had long run out of her own arrows, resorting to borrowing from Ikwa’s quiver, though he himself was counting down his own shots remaining. The medjay, Ahmotep and Temud, had better luck, protected as they were from arrows by their lamellar armour and robes with confounded and caught arrowheads in their many layers. Unafraid of the barbarian’s shots, they waded closer and fired their arrows with greater success, bringing down five altogether.

Suddenly, more riders began to charge through the camp, pushing their zilards to their fullest speed which, though not as swift as a strider, was still startlingly fast. The riders swung heavy clubs in circles above their heads, punching holes through the wagons with fierce strikes and scaring the families out from their shelter. Shimmer shouted at them that even a broken shelter offered more protection than the open, but panicked mothers listened only to their instincts, and they were snatched up or skewered on spears as they rushed to flee with their children. Shimmer released the remainder of her arrows, injuring two men and bringing down three with well-placed shots to their chests or necks now that they were approaching. Arrows pelted down from the barbarians as well, but many of them stuck harmlessly in the sand, and Shimmer could simply pick them up and launch them back.

One charger swung his club wildly at her, though she ducked and rolled under a cracked wagon, picking up fallen arrows as she went. She clutched one in her hand as she loaded another against her bowstring and pulled. Still determined, the barbarian charged again, and she unloaded both arrows as quickly as she could into his chest. She counted at least a dozen more kills between herself and the medjay, plus a few more from the caravaneers.

With little warning, the head of the tribe’s raid whooped a curdling scream and led the remains of his forces into the camp. Immediately, Shimmer was the centre of a thicket of skewering spears and biting blades. But, being smaller than the rest, she moved as a red blur between the barbarians. Heavy clubs cracked the clay plates in her armour but fell short of her flesh, while her own spear sang whistles through the air as she spun it through the throats of many tribesmen.

A peak of adrenaline raced through her, and with her skin feeling on fire at the sight of another enemy, she cut tendons and joints, broke limbs, danced her rugged footwork through fields of entrails, and wet the sand with a flash flood of bone and blood. All the while, her strider crossed back and forth about the camp, tearing into injured tribesmen and retrieving fallen weapons for Shimmer to pick from. Her own blood spilled onto her cloak and shirt as stray spearheads found lucky purchases on her body, biting and holding tight until she or Ahmotep killed the offending weapon’s wielder.

Slowly, she found herself moving closer to the medjay, her shield and spear offering protection to his back while his light and deft spearwork flowed through blood like a quill through ink. Invulnerable in his armour, the medjay welcomed blows from the savages, grabbing their weapons and pulling them close so that he might open them from groin to chest. The occasional archer took aim at the medjay as he butchered, but Shimmer kept them at bay, throwing spare swords and daggers whenever she could.

Between quick bouts against the last remaining savages, Ahmotep unleashed a tired, but satisfied, sigh. “Fourteen,” he said, his white teeth flashing through a curly, blood-soaked beard. “How many have you slain?”

“Twelve,” Shimmer answered, though truthfully she had lost count past the first few. She wiped the blood off her own face, dropping a dulled sword her zilard had brought her and recovering her own spear which remained lodged in a burly savage’s skull. She shut her eyes as she twisted the spearhead free from his socket, splattering pieces of eye on the sand.

The other medjay, Temud, crawled up from under one of the savages’ dead zilards, hacking his leg free from the beast’s weight with his sword. Ahmotep walked to his friend, picking him up by the arm and giving him a hearty slap on the back. Together they laughed through the blood, shaking off the excess until they were clean, or as clean as a man could be after a fight.

Temud whispered a few words into Ahmotep’s ear that made the Hammer of Law roar with laughter. Unhesitantly, he unclasped a small wallet from his belt and dropped five silver rings into Temud’s hand. He turned around and tossed the same amount to Shimmer.

She caught the rings in her bloody palm, the weight of the silver feeling heavy in her hands. “I took no wager,” she reminded him.

“I bet that I could take five more than Temud, but this man counts twelve for himself as well. It is only fair to give you the same coin for the same glory.” He laughed again. “Twelve! I was a killer by your age, a skilled duellist with few equals, but even so it would have been a miracle for a child to survive against so many warriors. Even if they were simply tribal savages.”

“I’m no child,” Shimmer grunted, putting the rings away and picking up stray arrows from the sand.

“You may not be some soft babe suckling at their thumb and waiting for their mother’s bosom, but my eyes can still see clearly through this haze of blood. Fourteen years, I’d say you have. No more than sixteen, if you just happen to come from shorter kin.”

Quietly climbing back onto her strider was the only answer she gave, pulling at the reins to return to the fast-shrinking shade of the Ikwa’s wagon. The sun had only just hit its peak, but the heat had already begun to expunge the stink of man-flesh from the bodies. Caravaneers, even the children, worked together to take the bodies away, leaving them half-buried for carrion birds and scavenging jackals.

Being scarce in the Ashen Wastes, water was not spent washing the blood from the wagons. Rather, the nomads coated animal leathers with sand and scraped the stains from the wood, or simply covered over the messes with fresh tarps.

“Is your family safe?” She asked Ikwa as soon as she saw him.

The man nodded soberly. “My brother-in-law recovers from a stray arrow in his shoulder, and my niece has not spoken since she wet her hands with a man’s blood for the first time, but they will both carry on. That is how we live.”

Shimmer took the five rings Ahmotep gave her and placed them in Ikwa’s palm. “A small comfort after a raid, I know, but this is the best I can do until I am through with the medjay.”

He took the rings and smiled softly. “I did not think you would live past tomorrow, but seeing your spear take those savages, I now think you may have that chance. I will make an offering to the gods to give you their favour.”

Ahmotep, overhearing them, strutted over and laughed with the hint of confidence and adrenaline from the battle still hanging in his voice. “You would do better to save your offerings for your travels, your gods will not intervene on the matter of the God-King.”

“I would not be so sure,” Shimmer glared at him. “We are far from Ituru, and there are other gods here in the desert. I would tread lightly around their shadows.”

“Remember, you have stolen the Heart of the Sky, the jewel gifted by my gods to their child on the earth, the first of the God-King’s line. My gods have great interest in this matter, and besides,” he pointed up to the sun, “their chiefs are Rahi and Sek, the twins of the sun. What place could hide you from their sight?”

“Why duel for the Heart, then, if it is so important to your gods?” Shimmer asked.

“If I do not return with it, the God-King have me quartered and butchered for my failure and my body will never be buried for the afterlife. I do not think I will lose, but if I do, at least I will die as I lived, mangled by a bronze spear, for Sek is the blistering heat of the sun, and she loves a warrior’s death.”

Before he returned to his comrade, Ahmotep gave a serious look, a very slight disapproving grimace, and gestured to the cuts on Shimmer’s arms. “I would hate for my opponent to be handicapped. You should clean those wounds soon, I doubt these barbarians were considerate enough to clean their weapons for you.”

Shimmer spoke a curse at the medjay under her breath, only just noticing the tight grip on her spear. Her wounds were shallow, stinging to the touch of course, but hardly biting into the muscle and tendons.

“My sisters can tend to you if you like, and cactus wine cleans the flesh as good as anything.” Ikwa offered as he guided her to sit beneath a sun tarp his family had erected against the high noon sun. She accepted, tiredness seeping into her body and robbing her of hesitation as she stripped off her cloak and armour to expose her scarred, bloody back.

IV. The Price of Fear

Ahmotep’s words lingered in her mind. She imagined the man returning without the Heart and being fed to the palace crocodiles as punishment. That seemed the sort of thing the God-King would do. What better meal for his precious pets than his greatest warrior?

Her mind wandered further away as Ikwa’s sisters cleaned her cuts nicely with cotton soaked in strong wine before applying some kind of bitter-smelling paste. It numbed her skin while protecting the wounds from exposure, slowly sending Shimmer mind to a hazy half-sleep.

She felt around for her armour, reaching for the small pocket sewn on the inside that hid the Heart of the Sky, a tiny ruby marble that was barely the width of her pupil. The feel of the God-King’s vault returned to her hands, as if she could reach out and dig her hands into mountains of silver and gold rings. Rahim and Raxa had warned her not to grow bold, for greed was always the undoing of aspiring thieves. She assured them there was only a single gemstone she desired, and left the siblings to take whatever treasures they had come for. The two of them were surprisingly stocky for their profession, both a testament against the image of a lithe, nimble thief slinking along rafters and dashing along roofs.

She was unsure of where they came from, for they spoke little about themselves even when she asked, but they were clearly not natives of the desert cities. Much fairer in skin, she marked them as one of the peoples from north of the Selunium Sea. Their olive skin was still fairer than any desert-dweller, though their dark-brown hair made it easy to be mistaken once they were wrapped up in sneaking blacks.

The Heart of the Sky, safely hidden within its vault, was placed clearly on display as the centrepiece of a crown, placed upon the head of a golden statue that sat in the centre of the room. No doubt only the God-King came to bask in its glory, along with whomever he brought to boast about his wealth to. Seven feet in height, it was not difficult to climb the statue and remove the jewel from its crown.

“We’re done here, Shimmer,” Raxa told her as soon as she stepped back down. The sister held two heavy bags filled with treasure, hefting one over to her to carry. She wanted to ask what exactly they had taken, simply stealing gold and silver from the capital of Ituru seemed a wasted opportunity, but they had little time.

Rahim grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along until she was ready to run alongside them. “The guards will have noticed our wet tracks. They will be swarming around the pool entrance, which gives us a short time to escape through the others.”

Shimmer clutched the bag of treasures close to her chest. “Then which way is our next step?”

“The eastern gates open to the Ituru river. A raft awaits us.”

“The river? There are wild crocodiles in the river, ones who are not fed by banquets.”

“No, there aren’t,” Raxa whispered, tugging her along. “The God-King made sure his are the only ones in the city.” They moved slowly at first, dodging behind pillars whenever the footsteps of medjay guards shuffled nearer. As they swerved onward through sandstone corridors, they picked up their pace quickly, violently rushing guards together and dragging the stifled sounds of struggling away from the main halls of the palace.

The Ituru, the river for which the kingdom was named, trickled slowly along in the distance. The palace itself was built on a hill overlooking the city, so from a small window Shimmer could look out and see candle-lit rowboats patrolling up and down the waters. As she stared, wondering if they would be caught on the water and drowned, clattering armour fast approached them. Patrols rushed in from outside the palace so that at the eastern gates stood a line of medjay, accompanied by two Ituru zilards. Rahim and Raxa pulled Shimmer aside with them, falling into stillness and silence behind heavy curtains and banners. It mattered little, for as soon as the zilards entered the palace, the sound of sniffling air rushed through their nose.

“Can you climb?” Raxa asked Shimmer with a hushed whisper.

Nervously checking through a crack in the curtain, she looked to see if any medjay were near before she answered. “Well enough. Why?”

Raxa pointed to the window Shimmer was looking from. “We would never fit through such a narrow space, but you can. Take the bags and toss them out, then follow them down.” There was a simple problem, however. The window overlooking the river was across the entranceway, and even without heavy sacks of golden treasure, the medjay would see her immediately.

“They will find me immediately.”

“Not if we sow discord among the guards. We have tools for such things.” Rahim reached into his pocket and showed her, producing a fistful of almond-sized pellets, with papyrus fuses twisted up on one end. “We will keep them blind, while you find the raft we placed behind a cluster of reeds not far from the docks. Load it, then give us the signal to run.” He placed one of the papyrus pellets in her hand, a blue-painted one the size of a walnut. “Simply pull the tip off and it will give light.”

“Very well,” Shimmer clutched the pellet tightly, placing it in her pocket. “I’ll get the loot onboard.”

Taking sharp, short breaths, the siblings rushed from the curtains together, tossing their pellets at the medjay and sending smoke pluming across the entrance hall. The orange glow of braziers and torchlight turned smoky grey, and once the siblings leapt at the disoriented guards, she ran for the window.

Each treasure bag landed in the shallow mud with a satisfying slap, though as she looked down, Shimmer realized she would need a more cautious approach. She reached out to a protrusion of stone from the wall as she squeezed her waist through the window, catching it before she fell completely to the ground. She gripped the stones in the wall until her knuckles turned white, taking one step at a time down and splashing into ankle-high water.

A low growl shuddered through her body before she had a moment to congratulate herself. The undulating hiss of a crocodile met her through the reeds, shifting and scratching under a cloak of night. Panic filled her chest as pressing herself up against the wall trying to reach and crawl back up the wall. It neared, stepping into the faint light cast down by the palace torches, revealing stripes of lapis paint across its back.

“Gods protect me,” Shimmer whispered, giving up her hope and fate to those otherworldly powers which surrounded humans and their world. Steadily, she picked up the bags of treasure, holding them in front of herself as she circled around it, never taking her eyes off. She knew the large cats of the desert would spring on a man if he turned his back to them. Whether or not crocodiles did the same, she did not intend to find out that night. She reached the thicket of reeds, finding the raft the siblings had mentioned, and loaded the treasure quickly, lashing rope over the bags to fasten them down.

Behind her, suddenly, the recognizable hiss of the crocodile came again, and she recoiled onto the raft as soon as she turned. The creature stood there on the banks, visible only by faint moonlight, staring at her. The glint of its moist scales was the only feature she could make out in the night.

Her spear she had left behind with her strider, but she reached for the long knife she kept in her riding boot at all times, waiting for the crocodile to turn its curious nose elsewhere. That hope faded as another shuffle waded from the palace, pushing through the reeds. Another crocodile! Had they all escaped from their pools? Amidst her panic, some memory, or perhaps instinct, reminded her of the protecting light of fire. Shimmer reached to her belt, removing the signal pellet from her pouch and holding it high above her head, and pulling the papyrus wick apart.

The pellet flared, throwing smoke and a greenish fire up into the air before quickly sputtering out into a smouldering ball. She looked upon the crumpled thing in her hand, squeezing it and finding a small puddle of river water in her hand.

Damn it all! She cursed herself for her foolishness. Panicking and flailing like a child in the water, she had unwittingly trapped herself and abandoned her allies. As if mocking her with disinterest, the crocodiles nudging at the edge of her raft turned their heads away and drifted off, taking their freedom with levity, dashing into the lightless waters, and exploring the world they had been kept prisoner from.

With their absence, a great feeling swelled inside Shimmer once the danger of devouring was gone. She turned her head to the palace, where the distant ringing of speartips and fading clouds of smoke could still be sensed. She moored the raft hastily and jumped off to the sand, sprinting herself to the towering stone steps of the palace and up to the gate.

The gate where, surrounded by motionless medjay bodies, the siblings laid with spears in their backs. Shimmer turned and looked down the way she had run. Had they seen the signal, even just the meaningless spark of green? Both laid face down as if they had been running before the spears entered their bodies. Shimmer reached for their arms, trying to put them on her back and carry them down, but the stocky thieves were appropriately heavy for their size, and their thieving blacks had been slicked with medjay blood. She stumbled and fell, before reaching once more and trying to save them.

“This way!” Shouts from more reinforcing medjay echoed from below the palace. Shimmer spotted the trails of their torches streaming in from the capital’s streets. Soon she would be blocked unless she left their bodies and fled now with her life and their treasure.

Such rewards seemed a paltry amount when weighed against the price paid, but such was the price of her hesitancy and fear. Shimmer grabbed the weapons she could from the ground, steeling her nerves and pushing the thought of death or medjay or crocodiles from her mind. She had her life and her treasure. That would have to be enough.

V. A Night for Gods

The cuts on her arm stung her as she shifted in her sleep. It was at this point that Shimmer first realized that she had been dreaming. Until that instant she had had no consciousness of the desert, the wastes, her guilt, or the duel that awaited. But as her body groaned to rise and stretch and allow the blood its freedom to roam her veins, she recognized the present and gradually awakened.

A small fire flickered by her feet, a strangely welcomed warmth amidst the chilling desert night. Her cuts, being shallow, hindered her far less than the battle-soreness that had set in her muscles.

“You murmur in your sleep.” Shimmer let the weight of her head turn her gaze to the voice. Ahmotep sat with a cup in his hand, reclined on a pillow and blanket, drinking quietly as she gathered her senses. She reached for her spear, which Ikwa had left by her leg, slowly gripping it as she tried to focus her eyes through a mind-haze of waking.

“Easy, now.” Ahmotep’s smirk spiked her blood with a flash of anger, and even in her half-woken state Shimmer managed to sneer back at him, even if she could not find her words. “I’m not one to execute a mewling lamb. Get your rest. Until our duel, we have nothing to fight over. Not while those savages watch us.” He gestured with a tilt of his cup, and Shimmer felt as if she had to will her whole body just to turn her head. On the black horizon, the faintest flicker of orange burned, casting its light against a small outcropping of stone.

“They may come in the night,” Ahmotep continued, “and not just for treasure this time. Blood must be paid in blood, and we took a great amount of theirs.” He smiled and closed his eyes for a brief moment, breathing deeply as if relishing in the memory of the battle that morning.

“Where is Ikwa?” Shimmer asked, her lips crackling as they formed the words.

“He left to make an offering to his gods for your safety and health. Though his sister is around, and I would guess she’s done more for your health than he has. Ah, here she is now, coming to clean your wounds again.”

Never having paid attention to Ikwa’s sisters, Shimmer now took a good look at the one tending to her. She was fairer than most desert peoples, though her hair was still as dark and wavy as any. And her face was pretty, if not a little gaunt from a life of endless travelling. As she removed the old linens and rubbed that bitter smelling paste on her skin again, Shimmer could feel the rough texture of her hands, the skin well-worn down to the joints from washing and cleaning.

“Tell me,” Ahmotep huffed and stuck his chin out to the sister, “how does a man keep a wife as dutiful as you? I am twenty-eight and the greatest warrior on both sides of the Ituru, yet women never seem to stay with me.”

“You stink of blood, sir,” Ikwa’s sister answered back. “Perhaps it’s because women abhor such smells.”

“Not this one,” he pointed to Shimmer, “though I suppose you are still a girl. Tell me, do you abhor blood?”

She knitted her brow at him. “I would not wish to wake up to it,” she answered conservatively, “although the desert often does not give me the freedom to choose. Still, I prefer the smell of a hot meal and a fresh bed.”

Ahmotep threw his hands up in defeat, shaking his head. “I will never understand. Women bleed every month, you’d think they’d be used to it by now. And what is wrong with the smell of blood anyway, huh? The goddess Sek is a matron of warriors, to bleed in battle is to offer yourself to her.”

“Perhaps if you bled as women do, you’d know why we prefer to stay away from it,” Ikwa’s sister retorted and her hands gripped Shimmer’s arm tighter. “ Besides, we do not live in your lands, medjay. Our gods do not offer us gifts in exchange for blood.”

“No? Then what is Ikwa offering right now in prayer?” Ahmotep gestured again with his cup, waving around towards some senseless direction away from the camp. “Why leave his wagon if not to cut himself for the gods?”

“Because our gods do not live in the homes of men,” she snapped back with quick words even if her tone remained unchanged. Our god Erem is a guardian of travellers and merchants, and he covets gold. Ikwa must build a shrine for Erem to inhabit, away from the profanity of men like yourself, and offer a show of prosperity to prove we have earned a blessing.”

Ahmotep laughed. “Why would a god have need of gold? He does not die and carry his possessions to the afterlife. If he is a strong god, gold should be as meaningless as the sands and stone.”

“And yet past God-Kings have been buried with mountains of fine jewels and golden rings,” Shimmer countered mockingly. “If they’re descended from gods, why should they covet gold but not their divine ancestors?”

The Medjay drank from his cup for a moment longer. “The path to the Underworld is a long one. It mirrors the Ituru, but is a winding causeway of darkness and monsters. The priests say the lustre of gold is bright enough to ward evils away and bribe the covetous serpent at the river’s end. Even the God-King’s body must travel to reach the Underworld to meet the Lordess of the Dead, Nep, before he is returned to his kin. But I have never heard of a god who needed to make such a journey.”

“Is yours the only Underworld where the dead go?”

“Who can say?” Ahmotep shrugged. “Certainly none have returned from that abyss to tell us. But the God-King’s priests and their power are true, I have seen them drag men back from death, so I will believe them when they speak of the gods.”

“Perhaps there are places for other worshippers to go. I’ve travelled far, and I too have seen miracles and powers beyond this world. I would not be so quick to judge a god as you judge a man. Whatever you may think of them, the gods are still beyond our mortal selves.”

When Ikwa’s sister had finished rebinding her wounds, Shimmer stood to stretch her arms and legs. She had slept through most of the day, and she could feel her own blood sluggishly pooling in her limbs. She made the greatest effort to ignore the medjay, who had become so relaxed on his blanket that he reclined with his arms behind his head as if he were sleeping under his own roof. Even his helmet and armour, which had taken every blow from the savages for him, were stripped off and on the sand beside him.

What remained was the simple brown robe he wore beneath his armour, though he had undone the clasps to allow the breeze to blow through and against his skin. He had a warrior’s body. His skin, dry from travelling the desert, clung tightly to the muscles underneath, and the light of the fire gave his chest the sheen of chiselled and polished stone. Shimmer even noticed Ikwa’s nieces peeking around the wagon to stare.

The silence that reigned in the desert remained unbroken. The moon travelled its path among the stars, crafting faint shadows that rushed crept around the edges of the fire. Though the empty skies blew dry, chilling wind, Shimmer sat away from the flame, preferring the numbness of the chill on her cuts. No sound in all the solitude was heard except Ahmotep’s refreshing gasps as he enjoyed his cactus wine. She felt her mouth curl into a snarl at his casual demeanour. Either he was trying to play with her head, flaunting his confidence to diminish hers, or he genuinely underestimated her as a threat. In either case, it infuriated her.

“Do you know what the Heart truly is?” Shimmer finally asked when ignoring the medjay became impossible.

“I don’t think that I even care. The God-King desires it, and so he shall have it. It belongs in Ituru anyways. It was a gift from our gods.”

“In Zagrea they worship different gods, and yet I found descriptions of the Heart carved along cave walls around Har’Zag. They describe the Heart as a key, though I’m not yet sure exactly what it opens. Still, why would a Zagrean key belong to the God-King of Ituru?”

“Eh? Why do you wish to know? Those Zagreans have such bizarre gods. You’re not some Zagrean priestess, are you?”

“No, I’m not. Simply curious.”

“Then what of your gods? Surely they must think something of this. Who do you worship? Ashtra of Akaad? Their fiery goddess suits you, though Ashtra has never been acknowledging of travellers. Wuthinaz, then? But, you are not an Aesir, are you? You are red-headed as they are.”

“I’m not sure I worship any god,” Shimmer cut off the medjay before he made another guess. “Although, if pressed, I might say Zhamzizel.”

“I have not heard of such a god.”

“No, you would not have. He is a dead god.”

“Dead? Your god is deceased?” Ahmotep laughed and shook his head. “Then what use is he? Life, as bad as it is, is made better when worship is answered. But you struggle so far with a dead god? Even the Zagreans aren’t as strange as you!” His laughter grew to a crescendo. “I worry for you. A spirit as strong as yours deserves more than to wander aimlessly after death. Perhaps Sek will take pity on you and guide your soul past the serpent when you arrive at the Underworld.”

Shimmer scoffed at his mockery. “I think men spend too much time waiting for gods and rituals. I have seen many strange powers in this world, but never a man or woman living purely by the grace of the divine. Need as little from the gods as possible is what I say. You can never be certain how long it will take for your wishes to be granted.”

She left their conversation to cross the camp and find her strider. She wanted to take stock of everything she had after the skirmish with the savages. Their weapons were inelegant and crudely sharpened, but many short blades could serve as throwing weapons. She hefted a small hammer from her zilard’s saddlebag and tested it against the blade of a dull but dense sword. The handle held firm as she hammered the bronze into a dramatic bend. Happy with its performance, she cleared some space by tossing out the rest of the more pathetic weapons, leaving them for the caravaneers to pick through.

Hammer, sword, dagger, and spear, that was a good selection of weapons. Her shield would more than cover the limits of her clay armour. She counted her remaining arrows, a mix of savage and caravan shafts. Hopefully enough to outshoot Ahmotep. She had seen how agile he could be when fighting close. As armed as she was with her other weapons, when morning came, she suspected her fate would be decided by the bow.

VI. Duel at Dawn

“The rest of my treasures are inside my strider’s saddlebag,” Shimmer told Ikwa as he aided in fastening her vest around her back. He took the clay plates she had picked out early that night and slid them into the pockets across the armour. “If I am killed, take it quickly. I do not trust the medjay to only leave with the Heart.”

“He has been honest thus far,” Ikwa noted, “but a good merchant doesn’t make a sale on faith alone. What would you have me do with your strider?”

Shimmer paused in thought for a moment. “Care for her, if you can. But she is young and of a wild breed. I doubt she will have difficulty surviving without me.”

“Then she sounds exactly like you,” Ikwa chuckled. “I think my nieces have taken a liking to her. I will care for her as well as I can. A loyal strider can be a strong assurance against the barbarian tribes. Asra, how are her wounds?”

The sister who had been tending to Shimmer all night squeezed out from her sleeping cot in her wagon with a fresh set of linens, but no bitter paste. “You are going to open them up again as soon as you move too quickly, which I don’t think you can avoid. But I will have to spare the medicine, the numbness can make one drowsy.”

“I know that all too well,” Shimmer replied. “Thank you for your help. You are very kind to have helped someone who brought the medjay to your home.”

Asra waved her hand in the air as if brushing away Shimmer’s thanks. “We have no love for the God-King either. Your gratitude is welcome, but unnecessary. The story alone will bring quite a few coins when my daughters sing of it in Akaad.”

Shimmer smiled at the thought of having a song in her honour. She had often heard singers and minstrels passing the time in taverns by telling stories of legends or forgotten heroes. “I hope to hear it one day, after I have found what I seek in Zagrea.”

“One test at a time,” Ikwa interjected between the two women, handing Shimmer her spear and shield. Opposite them, at the furthest end of the wagon camp, the two medjay stood with spears in their hands. Though the sun had not yet risen, the stars had already begun to fade as the sky turned faintly grey. Shimmer breathed in deeply, hardening herself against her fear. Sweat may have run cold on her palms, but she stilled her fearful heart with her memory of Rahim and Raxa. Her fear had gotten the better of her then. But no longer.

“How long must I wait?” called Ahmotep, waving his spear in the air. “I know you are as eager for my blood as I am yours.”

“I recall you saying that we wait for the first call of the birds.” She walked out onto the thin road of cracked stone, placing her spear and shield by her feet as she pulled her bow off her back and put an arrow in her hand. Her actions were mirrored by the medjay.

“Right you are. How are your wounds?” he shouted across the camp.

“You will soon find out,” she spoke back. Ahmotep smiled, and then, to her surprise, he unclasped a piece of his armour, exposing his chest. She watched warily as he pointed the arrow in his hand back on himself and pulled the head across his chest, his muscles splitting like stone being chipped away by a chisel.

“Let it never be said that I do not fight fair.” He clasped his armour on once again, sealing the wound behind a wall of iron plates.

They kept their hands resting at their side, an arrow in one, a bow in the other, a silent agreement between two warriors to see who would be the quickest shot. Shimmer’s fingers quivered on her bow, her instinct to clutch fighting her will to relax, for she knew a smooth and easy draw would be faster than a jerky, panicked one, and she could not afford to miss on her first shot.

Faint hues of purples heralded the coming of the sun and Shimmer could see the medjay more clearly now. His long, curly beard stuck out under his helmet and his sword dangled off his belt. His spear lay on the ground at his feet. Aside from those, she saw no other weapon. A thin streak of pink began to stretch across the horizon.

Shimmer clenched her jaw, willing her eyes to focus on the medjay and not the dawn, for it would not be the sun that started their duel but the screeching tones of birds awaking from their burrows, and such creatures were as fickle as they were routine. A bird would call, but exactly when was left to be seen.

The tip of the sun rose, striking the Shimmer’s red and golden hair with blood-red light. No call awoke with the dawn; yet, suddenly the camp grew tense and caravaneers held their breath. Instinctively Shimmer raised her arrow to her bow, notching it before she could stop herself. The medjay mirrored her immediately, stopping as well at the notch and waiting to draw. In his hand was an Ituru bow, much unlike the desert stingers Shimmer had learned to use. A bundle of arrows rested on his other hand, clutched along with the bow so that he could place the next one on the string quickly.

Something moved in the blackness under the sand, in a bush or a cactus, before it wailed its morning yawn to the desert. Their hands both snapped on their bow like a crocodile on a prey’s neck, one arm pushing as the other pulled, drawing their bows with their whole chest and back.

Made of oasis palms and river reeds, Shimmer’s bow was light with its draw, firing the first shot nearly a half-second before the medjay. They both dropped and rolled over the road, narrowly evading each other’s shots, reloading, and firing again as they stood back up. Shot after shot they moved through the camp, peeking out behind wagons to fire. But as Shimmer dragged out their exchange and used her slimmer figure to press closer against cover, the difference between them grew. Ahmotep began loading faster, easily making up for the difference in the draw, so for every shot Shimmer sent against him, two more were returned.

The caravaneers had run and hid in their wagons—save for Ikwa who curled up behind his wagon—and removed themselves from the crossfire of arrows, leaving Sunset with fewer friendly eyes with which to spot the medjay. He must have circled her as she focused on notching her next arrow, because the next shot that came found its mark from an unexpected angle. The weight of force of the arrow stunned Shimmer as she fell, pushing down into the sand. Though her bow was lighter, Ahmotep’s heavier draw fired heavier arrows and hit with a lot more power.

Yet as panic set in, so did some kind of berserk fury, and she did not miss. The air was filled with feathered destruction as Shimmer fired three quick shots back at Ahmotep, her senses and actions focused by the pain. She spent no time finding the notch on her arrow, instead letting the instinct in her muscles perform the task she had practised hundreds of times against bandits and savages. The arrows deflected against Ahmotep’s armour, but the sudden strike gave him pause to think.

Springing to her feet, Shimmer bent her bow hastily and drove another shaft at his hairy beard that covered his throat. The arrow was a flying spark that gleamed in the half-risen sun but the medjay spun reflexively on the ball of his foot and narrowly avoided the arrowhead. He retreated, ducking behind the cover of wagons and dashing out across the road as Shimmer breathed between her shots. With his left hand, Ahmotep drew his sword as the right caught his spear as he kicked it up off the ground.

Shimmer bolted similarly, retrieving her spear and shield in time to parry the blade whirling through the air. Ahmotep charged behind his sword, both hands clutched his spear, and immediately hounded Shimmer down with a voracious pack of quick jabs. She covered herself well with her shield and struck for his legs where his iron lamellar did not cover. But he was wise to the trick, switching the weight on his feet and twisting around Shimmer in an instant.

She felt one of her clay plates shatter against a thrust and fiercely turned to answer back. Her fiercely driven spear screeched against the stone road, parried by an open hand; then the violet impact of a whirling spear pressed her down. The front plate of her armour shattered as the fragments against her back crinkled and pressed against her spine. She rolled to the side, avoiding Ahmotep’s spear before delivering a rising thrust that trimmed off the edges of his beard and left a shallow line of red across his cheek. Shimmer stood, but she winced as her old wounds opened up and began dampening her robe underneath with blood.

Only her armour had saved her from being skewered a moment ago. In the next, Ahmotep’s spear danced left and right, delivering feints until their weapons were bound in a stiff grapple. His naked right hand locked on her hair and jerked her head down. His left hand, releasing its grip on his spear, caught her arm and whipped her forward. A short yelp, Shimmer’s only cry in their battle, burst from her throat as she tumbled forward and scored her head against the stone road. She unhooked the hammer on her belt and launched it at the medjay, knocking the man back for a precious second as she recovered her lungs and drew her sword and rushed him; the rim of her shield led her charge as she pressed against him.

Repeatedly she thrust at his armour, scoring pockmarks into the iron plates in a wild attempt to find its gaps. Instead of tumbling back as she expected, the medjay grabbed suddenly at Shimmer’s hand. She felt a crackle in her wrist as he clenched his grip, grinding the bones together. Stung to life by the thrill, Ahmotep pulled her arms aside and exposed her torso; his foot shot out with a straight kick, heel connecting to hip, which rocked her balance and sent her collapsing back down to the ground.

Shimmer gasped for air, trying to find her senses. There was no time for conscious consecutive thought. She threw herself toward a fallen sword—his or hers, she could not tell—pulling it to her palm with clawing fingers. Desperately she swung at his legs, and the veins swelled in her neck as she strove to slash open the medjay’s thighs. But the warrior saw the weapon and raised his wooden sandals to it, kicking it from her hands and taking it for herself. Shimmer scrambled to her feet, but the medjay moved quicker, thrusting and twisting deep into her side. Shimmer doubled over, roaring with pain until he knelt down on her chest, his knee driving her ribs deeper against her careworn lungs, and placed the sword’s edge against her throat.

Ahmotep grinned through his beard, but his final strike was stopped by a shout from his witness. “Riders approaching!” Shimmer followed his voice, looking down the road as well. Indeed there were riders, but not the desert savages from before. The two figures were medjay, riding beside one another as they approached the wagon camp. Ahmotep cursed at them, showing more rage and fury from the interruption than he had during their entire fight.

“I told you to wait across the river!” he roared, but the fire of fury faded from his eyes quickly as he saw Temud fall to the ground, an arrow in his neck. The other second medjay fired their bow at Ahmotep, whose reaction was slowed by shock and surprise. He ducked the first shot but found his legs staggering when a second arrow cut its sharpened head through his calf.

Shimmer flashed a quick glance at him, his dark face flushed with pure anger looking back through the gleam in her eyes. He grunted and forced himself up by one leg, picking up a dropped spear and deflecting the sword blow of one rider. He speared the second rider’s zilard, bringing both beast and rider down to the sand. He whirled back to the first rider, threatening with a flurry of thrusts, though his limping leg anchored him down.

The fallen rider fired twice, pinning arrows into his arms and forcing the medjay to drop his weapon. He roared, cursed, and then, he was gone. The first rider’s sword arcing down from the back of their zilards leaving Ahmotep’s neck cleft atwain.

Shimmer closed her eyes to the spray of blood, waiting for her turn in the next instant, but the blow did not come. Instead, the two medjay took her by the arms and pulled her aside to one of the wagons to inspect the gash across her belly.

“Who are you both?” she muttered. “Medjay do not wear wrapping to cover their faces.”

“But thieves do.”

Shimmer paled, and not just from her bleed. The medjay spoke with a far too familiar of a voice, though she did not believe her senses until Rahim’s face was unveiled. His sister Raxa unwrapped herself as well, gasping for air as soon as she uncovered her nose.

“Impossible, I saw you two die,” Shimmer whispered.

“Or, you saw the two medjay we killed and dressed up as ourselves. You did not have time to search their bodies, did you?”

She shook her head. “The guards were nearly upon me, I had no time.”

“And we are glad you chose to run,” Raxa smiled and held out her palm to Shimmer, where the Heart of the Sky rested. Shimmer furrowed her brow and felt around her pocket. Sure enough, the jewel was gone. Pain took root in her sides, robbing any chance of sensible thoughts or questions. And as she clutched the bleeding wound, the shadows of the wagons seemed to warp and grow as her vision faded into blackness.

VII. The Heart of the Sky

Shimmer woke at sunset, her head spinning like a sandstorm enraged. She lay still for a moment, feeling the blanket draped over her and the thin mattress of hay placed beneath her. She could still feel the cold stone below. Where in the world was she?

It felt like ages before she had enough wits about her to recognize the ceiling of the cave above her. Outside, the setting sun and chirping crickets signalled a fast approaching night, and the long shadows against the roof of the cave grew deeper and darker. Still, she managed to recognize the dimmed symbols before her. The images scrawled across the walls, some painted and some carved, triggered memories in her addled mind. Zagrea. How did she get to Zagrea?

An old companion shot through her senses: pain. Her body felt as if it was on fire, alerted to every touch and rough stone. Clenching her teeth, she pulled herself into a stiff sitting position, relying on the wall of the cave to keep her upright. As soon as she was as comfortable as she could be, Shimmer licked her cracked lips and searched around for water. A bowl had been left out for her, but it was empty. Disappointed, she wet her throat by swallowing what little saliva she had and set her head against the wall.

Memories flooded her senses as a simple twitch pulled the stitching in her stomach, bringing the pain of her duel with Ahmotep back in full force. She had lost and nearly died, if not for the siblings, Raxa and Rahim. But had they truly been after the Heart? It seemed like a dream, some delirious hallucination brought on by exhaustion and bleeding. A simple search of her pockets, however, affirmed the truth. The marble-sized ruby was gone.

A shuffling startled her, as a black form emerged seemingly from the stone itself and into the sun’s fading light. But it was only Rahim. The broad-shouldered man snapped his fingers and a spark flew from a flintstone in his palm, bringing life to the smallest campfire Shimmer could imagine. Still, the heat licked her toes and brought a welcomed warmth. She simply stared at the thief, waiting for the answers she believed she was owed.

“How are your wounds?” He asked first. Shimmer said nothing, brushing aside his hand as he reached for her tunic to inspect the stitching beneath.

“Now, now, no need to be like that,” he said, sitting back contently when it was clear the blood had not resumed its flow in her sleep. “You wanted to bring the Heart of the Sky back here to its home, did you not? We brought you safely back here, you can trust us.”

“Why in all the hells should I trust you?” Shimmer hissed at him. “All that matters among thieves is gold.”

“Not true,” he waved away her anger. “We released the God-King’s precious crocodiles without seeing a single coin for it, but only because the man is a murdering oppressive pig who doesn't deserve such animals.”

Shimmer gawked at him. “That was your doing? Those beasts frightened me half to death! Besides, a thief who acts out of hate instead of greed does not earn much praise in my mind.”

“And yet you were there beside us in the God-King’s vault.” Shimmer opened her mouth, but could not fire back an answer.

Rahim shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back into the abyssal cave, whistling out for his sister. Raxa, just as he had, emerged from the walls of the cave as if she was made of the shadows themselves, still clad in the armour of the medjay, except that she had wrapped a black-dyed robe over the shining metal plates so that her brown hair and light skin became visible only as she pulled back the hood. Her lips curved in a tranquil smile. Her gaze was impersonal.

“We know what you must think of us,” she said, placing sticks on the fire to strengthen its light. “We will try to give you the answers you seek, but the Heart stays with us.”

“Then you know what it leads to, then? The Heart is a key of some sort. What kind of treasures does it hide?”

“I do not think you came all this way for treasure,” Rahim said, “and neither did we. How did you come to read what the ancient carvings meant?”

Shimmer pressed her lips tightly as if to trap her words in, but as silence hung in the air it became clear she would get her answers first without sharing some of hers first.

“I have travelled far across the desert, between the cities and within ruins, collecting shreds of secret magics and mysteries. To read these carvings is little better than guesswork on my part, but I have confidence in it.”

Raxa then laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched jingle for a woman of her size, like a copper chime in the wind. “A long journey, then. But still safer than stealing scrolls from Zagrean priests, isn’t it, Rahim?”

“Their gods must give them foresight,” was all he muttered in reply.

“No, it was your fault for not distracting them long enough.”

“Stop wasting the night and give me some answers,” Shimmer cut off the siblings’ banter.

“Why?” Raxa eyed Shimmer’s wounds, “Do you think you can travel as you are now?”

Shimmer ground her teeth and clenched her fist, but eventually relaxed when the pain in her stomach became more than a nagging sting. As the campfire ate its sticks and grew to a suitable size, her gaze slowly fixed itself on a shimmering object. Around Raxa’s neck looped a thin string, blue cotton yarn embroidered with gold thread, threaded through a simple gold ring, where the Heart of the Sky had been affixed.

Raxa followed her gaze down to the ruby hanging over her chest. “You were correct, it is a key,” she said, smiling as she picked up the jewel to look into it. “Months ago we stole scrolls from Zagrea and used it to translate many of these carvings. They tell of when the goddess Ashtra used a passage within this cave to delve into the earth to speak to the Lord of the Dead to bargain for the soul of Amuuz, her mortal lover. Zag refused the goddess, for it was unnatural for the dead to return to the living world. Stricken with grief, the goddess tore out her own heart and left it with Zag so that her love would forever be with her husband.”

She held up the ring by its string, dangling it above the flames and casting rays of blood-red light across the shadowed walls. “But with what we stole, we could not know what the ancient Zagreans used in their worship, only that it had been lost in Ituru.”

Rahim produced a large candle from a satchel around his waist and drew a spark of flame from the campfire, carrying it with him as he walked deeper into the cave where an unused altar waited. He placed the candle on one side, just barely illuminating the divet in the centre of the stone slab.

“When you agreed to steal from the God-King, we knew you had uncovered the secrets as well. It was our hope that you would know what to take, and that we need only help you reach it.” He walked back over and took the necklace from his sister, removing the Heart from the ring and placing it upon the stone altar.

Then, he lit three more candles, placing each in a corner of the altar, before laying out a small plate of bread wafers and cured meat. He whispered a hymn into his palm and then cut it, placing his hand over the Heart until the stone began to glow on its own.

First, Shimmer squinted just to see its faint light. But as it grew brighter and brighter still, she squinted against its blinding presence, shielding her face from its power yet still tempted to gaze upon its power. The light eventually faded, seemingly flowing into Rahim and filling his light skin with a dim red glow.

“What is he doing?” Shimmer gasped, her eyes still burning from the light of the Heart.

“For what will the gates of Zag open?” Raxa asked. “The Lord of the Dead has no business with the living unless a sacrifice is made.” A dagger jerked out from under her robe, the polished copper blade gleaming read in the dark like a streaking comet in the night sky. Despite her injuries, Shimmer jumped to her feet, biting her cheek as her stitchings surely pulled open and warm blood began to spill onto her tunic.

She prepared to defend herself, taking as wide of a stance as she could manage and steadying her breathing. Yet, as suddenly as Raxa had pulled the blade, she turned around and faced her brother. Rahim removed the mask wrapped around his face, unveiling his faint smile as he greeted his sister with closed eyes.

In the next moment, Raxa turned back around to Shimmer, and Rahim lay on the floor, clutching the dagger in his chest. With a detached feeling she watched, as a dog might stare at its master, unaware of human thoughts; enraptured by the overpowering serenity of his death, Shimmer was no longer sure of her reality. She only knew that she was looking upon evidences of the unseen play of divine forces beyond her understanding.

The light lifted from Rahim’s skin, taking the vague form of a man, though it was as wispy and incorporeal as dust in the wind. Behind the altar a crack grew in the stone; soon the crack became a gash, and then a mouth, and finally a gaping maw. Air dashed into the cave, sucking smoke from the fire and moisture from the walls. With it all, the light of Rahim stretched and warped, shrinking and thinning into a misty red stream, eventually completely devoured.

Once Shimmer could think enough to look back at Raxa, the woman had thrown on a large enough pack on her back to burden a camel.

“Seek a small bag of diamonds under a flat stone just outside the cave,” she said to her, though her focus was entirely channelled fast-approaching towards her equipment. All manner of knife and dagger hung from her belt, a pot dangled off the side of her bag, and the heads of many torches out from its top. “Your caravan friends will be in Zagrea now selling the treasures you promised them. They promised to tend to your strider until you returned to them.”

“Wh—wh—” Shimmer stammered, shock and surprise forming a lump in her throat, “what was your plan here? Why did you kill your brother?”

“To do what even a goddess could not,” Raxa answered, “and to accomplish the dreams of every living being on this earth. My brother and I have grown tired of our own stories. We’ve stolen more in this world than anyone else, and even the false stories fall short of the treasures we have kept for ourselves. And it all would become dust after our passing. Our final work, our most meaningful work, will be the only thing in this world that will not pass with death. Because we are going to steal from death.”

She gave a reassuring smile to Shimmer even as she stepped over the motionless body of her brother. “I feel that I must apologize for this shock. But we agreed on the plan long before we met you. My brother had to die so that I can steal his spirit from Zag himself.”

The mountain began to shake and rumble as the maw of the stone shrunk, faster than it had opened. With seconds until she could no longer fit through it, Raxa spoke no more words to Shimmer and passed into that black abyss without so much as a true farewell.

Shimmer wanted to give chase and call it an impossible ambition, but she hesitated, her own brain reeling with the fierce upsurging of fear. The lurid unearthly pit breathed in the shadowy chamber, taunting Shimmer to dive into its bowels. The mouth of the abyss seemed to grin mirthlessly and voraciously at her. A slow second passed with the same feeling as one’s final moments, long and agonizing, stretching out for hours and days. But before Shimmer picked up her feet to move, the second had passed and the maw had closed, leaving nought but the silent crackling and dim light of the campfire at Shimmer’s back.

Out in the arid shrubbery, on the hills among the mountain of the dead, cold winds were howling from the coast of the Selunium Sea. Shimmer blinked as her thoughts returned to her and regarded the pouch in her hand, a heavy leather thing, no larger than her fist. Inside, the white diamonds reflecting the brilliance of the moon above seemed pitiful now as she wondered in whose hands would they sit in five, ten, or even a hundred years. She could not bear to think it, of how lifeless stones would go on, coveted by onlookers as stories were spun over how they had been bought, polished, and placed into fine jewellery, all while she would one day meet the clutches of whichever god could lay claim to her spirit.

No, she could not bear it. Not now. Shimmer tossed the diamonds up and down, feeling their weight. She could only bear to count bags of feed she could buy for her strider. Her wound burned again, forcing her mind back to her burning senses. A shuffle, no, a scuffle, some sound of moving feet startled Shimmer from below the mountain. She reached for a rock, ready to pelt what wild animal may come to take her, only to find Ikwa’s sister, Asra, standing up from behind a large boulder.

“You should not be here,” Shimmer warned her, “Har’Zag is sacred to Zagreans. I bear the whip-scars as proof of their devotion.”

“I wished to know if you were alive,” Asra said. “Ikwa has already sold most of your trinkets. The caravan plans to leave soon if you do not return by tomorrow’s sunset.”

Shimmer made a sound, almost like the beginnings of a word, but it was barely more than a croak or a gasp. “Say that last part again,” she requested.

“Sunset?” Asra hesitantly said. “Yes, you should return to the caravan before nightfall tomorrow.”

“Sunset. I like the way you say it, Asra.” Shimmer smiled, and then tossed the pouch of diamonds to her. “Will that afford a space among your wagons? I have no destination, and I wish to go far away from here. Very far.”

Asra looked inside, her eyes nearly popping from her head at the sight of its contents. “And the thieves? We travelled with them a short while after your duel. They seemed very concerned for your safety.”

“Their ambitions run deeper than mine, I’m afraid.” She looked back up to the distant crack in the mountainside. “Very much afraid, sadly. I don’t think I can follow their dreams. Nor do I want to.”

“So, no more thieving?”

Shimmer shook her head. “I’ll do my best to avoid bringing trouble to your people, Asra. Now please, let’s go. I want to be away from this place and never come back.”