Onago grimaced beneath his mask when he found the corpse of his friend, Hoonu.

  They hadn't known each other's true names, but they knew each other's faces. Onago wasn't that close with anyone else. Rage clawed inside him at the end his friend met. Hoonu's chest was crushed almost flat, blood and gore soaking the grass. It revealed to Onago that he could indeed feel hate from the death of another person, not just animals.

  Their Master, ruler of their secretive sect, forbade the outer team Onago belonged to from chasing any survivors. So it had been a surprise when Hoonu, part of the raiding teams, had come to Onago with a simple plan. Not to disobey their Master, as it was Hoonu who would capture the one he said would flee from a hidden tunnel. Onago just had to find her trail and guide her instead of fight.

  Others, especially those on the raiding team, would call Onago cowardly if they saw how he'd agreed after much convincing. They always called him a coward.

  Onago, of course, agreed whenever he heard it. His role wasn't battle, like theirs. He existed to hunt down their Master's foes, and hunters had to do things warriors shrank from. Stalking, waiting, preparing traps, letting the easy chances slip by for a sure chance days later, and allowing warriors to take the most glory.

  Their Master considered cowards the best predators, if trained right.

  Hoonu, being faster on his feet and part of the inner raiding team, had found the birdkin first. Onago had been a mile away. His friend gave chase, and Onago was slow to realize it. A pitiful plan, but Onago eventually found the trail's scent. Fresh blood, mingled from many sources. It led him a mile or two from the lonely mountain, his thoughts all about how their Master might punish them. Tempered only by Hoonu's assurance that their brethren slain in the raid would rest easier when the two friends performed the slowest of their sect's rituals, Thousand Thorns Array, on her. Their Master wouldn't deny them that right, even if he would surely see through them.

  'He will respect the boldness. We will be punished with a season or two of isolation, if at all.'

  That had been what Hoonu promised.

  Now, Hoonu was a mangled corpse starting to rot in the midday sun.

  That birdkin bitch would suffer for this. Standing over Hoonu's mangled body buzzing with flies, Onago reassessed how long the birdkin would live through the Thousand Thorns Array. Performing it by himself, draining her life to bolster his strength and nourish his qi, he guessed she'd last half a year, instead of the two cycles of the moons it would have taken Hoonu and Onago to finish the ritual.

  The efficiency would be halved, the Array meant for two practitioners, but Onago would savor her fear for the sake of his departed friend.

  Offering a quiet prayer to Hoonu, Onago took the man's mask and refused to look at what was below. He wanted to remember his friend's laughing smile, not agony twisted death. Instead, Onago picked up the fallen sword Hoonu crafted for himself and hewed off his friend's head in a single stroke. The head he bundled up, while the ownerless sword he added to the sash on his waist.

  Their Master would decide if Hoonu deserved a proper burial upon their reclaimed skull wall, or if he was to be forsaken.

  For now, Onago tied the bundle to his back and whistled through his mask.

  Hyenas slunk into the clearing, dozens of them, all eyeing the headless, mangled body with hunger. They'd been promised the flesh of enemies, but would never turn down disposing of a friend.

  "You," Onago said, pointing to the eldest and most faithful of his pack, a mated pair he'd named Yellowclaw and Redtooth. Giants of their kind, connected deeply to him through his Vinebound Soul path of The Art. "Wait here. The rest of you, get the scent of the bitch from his body. Trap her on rocks or a tree."

  The beasts obeyed him.

  Once they had the scent, only a few of the young ones needing to be nipped at for daring to try and steal a bite they hadn't been granted, the pack disappeared back into the grass.

  Onago waited for them to be truly gone before looking at his favored pair. He'd raised Yellowclaw and Redtooth from the time the great Master of Masks took him in and showed him a suitable path of The Art for a coward. The huge, armored hyenas trusted Onago, and he cared for them as he did his legs or arms. As his strength grew, so did theirs, and so did the pack.

  Onago pointed at his friend's body, clever eyes following. "Clean up. Wait here. Obey the Master if he comes."

  The ravenous predators jumped to the grisly task with smiles. Bones crunched, Onago glad that Hoonu could serve their Master's forces one last time in death. It was an honor all should aspire to.

  ---

  "Master Emrys, come quickly!" shouted the guide, shoving through the tent's flap and bouncing from foot to foot anxiously.

  A sigh heaved out of the caravan's sponsor and master, Emrys. He stood up from the game of chess against his apprentice, plucked his broad brimmed hat off the central pole of his tent, and gestured for his guide, Osso, to lead the way. A quick sign to his apprentice told the young man to prepare for the worst, then Emrys took his sun faded staff from its spot.

  Osso ducked his big volpes ears out of the tent and held the flap.

  Oppressive heat pushed against Emrys as he walked out, staff tapping into a walking rhythm as he leaned on it. This deep into the dry season rain was a distant memory and desperate hope. The caravan, all ninety souls and their herd of pack animals, had stopped near a well known watering hole for a few days of rest, their porters and guards at ease thanks to Emrys' two loyal wolfkin guards. They were at the end of the trip and returning to Tpocic-tal, everyone hoping to make it back before the rainy season began.

  As he moved through the camp, Emrys nodded to everyone who called out to him, be it in genuine appreciation or sycophantic guile, and followed Osso.

  "What is it now?" Emrys grumbled, irritated from the heat. He had to wave off a cook woman wanting him to taste the camp stew before he could speak again. "Signs of another khrett pack?"

  "No, no, no," the volpes nervously shook his head. Osso led the caravan's master to the edge of camp and whispered urgently, "Look at Old Man Ngnun! Don't you see?"

  The volpes pointed to the lonely, weather beaten mountain. The tree covered granite rose a mile or two away, in what the clans in the area called Old Man Ngnun. Osso had insisted they not get too close, and the small settlement upriver had found every excuse not to talk about the odd mountain. To Emrys it seemed as Old Man Ngnun, a long and almost serpentine mountain, likely hid a valley or even ancient lake. The mild interest he harbored for the odd feature jutting above the dry Mgan Plains vanished as he saw what agitated his guide.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Black and white smoke billowed from the jagged mountain. Far too much of it to be from a secretive settlement.

  "A bushfire?"

  "Can't be, can't be," Osso fidgeted, "the masters of Old Man Ngnun would have it out by now!"

  Emrys took note of that, but didn't press the volpes.

  "No one else seems to care," he observed, glancing about at the men minding the pack animals.

  A few watched the mountain in the distance with some interest, but most of them were far more intrigued by Emrys being out of his tent.

  "Because," Osso whispered, turning and holding his hands up to his snout to signal privacy, "none of them know about it. Not like I do."

  "Oh ho," Emrys raised a brow, "so you aren't as ignorant as you pretend."

  "I meant no disrespect, master Emrys," the volpes pleaded, eyes filled with a new fear.

  "And I mean no threat," he sighed. "What's this secret you want to share now?"

  "This is why we like you, master Emrys," Osso grinned, still holding his hand by his snout.

  The caravan liked him for the pay and the safety his two guards provided, and little else. Even so, Emrys endeavored to be friendly with them.

  "The hermits on Old Man Ngnun, they trade with the clan my older brother married into," Osso explained. "Before I came into your generous service, I helped him. I saw, from the other side of the Old Man, the lake they've got up there. And I..." The volpes swallowed, leaning closer. "I saw the War-Dancers on the mountain."

  "War-Dancers?" Emrys raised a brow. "That superstition of powerful, magical hermits hiding in these parts?"

  "They're real. Magicians and masters of metal and killing," Osso said, words pouring out of him rapidly. "The elders said that when they were still children, their elders told them the War-Dancers won the mountain from Blood-Drinkers, monsters without mouths that would hunt the clans like we hunt antelope."

  "And this has what bearing upon a bushfire?"

  "I saw War-Dancers walk across burning coals," Osso said, words still pushed too close together. "Not run, walk, slower than you when you don't have a staff. They wouldn't fear a fire, wild or raging. They'd put it out, with their magic or the waters of the lake they have up there."

  A lake on a mountain? Magic? Emrys felt the first stirrings of real, actionable curiosity this entire trip. There could be many intriguing materials for his crafts to trade with such people as these 'War-Dancers.' This trip had procured him many oddities from the oasis villages and cities, but he rarely turned down the chance to find more for his workshop in Tpocic-tal.

  Emrys drummed thick, hardened fingers against his staff and stroked his long, black beard.

  "Take me," he decided, turning his gaze to the mountain, "to Old Man Ngnun."

  "Why the fire still burns should be—what?" Osso blinked, so taken aback his hand dropped away and he shuffled back half a step. "Master Emrys, what did you say?"

  "I need three fearless men," Emrys announced, not needing to shout for his heavy voice to silence the nearby parts of the camp, "to join me and my two guards on a trip to Old Man Ngnun. We will be back, or send word of our return, by nightfall."

  Summoned by those words, a pair of wolfkin twins left their comfortable shade and walked over. Scarred patches on one tall wolf's bare chest marked him, Tross, from his brother, Tass. Other than that the pair were identical, down to the beads they had woven into the fur of their tails and neck. Even the crystal embedded spears they carried were perfect copies. Everyone in camp made way for the pair of sorcerers—or magicians as they called all who worked magic—not out of fear but a respect bordering on reverence.

  If Emrys was a source of fear and trepidation, Tross and Tass were nearing worship. Real magic was rare in the plains and always seen as a blessing from the gods instead of a curse as it was on the northern half of the Istillian Sea.

  Bold plainsmen glanced about, weighing their superstition against the protection of Emrys' loyal sorcerers. Everyone had seen them blast apart hunting khrett that tried to harass the caravan, feathers from the giant, axe-beaked terrors proudly worn by the cooks and their daughters that had quite the carnal love for their protectors.

  "I'll go," volunteered a Tpocic man, dusky shoulders broader than his brother-in-law's that stood up a moment later.

  "Me as well."

  Emrys recognized them but had forgotten their names. He'd recall them soon enough.

  "That makes three," he said, hand clapping onto Osso's shoulder. "Get some of that smoked antelope meat, and Tass get a bottle from my private stash. The one I told you not to touch. We can't be visiting without gifts."

  "Do I," Osso whispered under his breath, "have a choice?"

  Emrys gave a few more orders, then turned around. He shuffled his short guide into a quiet enough space and spoke in the bartering language of the Istillian Sea far to the north that few plainsmen knew. "Five more silver coins for you to introduce me to these War-Dancers."

  "Fifteen," Osso countered, eyes flicking about suspiciously. Like running away seemed a better idea than staying.

  Long practice kept Emrys' gaze steady and grip loose, but gods how he hated this verbal dance of suffering people called 'haggling' and all who engaged in it. "Five. Etrucian made silver."

  "Ten," Osso countered, seemingly born and bred for haggling. "You won't find anyone else that knows how to respectfully greet them."

  Giving in now would only make Osso try to cheat him in the future. Not out of malice or disrespect, it was simply the way of the plains. Take what you can get, because who knows how long the next dry season will last?

  "You know my generosity," Emrys said. "Six."

  "Ten or you're hobbling to the Old Man without me. Your magicians will get you enough respect to be seen."

  "Five," Emrys kept his face unreadable, "for threatening me."

  "Threaten you?" Osso nearly squeaked. "Master Emrys, you know I am only worried about you and my unmarried brother and sister. If I die, ten coins will be just enough for them to have a proper funeral for me."

  Slapping the short volpes across the back of the head was so tempting, because this same excuse had been used in three prior negotiations. His brother and sister, who did exist, would be able to buy their way up to and across the Istillian Sea with all Osso was owed from this trip.

  Emrys ignored the urge to smack sense into the volpes and instead stroked his beard. This was all part of their rituals. It didn't need to be something he liked or respected, just appropriately navigated. "If I die, your family won't get an extra ten. Possibly any of what I owe you."

  "So is it ten?" Osso asked, pitifully hopeful.

  "For that I should ask my apprentice to come with me in place of you."

  "Okay, okay," Osso relented easily. "I don't dare disturb the young master studying to be a great man like you. Nine Etrucian silver coins and I will lead the way."

  "Seven."

  "You are tougher than leather," the volpes hissed, glancing over his shoulder at how fast supplies were being gathered for the two men who would act as porters. "Okay, okay. Seven coins. Etrucian silver. That should get Teppi and Ussa a nice funeral for me."

  Emrys, opinions firmly kept to himself about funerals, held out his hand for the volpes, who had missed his calling as a merchant sailing the Istillian Sea.

  Once Osso shook on it, Emrys had Tross tell his apprentice to record the deal in the ledger.

  Osso was satisfied with that, as no one would accuse his apprentice of ill dealings. The young man was beloved, and the target of every father and mother with an unwed daughter.

  When the scarred sorcerer returned, their small group left the rise the camp was founded on. A hundred paces through plains, slowed by Emrys leaning on his staff, brought them to the mostly dry river. The boards they'd set up across a narrow spot creaked underfoot, but the magical wards secretly carved into them would allow even a pack beast to cross over without so much as straining the makeshift bridge.

  Escorted by two sorcerers carrying gem enchanted spears, their group feared little out here in the plains.