XXXIX. FOR THEM TO CRAWL

  It took the Triumph a fortnight to leave De-Urs. The Conqueror had decimated the legion for their insubordination, and had replaced Legate Silius with one of his own Centori to restore order in the quarries. The laborers were rounded up and slaughtered. The screams of the dying still followed Aho as they pushed South into the never ending tapestry of the Dunelands. The most muted, uninspired, beige tapestry that he had ever seen. THe landscape was as if someone had given a blind weaver wool dipped in sewage pits. Leagues of tans, browns, and decaying green dotted the horizon.

  The Triumph marched on the brick road that cut through Ker. They were led by scholars from the capital, whose responsibilities were to help them navigate through the harsh climate. Often, scouts were sent ahead to find where the faded route had disappeared. When they were forced to trek on the shifting dunes on foot, Asho’s feet scorched through his sandals.

  The prince spent hours at a time with a mounting headache- his dry mouth stuffed with vulture’s feathers. But the quartermasters kept tight tabs on the waterskins.

  For the third night in a row, the triumph was coerced to camp on the side of the road, the nearest village still half a day’s ride away.

  “The Argenti writes that the entire regiment is dead.”

  “Dead?” Advisor Pine said in surprise. “How can the entire regiment be dead?”

  “The Princess suspects evidence of poison, but she isn’t sure.” Advisor Gricola said.

  “Isn’t sure?” Asho asked as he sat next to them by the fire. With the sun dipping below the dunes, any residual heat was quick to vanish.

  “No. She wrote to the Emperor that she will meet us in De-Asha.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Does she know of the rebellion in De-Urs?” Asho asked.

  Gricola’s mouth formed a thin line. “No, I don’t believe she did. The Conqueror was most displeased by her inability to find information on the rebellion.”

  Comforted by his cousin’s shortcomings, Asho waited for the last embers of the campfire to dwindle before retiring for the night. He retreated to his tent as the savage winds of Sachmis screamed against the canvas walls of his tent.

  A flood tumbled through the limestone streets of a grand forum. The crowd stampede for higher ground. Fathers held their sons over their hips as they threaded through the waist high water. Across the forum a family was trapped on the portico of their small shop. With nowhere to escape, they held each other tightly as the flood swept them off their feet. They disappeared.

  The prince’s skin grew clammy against the leather of his wristbands. The prince tore his eyes from the drowning and turned on his heel into the temple of the skytops. Inside, a crowd of frightened kerai huddled around the altar to the Goddess Sachmis. Against the far wall, the shrine to the stormlord was covered by a sheet. Anger billowed in the prince’s lungs. His chest smouldered with heat. A woman roe, screaming as she pointed to his chest. The terrified crowd stormed past him, tripping over each other as they attempted to flee.

  The prince stood, spine straight as they ran outside into the inescapable flood.

  May they drown. The prince willed. It was all he ever wanted. For them to run. For them to crawl. For them to die with black ashes dripping from their chins…

  Asho woke violently. His fingertips fumbled for his sternum. He closed his eyes and attempted to settle his breath. The dream had been so vivid, so visceral. His feet struggled to gain their bearing as he stood. Asho grabbed his blanket and ducked outside. A centori glanced in his direction and Asho waved him off.

  He walked past the tents to the perimeter of theri camp before throwing his blanket down onto the cold earth. He sat. The stars out in the dunelands were brilliant— completely unobstructed. Asho spotted the hunter— his aim right at the unsuspecting stag. The prince changed course across the sky to the fisherman and the crab, then to the falcon— its wings barely visible in early autumn. The prince traced the constellation with his fingertips before drawing them back to his sternum. Asho hooked.

  Someday. He promised himself. Someday.