The burning sands stung any part of Sasha’s skin that was left uncovered. He supposed he should be grateful that he made it out of Hurria alive at all. It had been months but, the screams of the dying still haunted his dreams at night. All that accompanied him these days was thirst, pain, and his pack gamal.

The hairy pack animal held all his worldly possessions in a pair of leather bags dangling over its sides. The contents jingled with each plodding step. His scimitar, a few nearly empty tin canteens, some flint, and two single shot pistols whose ammo had long since been expended. The only thing worth anything in trade was his breach rifle.

Sasha patted the hairy creature on its long neck. It shuddered and raised its head, turning to glance at him through its glossy second eyelids. “Don’t worry girl. We’ll stop soon,” he reassured the creature. If it understood, it didn’t show as it returned to its slow march into the reddish nothingness of a steadily rising sandstorm.

Sasha wiped away a new layer of dust from his goggles. He drew his keffiyeh tighter across his face to ward off the biting sand and choking dust. Squinting, he tried to make out a rock formation, cave, cliff, anything that could provide a shelter for the night. If they settled out in the sand, there was a good chance the storm would bury them overnight. He’d have to continue until death or shelter presented themselves. He wasn’t sure which it would be tonight.

He took another rationed pull from one of his battered military canteens. The Alliance soldier he’d killed certainly wouldn’t be needing it, or his rifle, ammunition, and sword for that matter. One less Alliance murderer was a small price to pay for survival.

The patrols had become a greater problem with each passing day. In the months following his escape from the funeral pyre of Hurra, Sasha had moved from small town to small town on the outskirts of conquered Federation territory, taking any odd job he could get. Often, the pay was a simple meal.

Most contracts usually involved running personal security for some deposed noble or occasional politician fleeing the purges. Though he’d forgotten who he was before Hurria, he’d discovered that he was quite handy with a blade.

When Alliance patrols would sweep through, he would quietly sneak off to the east, outside of the occupied zone. Lucky for him, the Unaligned League had always retained a fierce neutrality in the war between the Federation and Alliance. The fall of the Federation hadn’t changed that stance.

But, the Prophetess cared little for treaties and agreements. Her smaller scoutships frequently crossed the skies of the eastern desert, searching for survivors of the purge. The steady eastward stream of refugees was helpless against her military might. He’d resorted to travelling at night or during storms to avoid capture.

Sasha remembered little of his life before the hospital. At night, his head would throb and he would be overcome with dizziness as flashes of a previous life overtook his senses. For him, the old axiom - “time heals all wounds” wasn’t entirely accurate. Despite months having passed since his escape, he was no closer to a full night’s sleep.

Just such an episode was beginning now. A familiar tingling worked its way up the back of his head and began to spread. Sasha knew, in minutes, he’d be incapacitated, reliving old memories through unconsciousness but retaining little of it upon waking. He grunted in frustration.

Squinting into the blasting sand once more, he scanned the swirling copper shaded soup for a sign of shelter. The wind continued its mocking howl as it coursed across his vision. If he weren’t so accustomed to the sounds of the desert, he might have missed the distant noise among the roar.

A low moan… it was the sound of wind, but not on sand. Solid rock! He thought. Trying to push the pain from his senses, he closed his eyes and tilted his head. Slowly, he turned toward the sound until he was sure the storm wasn’t playing tricks with his hearing. Eyes still closed, he gently nudged the gamal until the pack animal was facing the same direction.

The creature squealed in protest. It too was tiring of the storm. Gamals, with their second eyelids and thick scraggly fur were naturally protected against all but the worse the desert sands could offer. They could go weeks without water, but needed rest and nourishment too.

“Easy girl,” he spoke gently. “Shelter is just ahead. See? He pointed to a small outcrop that was beginning to silhouette behind a screen of tumultuous sand. He doubted the creature could understand him but, it helped him retain some of his sanity to talk to someone or, something in this case other than himself.

The pain was beginning to blur his vision. Cursing his luck, he shook his head to clear it, but it only brought on greater discomfort. As his gamal approached the rocks, Sasha’s headache was reaching the peak of its intensity. He would only have another minute or so before he slipped into a painful dream.

As consciousness began to escape him, he spotted an opening in the rock face. A cave! he thought with glee. The gamal shared his enthusiasm and cantered toward the entrance. As they made their way inside, his eyesight failed.

With his last moments of eyesight he noticed, the cave entrance wasn’t natural at all. It was perfectly rectangular with strange symbols carved into the stone. He was entering a manmade structure. He’d heard of artificial caves before. Cannibals, he thought with alarm. It was his last thought. The dreams had come again.

***

Vachir’s head was hurting and, it wasn’t for lack of coffee. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried his best to push the frustration out of his voice, “Ambassadors, this is not some sort of vendetta. Don’t you understand? There is more at stake here than the… Federation.”

His homeland was painful to speak of, even though it had been months since their escape. Following Emat’s prophecy, he had no choice but to reluctantly abandon the front lines in the final moments of battle. He’d spent every day since questioning his decision. Was Emat correct? Was he as important as the Ll’tal had insisted he was, or was the whole prophecy just some made up hocus pocus by a superstitious old creature?

Shera Lin, the governor of Freeport and diplomatic representative for the Unaligned League replied first, “With all due respect...General,” his old title stung just as painfully, “It’s been three months since the fall of the Federation. Despite constant warnings from you and scores of other Federation refugees, the Holy Land and Warlord Alliance have not advanced out of your conquered territory or shown any hostile intent.”

Ambassador Fredrickson of the Protectorate added his own voice to the discussion, “Besides, it would make little sense for them to do so. The Protectorate and the Alliance have shared decent relations for hundreds of years. Since the conclusion of the last crusade in fact.”

“And that’s another thing,” Vachir interrupted. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten your history but, both crusades were instigated by the same woman. She’s made her intentions well known. Call me a dabbler in cliche but, I have always believed the old saying ‘actions speak louder than words.’ Or perhaps you’d like another. How about ‘a snake cannot change its spots?’”

Fredrickson chuckled, “I do know my history, quite well in fact, General and, as I recall, she was beaten...soundly, in less than a day by our forces. She’s not foolish enough to make the same mistake twice.”

Vachir turned to Shera Lin and asked, “How about you, Governor? I’ve read the news reports. Every day, they’re filled with stories about tensions between the Unaligned League and the Alliance. Incursions into your territory, military movements near the city of Togsov, even a few skirmishes.”

The Governor frowned at Vachir and replied, “You should know better than to believe everything you read. You served decades as a political liaison, to the Prophetess as I recall. You and I both know, the newspapers care more about ‘making’ news than actually reporting it.”

“So,” Vachir asked, “you’re saying, none of it’s true?”

“Not entirely,” she conceded. “It is true that there have been some… disagreements between the Unaligned League and Alliance on exactly where our territorial lines fall. With the ongoing military action across our borders, it’s only natural some of the conflict spills over from time to time.”

“Wait,” Vachir interrupted, “Military action? My homeland was conquered. There is no military to speak of. What’s happening is cold blooded slaughter. Every day, hundreds are raped, murdered, tortured, or subjected to any number of horrific crimes. This isn’t war; it’s genocide. Plain and simple.” He stood up and paced to the far end of the room to hide the anger in his expression.

The Governor spoke softly, “I sympathize with your people, General. Truly, I do. I think we have been more than accommodating to the continuous stream of Federation refugees who crowd our southern cities. We are doing our best to integrate them into the population and provide food, housing, and jobs to everyone.”

Vachir sighed and replied, “Yes, I know, Governor, and I thank you for that, but none of it will matter soon. She is coming, you know. She won’t be satisfied with the lands of the Federation. Like the treacherous sand viper that she is, she will eventually strike, and when she does, I fear it will be too fast for you to stop her.” With that, he turned to leave.

Ambassador Fredrickson called after him, “A moment, General. There is one other thing.” Vachir turned to face the man. The ambassador’s pasty white face was twisted in discomfort.

Fredrickson glanced at the governor who nodded curtly. He sighed, “General, I would ask that you no longer request these meeting with us. Our time is very valuable and… well, to be perfectly honest, you are a man without a nation. A non-citizen.”

Vachir groaned inwardly. He’d been expecting this. The Ambassador continued, “To this point, we have humored you out of respect for your military record and our previous good ties with your empire. It’s time we faced facts though. The Federation is gone. You are essentially an…”

Vachir knew what the Ambassador was going to say and finished his sentence for him, “An outlaw.” Before either representative could say more, he slammed the door behind him. The last nail in the Federation’s coffin had been hammered.

***

The Beal River was at its lowest this time of year. It was mid-summer in Ruin and water was scarce as always. As one of the few sources of natural fresh water, the river was under the tight control of The Unaligned League. Up and down its grassy banks, signs dotted the landscape. Each one read, “WATER THEFT IS A CRIME PUNISHABLE BY DEATH,” in bold letters.

League soldiers patrolled its shrinking banks around the clock, their imposing presence warding off all but the most desperate. Jim watched another group of white and black clad soldiers as they marched by, sweating under the brutal summer sun. Their breech rifles were slung lazily across their backs but, their eyes were constantly alert. Water theft was a very real problem at every source.

All population centers, from small villages to enormous capital cities were built around life giving water. In Ruin, it was worth its weight in black crystal. Being so expensive was one reason most airships and other steam powered devices were usually only ever found in the possession of government military or the very wealthy.

“So, that’s another bridge burned,” Sandra commented, her voice an unwelcome distraction from the relaxing sound of the river. Jim, turned his attention back to the others around the small cafe table. Jim, Sandra, and Henry had been listening to Vachir as he recounted his earlier conversation with the Governor and Ambassador.

“Yes and, I fear it may be our last one,” Vachir replied in a worried tone. “The Protectorate ambassadors in every city we’ve visited feed me the same line about neutrality and non interference. As for The League, well, I either get an earful of empty sympathy or just plain apathy.”

Vachir sighed and continued, “We’ve been at this for months and we’re no closer to convincing anyone. It’s like the whole world would just as soon bury its head in the sand than see the storm coming on the horizon.” He ran his hands through his recently greying hair. The events of the past three months had aged him. Despite being a prime awakened, the stress of all he’d endured had been most unkind to his body.

“And what of Mountain’s Breath?” Henry asked. “Have you had any success in gaining entry?”

“No,” Vachir replied. “These damn stubborn Protectorate lackeys won’t budge. You’d be amazed at how resistant they are to any outsiders in their territory. Why they even have ambassadors is beyond me. It’s not as if they need the outside world at all.”

And, for all intents and purposes, they didn’t. The Protectorate was by far the oldest empire in Ruin. It had existed for over nine thousand years. In comparison, even the Warlord Alliance, with over sixteen hundred years to its credit, was an infant empire.

Many historians longed for the vast knowledge they could uncover from Protectorate archives. Throughout history, the Protectorate had been a nation of reserved technophiles. Very little was known about their cities except that they were off limits to everyone else.

Most of the greatest innovations came out of Protectorate territory however. Black crystal, ether cubes, airships, pushstones; all were first discovered their lands. Many suspected the reclusive nation was hundreds...perhaps thousands of years ahead of the rest of the modern world.

Henry stroked his chin, trying to emulate his human friends. The screeching sound of metal on metal caused them all the cringe. “So,” he noted, “let’s recap, shall we? We are without friends, without entry to the one place we need to be and, drifting on the winds of uncertainty.”

Their silence said it all. The mood around their small cafe table was dark. For the first time since their journey had begun, Jim and his friends had no idea what to do. Henry tried to cheer them up, “Let’s look on the bright side. At least we have our ship and our health. That has to count for som-” His voice cut off abruptly and, he tilted his head.

“Is something wrong?” Jim asked.

“Shh,” Henry replied. “Do you hear that? There’s some kind of commotion out front.” He rolled toward the back door of the cafe and peeked in. Turning back to the group, he added, “You might want to come see this.”

Jim hastily threw down enough black coin to pay for their food and followed the rest through the cafe and out the front door. As he stepped into the blazing sun, he saw what Henry’s clockwork ears, or whatever he heard with, had picked up.

Groups of people were running down the dusty street. Some of them were shouting. Others spoke rapidly amongst themselves. All looked anxious. More people began to pour out of nearby buildings to join the procession.

Jim called after one of the nearby groups, “Hey, what’s going on?”

A young man shouted back. His voice was full of excitement and perhaps a hint of fear, “Togsov has been attacked. War! We’re going to war!” Before Jim could ask more questions, the man and his friends had already disappeared into the rapidly growing crowd.

They were all running the same direction. It took Jim a moment to realize exactly where they were going. The airship docks!

“Well,” Sandra commented dryly, “That’s one way to get the League to stop dragging its ass.” They joined the rushing crowd and headed toward their ship.

***

Alia let out a low whistle as she stared at the crippled airship bobbing in the next berth over. The wooden scout ship was similar to The Herald in size. Alia had opted to keep the smaller ship docked at home in their mountain hideaway, not far from the Ll’tal village.

Unlike their airship however, this one was in horrible shape. Nearly the entire portside had been blasted away, revealing the sagging decks of the small vessel. It was an eerie sight, as if she was staring at an interior diagram on a ship where the side not drawn so as to reveal the contents inside.

Judging by the scorch marks across its hull and the blackened piles of flesh that she was pretty sure were once human bodies, she knew it had been attacked. As she examined the battle damage, she heard heavy footsteps on the deck behind her and turned to face Harol.

The deckhand was, as always, the perfect image of brevity. “She was attacked. Alliance and Holy Land. Came from Togsov,” he noted cooly. Alia laughed inwardly. Over the months since their flight from the Federation, Jim had taken a liking to the small statured gruff man. Yet, she couldn’t recall them ever saying more than a few words to each other.

“Attacked?” she asked. “I guess I’m not surprised. With the Federation out of the way, the Alliance is on to its next target. But, Togsov? That city’s a fortress.”

Togsov was often called “The Desert Rock.” The entire city was carved out of an enormous stone formation that seemed to spring from the eastern dunes. At its peak, the tallest building was over forty stories above the base. The city had formed in tiers over thousands of years. Each tier contained a honeycomb of tunnels that were filled with a rich history of pictograms, writings, thousands of rooms, and other archaeological curiosities.

The ascending layers represented a different era in Ruin’s past with the bottom being the oldest. Many a historian spent their lives studying its many secrets. She had never cared much for history, but even Alia knew, attacking a city with such rich cultural ties to all the empires of Ruin was a crime against humanity.

“City’s under siege,” Harol replied. “Nobody in or out. Prophetess’ givin’ ‘em an ultimatum. Surrender or die.”

Alia shook her head. “Requesting surrender? That doesn’t sound like her. She destroys everything and makes demands after. If she’s staying her hand, you can bet your ass, there’s a reason.”

Turning back to the crippled airship, she spotted Henry’s bronze tinted body in the growing throngs of humanity below. Close behind were Jim, Vachir, and Sandra, all making their way back to the dock. “Harol,” she ordered, “inform the crew. We fly out tonight. We need to get back to Shelter and prep The Herald for combat.”

“Combat, Captain?” Harol asked.

“Yes,” she replied with a cold edge, “nowhere is safe anymore. Not even this far north. War is coming to Ruin.”