It would seem that a gathering in a city known as the City of Sins would be a recipe for murder, crookedness, and vile deeds. And, in fact, it was. People from all corners of the southern side of the land bridge from Bargetar to Terragar to Kungar gathered to be a part of the biannual slave trade.

Hundreds of tents and large canopies occupied plains of brown dirt. The scorching sun sat high in the afternoon sky beside tufts of white clouds. There was not a trace of wind to cool men and women down. The air inside tents were stuffy and smelled of various odors. It was the kind of heat that left one’s mouth dry as cotton. Water had suddenly become a commody—so much so that there had already been two incidents, one of which resulted in death, where men had fought over the last of the water supply.

Emonu sat at a round table that was creaking under the weight of fists and elbows of excitedly, clamoring guests whose hurried discussion concerned the latest slave that was up for sale. A man with a mustache so bushy it covered it his lip was auctioning off a man with a muzzle over his mouth. His hair was cut crudely in a crooked line across his forehead. Emonu pretended to be interested, not allowing himself to glance over to Canu’s table. The group at the table he was seated arrived in a party of six men. They spoke an odd tongue that mixed his own language in short bits with another language that contained more “s” sounding words than he knew possible. It all sounded like hissing with normal words thrown in occasionally. One particular man in a green cloak seemed to lead the conversation amongst the group—often emitting loud bursts of laughter.

He could not tell who the lead of the group was because they all spoke frequently and with equal interest at each other’s words. They had not seemed like seasoned southerners until a man approached their table to challenge their bid. One of the more talkative men hurled an insult and the challenger made the fatal mistake of letting his hand go to his hilt. The man in the green cloak had the man’s tongue within seconds. His men restrained the challenger and the cloaked man had drawn his dagger in a flash. They threw him to the ground, letting his screams fill the tent and temporarily halt proceedings from the scene it caused.

Emonu made a mental note to keep his head down.

One of the men said something to Emonu shortly later in his hissing language. Emonu returned a panicked stare, holding his hands up in surrender. The table laughed obnoxiously. The man who had cut the tongue from the other man reached into a pouch and tossed a generous Doblii coin to Emonu. Emonu motioned his thanks, overexaggerating his admiration of the coin. In truth, it would be pocket change for Canu—who had always deemed his own stash of coin to be as much Emonu’s as his own.

Emonu watched the final bids go back and forth between his own table and a man who the auctioneer was calling by the name Ruud. Everyone had seemed to know the man inside the tent, echoing jeers and comical protests at Ruud’s refusal to back down. He would casually toss an offer one small coin above whatever the men at Emonu’s table would offer. The man in the green cloak did not dare approach Ruud with the same tongue-tearing tactics. Ruud seemed to sit alone, however. Somehow that made Emonu more fearful of him.

He had a way about him that demanded respect. His fearless disposition certainly helped. He leaned back in his chair lazily. He was a handsome man with olive skin and neatly trimmed facial hair. His hair blended nicely along the sides into a tousle of dark, curly hair on top.

Finally, after an outrageous price had been offered for the man with a muzzle, the men at Emonu’s table won the bid. They celebrated, cheering their drinks as the man in the green cloak walked up to the small podium to exchange coin and claim his new slave. The man who was giving him away was a skimpy man with boils along his nose and greasy hair. He looked hardly older than a boy.

Around the plains of the slave trades, there were near a hundred other auctions going at the same time. Canu could be in any one of these tents, thought Emonu as he looked around. The muzzled man was ushered to their table with his hands bolted tightly in chains behind his back. His chains clanked at his ankles as well. He took a seat beside Emonu. He was bulky, with arms thicker than Emonu had seen from a slave. He was used to seeing thinly worn slaves who were poorly fed.

There were always, of course, bounty hunters or vengeful men who were sold at a high price by their lord as a tool rather than as a slave. Some men did not mind being sold away. Men of the north with a high desire for killing were often shipped across the dividing sea from north to south to start anew as indentured servants in the south. That line of work was much more appreciated the further south one went. Bargetar was the murder capital of the realm, as known by all. The City of Sins, known simply as Bladgorn, was Bargetar’s capital. A hustling and bustling city from slave trade to prostitution and whoring. Canu had made a point of staying clear of Bladgorn when possible.

But today was different. Sigeric would be here today, no doubt in Canu’s mind. And with him would be the Floweress, Eshna Fashud. Her price would be extremely steep, and Emonu wondered if Canu would be able to afford her. Even with his mountain of wealth and plunder, there were few things a man in the south could use than a healer—someone to give them a second chance at life in a land where dying at the hands of murderer was more common than death by disease or old age.

Emonu decided to hang a sidelong glance at the tent beside them. There seemed to be loud bartering taking place there. It was a bartering war, rather than a bidding one. There was a group of twelve able bodied men standing in front of their seller—a man who people were calling Raba.

“Raba! Raba!” a million voices seemed to shout his name at once, desperate for him to gain their attention at the latest offer being thrown force. Emonu watched one man shove his wife and son forward like dogs with a dozen pouches of coin to go with them. Raba never saw it. The only thing the man received was a look of despair from his son and vengeful threat from his wife, whose slap to the face was prevented by the man’s sideman—who grabbed her by the wrists to restrain her until her knee found his groin—sending him to the ground in a heap.

He was then trampled by a man whose height was nearly seven feet. It was quite the scene watching the seven-foot-tall man trip over the man whose groin had been smashed, bringing down the culprit herself with him. The wife tripped and hit her head on the chair of another table, bringing fresh blood to the ground. Her husband did not stir from the sight, nor did he care. Instead, he waved all the coin he had in the air to no avail.

The sight that had drawn the attention of Raba came from the far side of the tent where a man with tan skin, but stunningly blue eyes competed with a man whose whole face was covered besides a slit for his nose and eyes. He was clearly a man of Kungar—known as one of the Arroquis. They were known for their odd religion of the self. Belief in the deity of their personal self had led to the concealing of their identity with facial covers and black clothing for reasons Emonu had never figured out.

Emonu found himself sneakily slipping away from his current tent and into the one beside him where all the action was taking place. He slipped into a chair at a round table at the very back of the tent where no one would see him enter. He did not mean to be noticed.

He could hear the conversations of a man and a woman at a table in front of him as they discussed the two men who bartered toward the front of the tent for the group of slaves.

“It’s Han’s eyes. They demand the attention of anyone he acknowledges. Plain and simple,” said the man.

“But his eyes did not get him to the place of wealth and prestige he has now,” replied the woman. “He crossed the land bridge years ago after that bloody war in the north. To make a home in the south after spending so long in those lands is something of a mystery. Most who cross the land bridge never make it. Different worlds.”

“I don’t disagree. I just think his eyes can hypnotize. Have you even spoken to him?” asked the man.

The woman chuckled, turning to look the man in the face. “What, you have? Did you offer to pull his pants down for him when he was pissing earlier? You don’t know Han Paldeen. No one does.”

The man shrugged, trying to pretend her comment had not bothered him. Emonu could tell by his face that it had.

His attention was directed back to Han now, whose bartering had seemed to finally pay off—earning an amused ovation from the onlookers who had not participated. The auction could take up to half a day. Some waited until the last hour for the auction that they had been waiting for.

Emonu watched Han leave the tent with his twelve slaves, whose chains were all bound together so that they had to walk as a unit. The man with the black cloth covering most of his face shouted an obscenity and then mounted a camel that was stationed just outside the tent. He left in a fury, leaving all his coin at his table amidst his anger. There was an inevitable leap at the table for claiming the coin. It was only three small sacks of coin, but men here were hungry for coin. Two men yanked at the same bag, spilling the coins all over the ground. A kid no older than ten emerged from nowhere to claim a single coin that had rolled to the edge of the tent. The man who had spilled the bag saw it and chased the kid a hundred yards out of the tent for that single coin. It was in vain, as Emonu watched the kid escape and disappear into the heat waves in the distant Bargetar desert plains.

Six tents over from Emonu sat Canu wrapped in an oversized cloak. The hood of the cloak covered all but his mouth from which protruded a pipe. He puffed circular clouds of smoke with his legs crossed as he leaned back casually in his seat. He sat at the back of the tent, and the men in the tent paid him no mind. His scabbard on the table in front of him. He watched through veiled eyes at the scene around him. He had situated himself at the tent he knew Sigeric would come to.

This time had been set for the wealthiest of men. Twenty-seven round tables fit inside the largest tent of the entire auction. Towards the middle, the fat desert lord needed three tables to fit his entire contingent. Canu knew he would be aware of Sigeric’s sale. Sigeric had been performing duties for the desert lord against the oaths of their clan as of recent. Sigeric had surely promised the desert lord he could expect to find the Floweress up for auction at the slave trade.

Canu eyed the desert lord from afar. He was not hard to find. He was so fat that he did not fit in the chairs provided. He sat in a wagon arrayed in jewels and pure gold. The wagon was untethered to the four horses needed to pull it. Nearly twelve men were seated around the desert lord with weapons at their side. The desert lord was known as Marus Oredor. He was known as the desert lord for his monopoly over a large chunk of the land in Terragar that proved to be more of an inconvenience to travelers than anything. Those who travelled through his land without paying the fare could expect an arrow in their neck at any moment. The fee was always outrageous, pointing towards the desert lord’s greedy nature.

He was loud and obnoxious, often demanding food and a fanning from his servants. The nervous servants scurried about to accommodate his requests. Canu could see a servant quickly move to the desert lord’s feet. He removed his sandals, which had squeezed his feet and left imprints on them and went about massaging them. Another servant moved to the other foot.

There was an interesting array of people about the tent. Some were expected regulars of the slave auction. Others had travelled from afar having heard word spreading of the appearance of the Floweress. A high price would be demanded—a price which Canu had come ready to pay at any cost.

Canu placed his pipe down on the table, a small cough escaping him. The dry desert air had made his throat dry. He called for one of the slave servants of the slave auction. He was a measly boy of twelve with scrawny arms and fear in his eyes.

“Water,” said Canu, signaling with his arms to show him what he meant. The boy could have spoken any of the western languages, so Canu did his best to signal what he wanted. The boy nodded and moved away quickly to find him water. He returned with a pitcher of water and a fancy glass. This glass would not be found in any other tent, thought Canu. This was the tent of the wealthy.

A commotion from outside the tent interrupted the auction taking place up front. A procession of wild boar leading a wagon like sled dogs were approaching the tent. A woman stood on the wagon with whips in her hands. She was shooting obnoxiously at her boar in orders that were inaudible over the loud screeching of the wagon over the thin dirt underfoot. The sand here was thin and the ground was hard.

Her boar pulled up at the back of the tent and the wagon screeched to a halt. The wagon stopped short of the tent’s supporting pole by a few inches. The had an arrogant smirk on her face as she stood atop the wagon. All but the immobile desert lord had turned to look at the new arrival. She hoisted two massive sacks of coin from her wagon and brought them to Canu’s table. The initial intrigue of the new guest died away and people returned their attention to the auction up front.

“Kathel Wynte,” said the woman. She held out a hand to Canu. He paused for a moment before shaking her hand to show his disinterest.

“I don’t need new friends,” said Canu.

“Friendship is not what I offer,” she replied. Her hair was wild and frizzy. It ran down to her arms and stood tall on her head in tangled knots and waves. “And you are…?”

“Canu,” he replied.

“Just Canu?” she inquired. “Works for me. I already knew of you. Your reputation grows further south every day.”

“My reputation?” Canu questioned. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m a local. My clan stays near to the town of Rulzan. My reputation goes no further.”

Kathel laughed at Canu’s casual response. Their eyes were briefly diverted to the auction at the front of the tent where a dwarfed man with three eyes was sold off to a lanky, wizardly man with a long fanciful robe and crude features.

“You may think that” replied Kathel. “They speak of you often now. Your reputation will soon spread to the southernmost regions. Perhaps, even Mekdah.” Kathel had gotten so close to Canu, who faced forward and away from her, that her words were whispered menacingly into his ear. Canu jerked his head away and dropped his hood.

“Do I know you? You are daringly close to a man who has no hesitation to maim if threatened.”

“That’s an empty threat,” laughed Kathel. She sucked on her bottom lip, admiring Canu for a second. Canu furrowed his brow, uncomfortable. “First off, you’re hurt. I can tell by your posture. What’re you guarding? Chest, is it?”

Kathel was cut off by Canu. “How do you know—”

“Secondly, Canu, you don’t like to kill unless judgment is deserved. I noticed you said ‘maim’ and not ‘kill’. At least you are honest.” Kathel stared into his eyes as if trying to decipher deep truths about him. Canu snarled in anger.

“Get away. Now.”

“So, you are just as they say in Drakadin,” said Kathel.

“Drakadin?” That had gotten Canu’s attention. “What business does a woman from Drakadin have here in Bargetar?”

“I came to find you,” said Kathel.

Canu turned in his chair, withdrawing a dagger from inside his cloak. The dagger dropped to the ground. He clutched his chest, reeling away in agony.

“I thought so,” said Kathel. “You have been wounded.”

“You want the Floweress, don’t you? You’ll have to bid for her just like everyone else. She’s not in my possession anymore. Why don’t you go find yourself a new table before I cut you?” Canu’s grit his teeth, still clutching his chest through his cloak.

“I’m not here for her. I’m here for you, Canu Aybury.”

Canu turned to face the woman. He scanned her head to toe, unsure of her business. “Who speaks of me in such a way that you know who I am all the way in Drakadin?” asked Canu.

Kathel moved her quiver of arrows from her bag and tossed them in her wagon. One of the boars whimpered and stared at Kathel, hoping for food.

By the front of the tent, a new auctioneer had arrived. It took four men with ropes tied around the slave’s limbs to keep him stable. The man was so tall that his head was pushed up against the roof of the tent. It was one of the fabled giants of the caves. It was rare to see a giant enslaved and for sale—often keeping to themselves in places where no man dared to hunt for one. They were deadly and resistant to humans. The giant had a cloth covering its parts and skin the color of pale rock. It lacked for hair and its eyes were black as pitch. It let out a shriek yell, revealing a set of jagged yellow teeth and a sharp tongue. Canu shuddered. He turned to Kathel, remembering he had asked a question. She, too, had been distracted by the giant.

“Hey, Kathel,” Canu gained her attention once more. “Who speaks of me in Drakadin?”

“Oh, yes, that…it is a whole religion, Canu. There was an old, frail man who passed through our lands weeks ago—”

“An old man?” interjected Canu. “With a tattered brown cloak and blind eyes?”

“Y-yes.,” stammered Kathel. “How did you know that?”

Canu leaned back in his seat, forgetting his chest pain momentarily. “He came to me, not long ago. What did he say?”

“He spoke of the great emancipator. A man who would free the north of its legalistic bonds. A man who would unite Ulda, north and south, and end the separation. The people of the south will no longer be constrained to this orange dirt of infertile land,” Kathel paused before letting her eyes grow big. “He said that you would do this. You would be the one to light the flame inside the slaves of the north. And one day, those lands will be free from the oppressive grip that it now sulks in.”

“Nonsense,” replied Canu. “I seek my family, and that is all. I don’t know If you should believe a word that man said. I would not trust him.”

“We believe him. He is a Seer,” said Kathel in a serious tone. Her face darkened. She leaned close to Canu. “He has been to the Caves of Ena, Canu. The Caves of Ena!”

“That makes him a Seer, then?” he asked.

“Of course, it does,” replied Kathel. “He has witnessed the face of the High King. No wonder he is blind. But the cost of his sight has not blinded him, for he is now a Seer!”

Canu sneered at that. “What good is a Seer?”

“You are far more stupid than I would have expected. They speak great things of you there, in Drakadin. It’s a religion, Canu.”

“Well, you should return to them. They ought to know that what they hear is folly. I am not liberating or freeing anyone but my own mind. I go north to find my family. That is all,” said Canu.

Kathel twirled the ends of one of her frizzy strands of hair.

“Can you stop staring at me?” asked Canu. He scooted his chair away from Kathel. She edged closer to him.

“Can I not stare at the face of my savior?” asked Kathel.

Canu gave a dismayed look. Both of their attention was snapped back to the front of the tent. A winning bid had been placed on the giant. It gave a mighty roar. Its shriek drew the attention of all nearby tents. The sound pierced the arid desert air. It lifted its arms and flailed them, sending the men who held the ropes flying and slamming into tables at the adjacent tents. The original owner of the giant ran to the giant’s side and jammed an injection of something into its leg. The giant became very calm and still. It swayed to the side, nearly falling before catching itself.

“You travel north then?” asked Kathel.

“Get away from me,” said Canu.

“But—”

“Go. Now.” Canu placed his hand on his scabbard, which sat on the table. “There are things I must take care and it’s not going to happen with you sitting here. Go minister to someone else about the religion of Canu.”

Kathel grabbed her things quietly and slid over to another table. Her boars obediently dragged the wagon toward her. Two tables separated them now. Canu heaved a sigh of relief. He could still feel her eyes on him from where she sat.

The auction runner announced the next person to sell their slave.

“Sigeric of Rulzan!” shouted the auction runner.

People gathered in the tent leaned forward in their seats. Discussion and talk grew excitedly as the slave was brought forward.

Eshna was bound at the hands by rope. A metal collar was around her neck, binding her chains to the wrist of Bulig, who brought her forth. Sigeric stood beside Bulig and Eshna with an arrogant smirk spread across his face.

“I present to you, Eshna Fashud—Floweress of Herbwood in the north,” began Sigeric. “Former prized possession of Emperor Harys Rainblood and then Hyltir Hasamon of Terragar. I release her to one of you in exchange for your finest offers.”

Sigeric’s smug look brought an anger deep inside him that nearly stirred Canu to his feet. He saw movement out of his peripheral. It was Emonu. He ducked low as he entered the tent from the back. He ushered in a cart with a mule that had large sacks of coins in it.

My entire fortune. Well, it wasn’t going north with me anyways, thought Canu.

Up at the front of the tent, Eshna had a grimaced look on her face. She yanked her arms away from Bulig, whose chunky hands were trying to tighten the bonds around her wrists. The crowd cackled and clapped in amusement at her feistiness.

Canu pulled his hood over his head to conceal his identity. He did not need Sigeric seeing him until the last possible moment. For all he knew, Canu was a dead man.

The words of Eshna began to echo in his head from before.

“Promise me you will not allow me to be sold for coin,” she had said.

“Don’t know you worry, Floweress. I will not sell you. But I will certainly purchase you,” he whispered to himself.

The sounds of cups clamoring, and intermingling voices slowly ebbed to a halt. Grim looks began to crawl down the faces of those gathered in the tent. Canu initially became confused as to the seemingly random quiet. But it was not random. Aumenfal had arrived. The hour of darkness had begun to descend upon the land.

The sun had been blazing its scorching light upon the orange Terragar sands, but it now began to fade to a purple haze of the night sky. The hour of darkness had been expected—it was a phenomenon that had occurred on this day every year since the first days of Ulda, when the first two men of the land had dueled over their differences—or rather—Kavinar was slain. Kavinar had been killed by his brother, Ravnus. And so, the land remembered that hour of darkness since its inception and it was celebrated by the people for it was a landmark day to remember the incident that began the fall of man and started Ravnus’ invention of dark things and evil beings.

But this time felt different than past years. There was always a moment of silence that accompanied the hour of darkness. It was a remembrance and a reverence. Most men obeyed that reverent expectation, even vile men. But there were always some who looked to use that hour for their gain, especially in a city such as Bladgorn where its name (The City of Sins) lived up to its expectation. The guards around Eshna withdrew their swords from scabbard to maintain the integrity of the auction. Once the initial awe of the dark was taken in the auction would continue. But the dark continued to overcome even the light of the stars and the sky went from a milky purple to a pure black. Canu held his hand out in front of him and his fingers soon disappeared from before his eyes. Anxious whispers and murmurs filled the tents.

Cries of “stay calm!” and “It will soon pass” filled the arid air which now turned brisk and windy. A cool chill drifted through the air and a light breeze picked up into a strong wind. The faintest of shrill cries could be heard drifting through the wind. Canu tilted his head as if to get a better angle to listen. Emonu did the same although the two could not see each other. The sounds of men hitting their legs on chairs and tables filled the tent but were quickly drowned out by the gushing sound of the busy winds. The flaps of the tent went about fluttering loudly like the wings of some giant bird.

“This feels different,” whispered Emonu.

Canu could hear Kathel’s voice not far off, trying to locate her hounds. Men who were stationed around the tent, who had been hired by the city to ensure the event remained civilized, tried desperately to light torches but the wind blew them out before they could light more than a second.

A shriek rang out through the night air like a dying, suffering animal. Canu knew that it was not the sound of suffering, but rather the sound of something preying. And although he did not know how he knew, the odd mixture of the pitch darkness and the distant cries accompanying the wind alerted him that something was off. Aumenfal had never been so eerie as this.

“We must leave!” cried a voice.

“And to where? We cannot even see palms of our hands!” replied another, his voice nearly hysterical.

The bone-chilling shriek cried out again, this time closer and high up in the air. The sound of flapping wings really did sound this time. Emonu’s hopes that it had merely been the tent flaps were dashed. The horses whinnied and many broke free of their reins that were tied to tent posts. One of the tents a way off had erupted into chaos. The sounds of swords escaping their scabbards could be heard but there was rarely a sound of swordfight, for no one could see a thing. People crashing into tables filled the gaps of silence between the shrill cries of whatever it was that flew overhead.

When the wind had finally died enough for a torch to stay lit, Canu elbowed a guard in the gut and kicked him down, snatching the torch for himself and grabbing up his things. His cart of wealth which Emonu had rolled in remained by his seat at the back of the tent. He disregarded it and withdrew his sword, holding it in his other hand. His horse had not managed to break free of the tent post, but it was neighing wildly and so Canu untied it and let it go. It would be no use trying to mount it for it would have bucked him off.

“Let’s go,” Canu said to Emonu. Others began to move in the vague light of the torches that were being lit by other guards. Random acts of foul play had begun to take place amidst the panic. Whatever it was that shrieked and cried in the pitch sky overhead seemed to have no intentions of going away. Emonu pushed by a table where a man was being stabbed for his satchel of coin before the assailant sprinted away into the desert night. He didn’t make it very far. Two talons the size of the tent itself snatched him up like a doll and flapped its mighty wings up into the air. The propelling of its wings sent a shock of wind into the ground that sent numerous people stumbling back.

“Canu, did you see that?” Emonu turned to see if Canu was still following him. He wasn’t. Scared and unsure, Emonu cowardly dove underneath a round table to cover himself. The giant bird, or whatever the horrible shrieking beast was, had shown Emonu enough to cause him debilitating fear.

And then true chaos reigned. The roofs of the five nearest tent canopies were ripped off the poles and flung across the black sky. The winds had picked up again and all torch light was guttered out.

Emonu found an arm yanking him by the shoulder from under the table.

“Come on, let’s go!” shouted the voice. It was Canu.

The two ran. Where to, they did not know because they could not see. But they could not stay. The sound of screaming woman and mystified men filled the air was a thickness that could only be described by the word fear. It could in the air as if it were very content of the air itself, thick and drowning. Canu had been surrounded by criminals and theft and killing his whole life, but this was something different. The land had control over Aumenfal and its subsequent darkness. The beasts roaming the air had to have come from somewhere besides Bladgorn, for there were no giant birds or dragons in these parts.

“Where to now, Canu?” asked Emonu as he puffed out whisps of cold air.

“Just run,” came the reply. It was a while later that Emonu became aware of a distant light across the desert tundra from them. The light was miniscule and shining a dull white, different from the orange glare of a torch. The desert tundra they traversed now had turned to frost underfoot and the air had gone deathly cold. The shrieks grew more distant as they ran, but the winds continued to carry vague cries for help, their feet unable to help them escape that.

There had been so many from the auction who ran this way that now they began to gather towards one another, as if drawn together by the innate desire to be close to others amidst the unruly fear that dwelled here. The white light had become a meeting place. They did not stop running, however. An occasional boulder would protrude from the ground in which some would smash into head-first. Those closer to the light had a higher chance of avoiding them, but it was incredibly hard for it was still nearly pitch black out.

Canu soon became vaguely aware of two creatures running to his left, huffing and puffing they were with animal noises emitting from their snouts. It was Kathel.

“Hop in!” she shouted over the gushes of wind.

“We are going to the light,” replied Emonu. Canu ignored Emon. He angled his run so that he could leap from the desert dirt onto the cart which glided along the desert floor by long blades which ran along either side of the cart like a sled. Emonu soon followed, making a much clumsier mess of it as he did so, jarring the sled to the left as he plopped in.

Canu ran a relieved hand through his hair. The air had become colder here and his lungs burned when he breathed in. Kathel took her hands off the reins for a second to wrap a fur-lined jacket around Canu’s shoulders.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Kathel did not respond. She had goggles around her eyes to protect from sand and cold wind. The hounds pressed on, unaffected by the darkness nor the cold.

“How do you know where we’re going?” asked Emonu. Canu opted not to speak, too focused on preserving his warmth and breathing his air.

“I don’t,” she replied. “But they do.” She pointed at her two hounds. “They can smell the way ahead.”

“Ah,” replied Emonu. “Lovely.”

“I’m going to get nearer that light and see what it is,” said Kathel, slowing her hounds so that the moving light would not get so far behind them. She maneuvered her hounds sideways across the wide desert tundra—now miles and miles outside where the slave auction had occurred.

It proved to be a most miraculous decision, for the sight that they saw next had Canu convinced that he had surely dreamt of the whole situation. Perhaps his cup had been poisoned and the utter darkness was a result of his eyesight being lost and the hallucinations setting in. He pinched himself, hard. He drew blood but did not wake up.

The light was a lantern attached to the front of a harness worn by the lead horse of a pack of six horses, all running in a pyramid formation with only one rider who sat atop the lead horse. Its coat of fur was so white that it shone along with the lantern as a guide in the darkness. The rider could not be deciphered due to the darkness that quickly wrapped itself around anything not cloaked in the brightest light. The other five horses could only be seen as outlines of shapes, feet slowly trotting onwards behind their lead horse. The horse neighed pleasantly, a welcome contrast to the horrible shrieking that had set them on edge back in the heart of the city of Bladgorn.

Canu, figuring he was still in a dream, shouted out in desperate hope to gain the attention of the rider, whose outline was strong and magnificent in the weak light of the lantern. The lantern swung loosely from the horses’ chest, battling against the swallowing cradle of the night’s dark blanket.

“Name yourself!” shouted the voice. It was a woman’s voice. Her voice brought Canu nearly to tears, for its beauty contrasted harshly against the hopelessness that the night hour of Aumenfal had brought.

“Canu Aybury of Terragar!” he shouted, not paying a second’s heed to his father’s words all those days ago when his father had told him of his birthright in the north.

“You are headed north then, I suppose?” she called back, still shouting over the wind and horse hooves. The ground crackled underneath each clattering hoof. The hounds’ steps were without sound.

Canu had no response, for he was stunned into silence. Emonu stared at Canu, bewildered by his friend’s shock. Had the darkness taken a hold on him? Emonu wondered if he himself was too naïve to absorb the significance of this darkness. Hadn’t it been a yearly tradition? Although deep down he knew it was never supposed to be this dark and this ominous. He tried to push away thought of those terrible bird-beasts.

“I caught wind of your friends earlier. Do you wish for me to gather them?” asked the magnificent rider.

Canu only stared. And even though he could not see it, the rider smiled. “Do ride on, I will catch up to you soon. This hour is nearly over.”

Kathel kept on at the reins, urging the hounds ever onward. They were well out of range of anyone from the slave auction now. No one else had been able to tame their horses in time to escape this far. Those who travelled by foot were surely miles and miles behind now.

“She is leaving!” shouted Canu, who had regressed into a child-like state. He suddenly clutched his chest in pain. Emonu turned to him in the sled, staring over him despite his lack of vision in the pure darkness.

Canu knew what plagued him, but the words to speak had been ripped out of him. Black spidery veins ran all along his chest and down his arms. It was the infection of black-ink magic that had become a part of him. Sigeric had it too. And now its magnetism and attraction to the darkness had awoken and it strangled Canu, robbing him of his breath and his wits.

“The hour is almost done, stay strong Canu,” breathed Emonu into his ear.

No sooner had the words left Emonu’s mouth did the sled smash gravely into a large, unseen boulder that protruded from the ground. The hounds had been unable to see it nor smell the danger looming ahead. The sled smashed into the rock like a ship would a glacier. The wood of the sled splintered greatly and the bodies of the three were tossed into different directions. The hounds suffered the worst fate, dying of impalement by the splintered wood of the sled.

Canu cried out for help, but Emonu groaned and rolled along the ground. Snow had piled and created a thin layer of dusting along the desert floor. His cheek brushed up against that layer now before his body went still and drifted into a deep sleep. Kathel had not stirred one bit since the collision. Her head had smashed part of the boulder when she was flung forward. Her breath still came to her, but her head bled slowly, covering the white snow in a crimson pool.

The pain which plagued Canu soon subsided as the hour of darkness began to fade and sunlight began to creep out again like a gradual sunset of pink and purple mixings. It would not be long before the magnificent rider with the white light returned with her six horses.

She came riding at the onset of the sun’s warm radiant stare, its rays melting the newly added dusting of snow to the desert floor. Upon the five horses behind her were the bodies of five loyal members of Canu’s tribe.

The five lowered themselves from their horses. Their magnificent white rider remained in her saddle, looking on with a pleasant expression that did not portray any sense of worry despite the ill condition of those involved in the crash.

Caroman knelt beside Canu, putting a hand to his neck. Blivth and Judd checked on Emonu, who was also still breathing, although it was shallow. Elric knelt next to Kathel Winte, giving a nod to Caroman to signify she still lived. Caroman turned in his crouch position, his eyes meeting Eshna’s—the last of the five riders to dismount.

“They’re alive, but they may need your expertise to carry on.” Caroman spoke in a humble tone, his eyes cast downward as they ever were.

Eshna’s face did not flicker. She only stared ahead to wear the blood of the hounds smeared the boulder in black splattering.

“We may need to move soon. I have a sense that we may have company soon if we do not get a move on,” said the white rider. Her hair was as white as the rays of a sun and yet they held a golden shimmer.

“I’m sorry, milady, but…” began Caroman, “What may we call you?”

“I am called the High Queen Aryka of Ena. You may call me Aryka—if it please you, young Caroman.” Her voice was like the calming of a storm. Powerful and reassuring, it was.

At the sound of her voice, Canu stirred. His eyes opened just a flicker.

“I’ve seen her before,” he managed to groan.

And the faintest traces of a smile etched Aryka’s face. “And I have seen you as well, Canu Aybury.”