The heat of the badlands usually felt like a familiar embrace to Zontaníeikóna Ámmon, but today, it felt like a heavy shroud. His full name, meaning Living Icon of the Sands, was a weight too heavy for one so young to bear. At fourteen, Ámmon was the physical embodiment of the desert people, unnaturally slender, with limbs like whipcord and skin the color of a polished scarab beetle. His eyes were narrow, sharp, and a pale amber that seemed to catch the glint of the quartz dunes, but his hair was his most striking feature—a light golden brown, almost the color of the sand itself, a trait unlike anyone else's in their camp. He moved with a silent, fluid grace that had caught the eye of the Elders during training. It was that same talent that had led him here, two years before his time, kneeling in the hot sand alongside five other youths. This was the Rite of the Spear, the ceremony that marked the ascension of a boy to a man. Tradition dictated that a boy claimed his spear at sixteen cycles. But the tribe had known peace for too long. There had been no raids. As a result, the line of initiates was a jagged mix of ages
Beside him crouched Ámenor, a boy whose name was as fitting as Ámmon's, meaning Wind, he was built for speed with long, spider-like legs and a frame so slight it looked like a light gust could carry him away. But that frailty was a lie; Ámenor moved with a blurring velocity that make him a perfect instrument for the "Quick War" tactics of their people. He was never still, constantly twitching, his eyes darting toward the horizon with the paranoid intensity of a jerboa sensing a hawk. "What is he thinking right now?" Ámmon questioned in his head.
On Ámmon's other side was Kaséti, the largest of them all. Broad-shouldered and tall as an ostrich, Kaséti held his jaw set tight; his family had been the hardest hit by the famine, having lost both a sister and a mother. He had always been the quietest, calmest, and most caring person Ámmon had ever known, but now he wore a demeanor that would frighten any child. Today, however, he was excited, leaning his weight against his spear as he waited for the Elders to arrive for the council.
Ámmon had known Ámenor and Kaséti since childhood, but training had forged them into closer friends. Despite the age difference, Ámmon being three years younger than the other two, they were as close as brothers. The three friends were about to embark on their first raid—a brutal necessity where speed was their only mercy. "Do you think the Grasslanders will even see us coming?" Ámenor whispered, his voice trembling like a reed in the breeze.
"It doesn't matter if they see us," Kaséti muttered, his eyes cold and fixed on the dunes. "It only matters if they can stop us."
"Be quiet," Ámmon said nervously, seeing a shadow outside approaching. "The Captain is here."
The tent flap was swept aside with a heavy hand.The Captain came into the tent, grand and formidable, a man carved from the very bedrock of the badlands. He was visibly wise, his eyes holding a depth that suggested he possessed the collective experience of four hundred soldiers combined, his skin a map of scars and survival that emanated a quiet, dangerous confidence. Without sparing a glance for the boys, he spread the worn map on the sand, pinning the corners with heavy black stones.
"Twelve days," he grunted, pointing toward the jagged line of the horizon. "We cross the desert first. The shifting sands are hungry this season; if you lose the rhythm of the march, the dunes will swallow you before the sun sets. Water is for the faint of heart, but here, it is life. We drink only at the third moonrise." The Captain paused, his eyes sweeping over the six kneeling youths.
"Repeat the Oath of Thirst," he commanded. In unison, the boys recited the grim poem every child learned before they could walk: Sand in the vein, bones of quartz, flesh to dust, blood to rust. When heat demands its tithe, only the strong survive. We are the storm, the shifting blade, we are strong, we are the weapon the desert has made."
The Captain nodded slowly. "Are you ready to face the days of travel under the hammer of the sun? Are you prepared to walk where even the shadows burn?"
All six nodded in unison.
"Good," the Captain said. "We cross the dunes, then the Burning Flats, and finally into the Grasslands."
"And the Savanna?" Ámenor blurted out, unable to contain his nerves. "My father said the predators there can smell a drop of sweat from miles away."
Be quiet, you giant piece of camel shit, Ámmon thought.
The Captain snapped his head toward them, his gaze piercing. "You speak when the sand speaks, not before. You are here because we need numbers, not because you are a strategist." Ámenor flinched, lowering his head as murderous thoughts polluted the minds of Ámmon and Kaséti.
The Captain continued, his finger tracing the border. "The Savanna is the least of your worries. It has been eerily quiet for years, dead quiet. The real danger is the Grassland border. They have scouts now, and the forest line is thick. We will stop at the edge of the river called Veia do Mar—'Sea's Vein', which sits exactly on the border, to prepare the raid." He rolled up the map and looked at the six of them. "Now, rise. You came here as boys, but the Oath binds you to the sand. You are desert men now. Join the others to receive your orders."
They rose, dusting the sand from their knees, and left the command tent. In silence, they walked toward the center of the encampment, where three great fires crackled against the night, casting long, dancing shadows across the faces of the gathered soldiers. As the Captain stepped into the firelight, the murmurs died down. He stood before them, a grim silhouette against the flames, and lifted his head from another scroll. "There are forty-eight of us," he said with a raspy voice as deep as a starless night. "The smallest number of warriors since our tribe was formed." He looked at the veterans, then at the fresh faces. "The captains of each division and the soldiers who will compose them will be allocated shortly."
"Standard formation," he barked. "Scouts take the point to break the wind. Vanguard at the front, square formation at the flanks. The camels and the water carriers stay in the center. I want eyes on our tracks. We move as one entity, one lung, one heartbeat." He clenched his fist. "We strike fast. We take the grain, we take the children, we load the plunder onto the camels' backs, and we vanish before their heavy-footed soldiers can even don their armor."
His voice dropped, becoming grave. "We do not go there for glory, or lust. We go to provide for our families. Remember that." The Captain stood up, his silhouette looming over the boys. Looking directly at them, he growled, "Check your blades. We move at the next moon cycle."
Most of the crowd drifted away as the sun dipped below the horizon, taking the light with it. Ámenor was among the first to vanish, likely escaping the shame of his earlier outburst, or perhaps fearing a solid backhand from Kaséti for making them look like fools.
"Next moon cycle," Kaséti whispered, his voice low as if sharing a heavy secret. "When is that?" He asked it earnestly, as if he hadn't looked at the sky in days.
"The day after tomorrow," Ámmon replied, feeling a cold knot of dread tightening in his throat. Am I really going to cross the Savanna to fight the Grasslanders? The thought echoed in Ámmon's mind, but before he could verbalize the anxiety clawing at his throat, he realized he was the only one left there. He turned toward the camp, his gaze drifting to the spear in his hand. It felt heavy, not just with wood and iron, but with memory. His mother had been a rarity among their people, one of the very few women to wield a spear in the raiding parties. But that was years ago, two raids past. She had never returned from the second one, and all that was left of her was this spear. Now, Ámmon was walking into the same darkness that had swallowed her.
He pushed aside the heavy fabric of his tent. Before he could step fully inside, a small, furry blur launched itself from the shadows, landing deftly on his shoulder. It was Khepri, his desert jerboa. The creature chirped softly, a sound like two pebbles clicking together, and rubbed its oversized ears against Ámmon's cheek, Khepri was smart, and fiercely loyal. "Hey, little one," Ámmon whispered, scratching the creature behind its ears. Inside, his sister was kneeling by the small fire pit, stirring a clay pot. The smell was faint, watery broth and old roots.
"How was it?" she said softly, not looking up. She scraped the bottom of the pot, pouring a meager portion into a wooden bowl. It was poverty in its purest form, but it was all everybody in the camp had. Ámmon gently placed Khepri on a stack of rugs. "The Captain spoke long," Ámmon lied, taking the bowl. He looked at her, at the sharp angles of her face that mirrored his own. But she lacked his key features; her eyes were a common black, and her hair was just like everyone else's. "When is the raid?" she asked.
"Dagma, you know I can't say. The Elders will announce it tomorrow at the gathering," Ámmon said, trying to sound firm.
"I am your sister, you wretch," Dagma said, finally meeting his eyes with a sad smile.
"In two days' time," Ámmon let slip, anxious to share the news.
"Eat," she said as she rose from where she was sitting. Her gaze seemed worried and grim. "You'll need your strength." Dagma said, wiping her hands on her tunic. "And keep your rat under control. He tried to steal the roots again."
"He's not a rat, he's a warrior," Ámmon smiled, tossing a small scrap of dried root to Khepri. "Goodnight, sister," Ámmon whispered.
"Goodnight, Living Icon," she teased gently, using the name in mockery.
Ámmon drank the broth in silence, the taste of dust, anxiety, and excitement lingering on his tongue. He then sat on his bed, thinking of the days to come.