A Joust of Knights

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

The small group of Empire soldiers charged through the Great Waste, galloping at full speed on their zertas, faster than any horse, and stirring up a massive cloud of dust in their wake. At their head rode their commander, the cruel, merciless Empire veteran who had taken great pleasure in torturing Boku before his last breath—and discovering exactly where Gwendolyn and her crew had departed into the Great Waste.

Now the commander led the small group of Empire trackers deeper and deeper into the Waste, following Gwendolyn’s people’s trail as it led away from the Empire village, tracking it as they had been for days, determined to discover where she went. The order had trickled down from Volusia herself, and the commander knew that if he did not succeed, it would mean his death. He would have to find her, no matter what, dead or alive. If he could find bring her back to Volusia as a trophy, it would mean his promotion, his rise to commander of one of her armies. For that, he would give anything.

The commander raised his whip and lashed his zerta again across the face, making it scream and not caring. He had driven his men mercilessly, too, not allowing them to sleep, or even stop, for an entire day. They tore through the desert, following the trail that the commander was determined not to allow to go cold. After all, it might not just be Gwen at the end of it; it could even be the famed Ridge, the one that had eluded Empire commanders for centuries. If Gwendolyn’s trail lead to that—if it even existed—then he would come back as the greatest hero in modern times. Volusia might then even make him her Supreme Commander.

The commander watched the hard-baked soil as they went, using his keen eyes to look for any variations, any movements. He had already noticed where, miles back, many of Gwendolyn’s men had dropped dead. A good tracker knew that a trail was not static, but a living thing, always subject to change—and always telling a story, if one knew how to look.

The commander slowed his zerta as he noticed another change in the trail. It narrowed dramatically up ahead, indicating fewer people, and immersed in the sand, he also saw the remnants of corpses. Up ahead, he saw some bones scattered about, and he brought his zerta to a stop.

His men all came to an abrupt stop beside him.

The commander dismounted, walked over to the bones, long-dried, and knelt beside them. He ran his hand along them, and as he did, he drew on his expertise to look for the signs. The Empire—Volusia herself—had chosen him for this very purpose. In addition to being an expert torturer, he was known as the Empire army’s greatest tracker, able to find anyone, anywhere—without fail.

As he fell silent, studying them, his men came up and knelt beside him.

“They are dried,” his men said. “These people died moons ago.”

The commander studied them, though, and shook his head.

Finally, he replied: “No, not weeks ago. You are deceived. The bones are clean, but not due to time. They have been picked clean by insects. They are actually quite fresh.”

The commander picked one up, to demonstrate, and tried to break it in his hand—it did not break.

“It is not as brittle as it seems,” he replied.

“But what killed them?” one of his men asked.

He studied the sand around the bones, running his hand through it.

“There was a scuffle here,” he finally said. “A fight between men.”

His men surveyed the desert floor.

“It looks like they were all killed,” one observed.

But the commander was unconvinced: he looked out into the desert, studied the floor, and saw a glimpse of the trail up ahead, however faint it was.

He shook his head and stood to his full height.

“No,” he replied decisively. “Some of them survived. The group has splintered. They are weak now. They are hurt—and they are mine.”

He jumped onto his zerta, lashed it across the face, and broke off at a gallop, following the trail, eyes locked on it, determined to hunt them down, wherever they were, and kill whoever had survived this group.

The commander charged into the afternoon sky, the two suns hanging low as great balls on the horizon, heading ever deeper into the Great Waste. His zerta gasped and his soldiers heaved behind him, all of them on the verge of collapse. The commander did not care. They could all drop dead out here in the desert for all he cared. He wanted only one thing, and he would not stop until he had it: to find Gwendolyn.

The commander fantasized as he rode; he imagined himself finding Gwendolyn alive, torturing her for days on end, then tying her to his zerta and riding back the entire way that way. It would be fun to see how long it would take until it killed her. No, he realized—he could not do that. He would lose his prize. Maybe he would just torture her a little bit.

Or maybe, just maybe, her trail would lead him to the fabled Ridge, the holy grail of the Empire quests. If he found it, he would sneak back and report it to the Empire, and lead an army out here personally to return and destroy it. He smiled wide—he would be famous for generations.

They charged and charged, every bone in his body aching, his throat so dry he could barely breathe, and not caring. The suns began to dip below the horizon and he knew that night would soon fall out here. He wouldn’t slow for that either, but ride all night if he had to. Nothing would stop him.

Finally, up ahead, the commander spotted something in the distance, some break in the monotony of this flat landscape. They bore down on it, and as they did, he recognized what it was: a tree. A huge, twisted tree, by itself in the middle of nowhere.

He followed the trail until it ended, right beneath the tree. Of course it would end here, he thought: they would seek shade, shelter. He could use it himself.

He came to a stop beneath the tree and his men all followed, all of them gasping as they dismounted, beyond exhausted. He was, too, but he did not pay attention. Instead, he was too focused on the trail. He looked down and studied it, baffled. The trail seemed to disappear into thin air. It did not proceed in any direction once they reached it.

“They must have died beneath the tree,” said one of his men.

The commander frowned, annoyed by their stupidity.

“Then where are their bones?” he demanded.

“They must have been eaten,” another added. “Bones and all. Look there!”

There came a rustling noise, and the commander followed his men’s worried glance as they pointed to the tree branches, way up high, hiding scores of tree clingers. The beasts watched them carefully, as if debating whether to pounce.

His men hurried out from beneath the tree, but the Commander stayed put, unafraid. If they killed him, so be it—he was not concerned. He was more concerned with losing the tracks, with reporting back to Volusia as a failure.

“Let us go,” said one of his men, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Night falls. I am sorry. Our search is over. We must return now. They died here, and that is what we must tell Volusia.”

“And bring back no proof?” the commander asked. “Are you as stupid as you look? Do you now know that she would kill us?”

The commander ignored his men and instead stood there and looked out, peering into the desert, hands on hips. He listened for a long time, to the sound of the blowing wind, of the rustling branches, listening for all the signs, the faintest clues. He closed his eyes and smelled the dusty air, using all of his senses.

When he opened his eyes, he looked down and studied the ground, his nose telling him something—and this time, he spotted a tiny dot of red.

He knelt beside it and tasted the dirt.

“Blood,” he reported. “Fresh blood.” He looked up and studied the horizon, feeling a new certainty rise within him. “Someone died here recently.”

He smiled as he stood and looked down and began to realize.

“Ingenious,” he said.

“What, Commander?” one of his men asked.

“Someone tried to cover it up,” he said. It was indeed ingenious, he realized, and he knew it would have fooled any other tracker—but not him.

“Gwendolyn is alive,” he said. “She went that way—and she’s not alone. There are new people with her. And I would bet anything, anything in the world, that she will lead us right into the lap of the Ridge.”

The commander mounted his zerta and took off, not waiting for the others, following his instincts, which were leading him, he knew, toward a new horizon—and toward his ultimate glory.