From EncyclopAtys
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- "Thorns!"
In spite of the deafening tumult of the wind, all recognized Brandille's distant voice. And in a fraction of a second, the troop threw itself to the ground. The whole troop except Eurixus. At the same time, a gigantic flaming thorn rose from the sawdust mist, brushed against the imposing root on which Melkiar and Varran had tied themselves, and swooped on the unfortunate Fyros, whose accumulated fatigue had taken the better of reactivity. His torso exploded under the impact of the projectile.
- "Shit, Eurixus is dead!" shouted Xynala, her voice muffled by her breathing mask.
- "Untie him!" shouted Melkiar between gusts of wind.
- "Not once again Melkiar, we must bury him!"
- "Xynala, we don't have time! Burn his body and leave his ashes to the Desert! No one will forget him!"
With the spikes of her boots partially embedded in the soft ground, the Fyrossa swore and put on her magic amplifiers. She grabbed the strap Tisse handed her, hooked it securely to her harness, then unhooked the respirator and weapons from the tossing corpse of their dead comrade. Unfortunately, his precious bag had exploded from the impact and could not be retrieved. Once the gear was grabbed, Xynala stared at the thick amber visor of Tisse's mask. She waited for the homina to nod in response, then counted to three. Then, the two Fyrossas untied simultaneously the snap hooks which bound them to Eurixus. Like a rag doll, the body flew away toward the end of the procession. Finally, Xynala imposed her will on the Sap that irrigated her and, with precision, sent a jet of flame towards the soldier's body, which instantly set ablaze. Cloistered in his protective suit, and lying on the unstable and bubbling ground, Belenor was not able to see more than two meters away. He understood nevertheless what it was about when he saw the flaming mass passing behind the curtain of scarlet sawdust. He had heard Xynala's complaint. Garius, the last link in the homin chain, laid a reassuring hand on the Fyros' thick helmet.
- "Don't worry, Belenor, I'm watching over you. Come on, let's get up!"
Belenor swallowed and obeyed.
"One more death", he thought. If he hadn't really had time to befriend Eurixus, his loss was no less upsetting. They all were. Definitely, Belenor had not expected so many difficulties, and this despite the fact that Melkiar had warned them many times about the danger of this expedition. Or rather, he had thought he was ready. After all, the daily trainings at the Academy was demanding and varied. But in the end, he understood that nothing could prepare the inhabitants of the comfortable Fyre for the living conditions of the desert west, and especially those of the terrible Desert of Fire. You had to live it to believe it.
"Let's regroup!" yelled Melkiar over the din of the red-hot storm.
Garius placed his large hands on the protected back of Belenor, who did the same with the soldier ahead of him. And while Melkiar and Varran pulled on the cable at the head of the procession, Garius and his comrades pushed with all their might. Finally, each soldier managed to plant his hardened amber sardine into the protective root. With his harness securely attached to the wooden anchor, Belenor put all his weight on his tether and let his limbs sway in the wind. After several hours of constant exertion, her muscles refused to relax, as if stuck in a state of permanent contracture. His ability to handle the Sap had failed, too. For if protective suits could absorb some of the thermal damage, magic remained homins' best ally when it came to protecting and repairing their bodies.
- "Soldiers, Fort Kronk is only a few hours away! Once we have passed this dune, after the storm has dissipated, we will finally be able to see it in the distance! Also, it will mean that we arrive at the end of the Desert of Fire, and thus that the hardest will have been done! So do not despair, comrades! For if the Desert wills it, at dawn, it is sheltered that we will sleep! And when we awake, we will be able to feast in honor of Eurixus and all our departed!"
In response to these words, the soldiers shouted with hope. Belenor, his body swaying in the wind, glanced at his comrades. Their squad, like the five others that made up Captain Apokillo's squadron, had originally consisted of twenty-five soldiers. Now it numbered only nineteen… The Fyros regretted having left the city of Coriolis, where the different squads had been formed. Especially since he had enjoyed the trip from Fyre with the squadron, as well as the long stop they had made in the famous mining city, source of so much glory and misfortune. Coriolis was not really a city, but rather an agglomeration of mines and excavation sites crammed into a gigantic valley in the Dragon's Ridge. A cluster of slums, too, in which the impetuous Fyros miners were crammed. The few comfortable dwells in the city were occupied by imperial officials, important figures and guild leaders. Such was the case of Tiralion, Belenor's father, who had finally decided to settle there after the enthronement of the sharükos Krospas, despite his wife's refusal to follow him. For Eutis, this would have meant having to give back her senatorial dress, something she had never wanted to consider. Officially, this decision manifested her desire to be physically closer to his Pickaxe Heads, and thus to her business. But in truth, Belenor and her mother knew that Tiralion, fearing reprisals from the new imperial power, had simply fled the capital. On the occasion of his son's expedition, and their stopover in Coriolis, Eutis had decided to accompany the trade caravans. Belenor could have done without his mother's presence, as well as this social welcome meal, during which his father had introduced him to some wealthy notables looking for a good match. However, it was not for lack of having repeated to him many times that he did not wish to take again his business, nor that of another, as cute and sympathetic would be the homins that one would present to him. Fortunately, his nurse Penala had accompanied his mother to Coriolis, and had been present at his side throughout the stay. Her company had greatly softened the family gatherings. Nevertheless, the Fyros tried to escape his father's residence as much as possible, preferring to lose himself in the bioluminescent mazes of the cavernous sites, and in particular in the infamous Amber Mines, which had passed under the control of the family business only a few weeks ago. Like all Fyros, Belenor was fascinated by the bowels of Atys and the mysterious relics and ancient ruins they held. However, he also knew how the fever of discovery could lead his people to take reckless risks. Exactly forty years earlier, encouraged by the harvesting of strange materials, Fyros miners had drilled a vein of acid at the bottom of the Amber Mines, and by this imprudence, caused the death of tens of thousands of people. Unfortunately, for many citizens of the Empire, this catastrophe was not directly of hominin origin. For them, Fyrak the Great Dragon, the mythological enemy of the Fyros people, was primarily responsible. Thus, forty years later, the Coriolis plain had become a distorting mirror of Fyros beliefs: never had the region been so rich in mining activity. Never had there been so many digs for Fyrak's lair. Like a minority of Fyros, Belenor was angry at the folly of his people, and feared that a second apocalyptic event would soon occur: a landslide, an acid flow, an earthquake, or worse… After all, if the bowels of Atys held many treasures, they also undoubtedly concealed many nightmares. Real nightmares. Nightmares potentially much more terrible than the most dreaded creature of the fyrosian mythology…
- "Slide!"
Belenor was drawn out of his thoughts by Brandille's distant shout.
- "Let's climb!" urged Melkiar.
Without waiting, Belenor grabbed his lanyard and somehow pulled himself up the towering root, which his comrades were already climbing. When he finally planted his notched gloves in the thick wood of the woody growth, he realized when looking at his feet that the ground had already turned into a thick flow of blazing sawdust.
- "Belenor, speed up!" shouted Xynala.
The Fyros was seized with panic when he saw that the dune upstream had swollen several cubic meters and was now swooping in their direction. If his comrades were high enough to dodge the wave of burning sawdust, he would undoubtedly have to take it. So Belenor grabbed tightly onto the root, hoping not to be torn off by the impact. But this was without the strength and reach of Garius' arms, who, hanging by his ankle from Xynala's arm, managed to grab his comrade by the shoulders, to push him away from the bark wall, and to propel him above him. Varran and Melkiar caught Belenor just as Garius was getting to his feet, narrowly dodging the torrent of fire. Placing the Fyros against the root, the colossus pressed his hands and feet down hard, so that he stuck to the bark.
- "Belenor, we like you, but we're not going to kill ourselves for you, okay? So stop daydreaming, this is really not the time!"
- " Pa… Sorry Varran." Belenor blew, still under the shock.
- "Respite!"
Again, Brandille's voice rang out. And again, her omen was right: the updraft was slowing down, and as a result, the curtain of sawdust was opening towards the horizon. Looking for his friend, Belenor saw only a huge botoga, lit by the night glow of the amber star. Situated away from all the cracks, the tree with its belly trunk and its canopy in the shape of a leafy umbrella did not seem to be worried by the fire storms. And if the charcoal color of its bark testified well to recurrent and intense fights, it illustrated above all its strong adaptation to the extreme conditions of the environment. Lingering for a few seconds on its high branches with thick foliage, which swayed in the wind, Belenor saw an irregularity in the center of the plant umbrella, under the stars. A small gesticulating form, whose two arms were waving in cadence. Brandille. The Fyros smiled behind his mask, happy to see that his friend had found a cool and comfortable perch, even if imagining her coming down without help worried him. For if himself was now suspended at about ten meters from the ground, the tree Brandille had scaled must be about fifty meters high. Ah, Brandille… Without his presence, the group would undoubtedly have been amputated of half of its soldiers. Indeed, since their departure from the plain of Coriolis, the last western region under imperial jurisdiction, events had gone from bad to worse. While the journey had been marked by numerous attacks from the Dune Riders, it was the violent torrents of air from the Prime Roots behind terrible fire storms, that had put the group in peril. Of course, the far western desert was known for its extreme winds and hellish temperatures. But Melkiar himself, though born in a neighboring region further south, had been surprised by the violence of the disturbances. Belenor was linking these abnormal phenomena to the sudden rise in temperature observed under the bark, accentuating so the pressure differential with the surface. Brandille, who had a very special relationship with the wind, had helped to find the best passages through the dunes and crevasses, and had managed to accurately predict each storm rise. To this day, all the deaths were related to carelessness or lack of reactivity. Thus, Lieutenant Diocaneon Xydos, in charge of leading the military squad to Fort Kronk, had disappeared when he fell into a crevice while the group was fleeing from a herd of shalahs, those pachyderms with their heavy, shaggy yellow coats, their faces covered with pudgy leather patches, and their two long, strong tusks. Individually, these animals were relatively easy to shoot, but a whole herd was a deadly threat. Although he was a mere reservist of twenty-five years of age, Melkiar had naturally taken command of the troop. None of the soldiers in the squad, even among the most experienced, had objected: the young academician had shown himself, since their departure from Coriolis, to be the most capable of exercising it.
Hanging from the root, the group waited for about ten minutes until the last gusts of wind died down, then finally headed for Brandille's botoga. The acrobat, who had reached the foot of the huge tree without difficulty, was sucking on a piece of waterlogged bark when Belenor saw him on the side of the dune. The Fyros raced down the powdery slope, rushed towards Brandille and grabbed her by the armpits. He had missed her touch. A few seconds later, Melkiar arrived at the bottom of the dune, his breathing mask in hand. Belenor removed his and smiled at his friend. He was not used to seeing him so bearded. He himself had not shaved for several days, and now wore a thick mahogany beard vaguely reminiscent of his father's. Meeting Belenor's gaze, Brandille winked at him and stroked his fine down. Sometimes, the Fyros had the impression that his friend was able to read his thoughts. And then, suddenly, Melkiar bowed low to his two comrades.
- "Again, thank you for your help Brandille. You're holding your own as a scout better than anyone. Without you, I don't know what would have happened to become of. Unfortunately, we lost…"
- "I know Melkiar," Brandille cut in, her gaze lost to the horizon. "I saw his body burst into flames, turn scarlet, then fly away... It was very beautiful, seen from above, under the glow of the amber star. You looked like a tree branch waving in the wind. A branch of which the root that served as your anchor would have been the trunk. A branch of which Eurixus would have been the leaf reddened by the autumn falling from its tree…"
At these words, the homins and homines lowered their heads, remembering their missing comrade.
- "But don't let the sadness go through you, friends! And cry only if you whish to water this wonderful botoga, to which we also owe a lot. For as you know, the leaves do not fall from their tree without reason: they become the nutrients that feed the young shoots we will cross on our way, one day soon. Yes, today, Eurixus has become the humus of tomorrow. So smile, and listen to this chorus!"
Brandille turned his back on his comrades, began to inton a song, and hopped off to the west. Towards where, on the horizon, Fort Kronk rose like a mirage on the high, dark cliffs of the Dragon's Backbone.
-–—o§O§o—–-"The closer we get to the goal, the further away it seems." No matter how hard Belenor tried to rationalise, at that moment, that was exactly what he was thinking: never had the miles seemed so long. After three weeks of walking through the furnace, the mere idea of being able to sleep in a safe and cool place seemed unreal. A mirage among many others… Because the Desert of Fire, which they had left only two hours before, only offered very rare moments of calm. During the day, the heat emitted by the daystar added to that of the depths, making the atmosphere unbreathable. The only way out was to call upon the power of the Sap to limit the damage, or to escape the boiling surface by climbing trees and roots. These life-saving promontories were often populated by animals, also in search of coolness, rest and food. Besides, Belenor had still not recovered from the death of Xacallon, who while hunting rendor alone on a high root, when he had been attacked by a pack of hungry varinx. These stocky felines, with yellow fur spotted with black, had the particularity of having a fireproof skin, making them the undisputed masters of the desert. For these predators, capable of moving efficiently in the middle of the day, the aerial promontories of coolness were real breeding grounds, which they scanned with attention from the ground. At night, the temperatures dropped slightly, allowing the homins and animals to move around more easily. The troop had therefore got into the habit of setting out only after the amber star had risen. Unfortunately, this was also, obviuosly, the strategy of all the homin tribes daring to face the furnace. Thus, the attacks of the Dune Riders had almost always taken place in the heart of the night… Finally, after such a journey, it went without saying that the simple comfort of a fortress as safe as Fort Kronk was a fantasy.
Belenor, who was striving to follow in the footsteps of the soldier ahead of him, sighed and looked up for a few moments. The troop was walking across an imposing root bridge about ten metres wide, which allowed them to cross a long crevasse. Going around it would have lengthened the end of the journey by two hours. On the horizon, Fort Kronk seemed so close and yet so far away. For a long time, this fortress had been designated as the last inhabited area of the known world, where the maps became mute. Beyond it, there was nothing more than a sea of dunes stretching westwards into infinity. The fort had been built in the broken bend of the Dragon's Backbone, where the continental plateau met the mountainous root barrier and the immense cliffs to the south, which separated the Desert from the Wide Puddle. The crack in which the Fyros had settled was very similar to the one that hosted the city of Fyre. But unlike the imperial capital, which had expanded and consolidated decade after decade, the fortress at the end of the world had never been anything more than a fort, as its name so aptly indicated. A fort that, as soon as it was built, became object of covetousness and source of conflict. To this day, no one was able to say who was really behind its construction, so many different tribes had fought to possess it. The huge, rugged plain between Fort Kronk and the Desert of Fire was considered the largest battlefield in the country. Never had so many Fyros died as in front of Fort Kronk, as evidenced by the number of weapons and pieces of armour from all eras that the strong winds managed to dredge up daily. The last battle, only a few months old, had pitted the Dune Riders tribe against the short-lived coalition formed by the Tears of the Dragon. It is on this occasion that Tigriron, the father of Melkiar, the commander of the coalition, succeeded in recapturing the fortress from their long-time enemies. Enough, thus, to supply the desert plain with more swords. At this moment, perched on the imposing root bridge, Belenor feared that a new torrent of air from the depths would raise a storm of sawdust… and blades. But there were worse things than blades in this desert of a hundred perils. There were the gigantic and magnificent purplish thistles that covered the Backbone at Fort Kronk, and whose imposing thorns were regularly torn off by the violence of the winds. The Fyros thought back of Eurixus, killed a few hours earlier by one of these thorns, and shook his head.
- "Stop daydreaming and watch where you're walking." said Garius, still on the tail of procession.
- "You're right, sorry." replied his friend, lowering his head. "I really think I reach the end of my rope, I'm unable to stay focused for more than thirty seconds."
- "Yeah, I understand. I can't take it either. In fact, in the Desert of Fire, we had no choice. The slightest deviation could kill us. But here, it's not so hot. So we think that the worst is over… But in truth, the whole fucking desert wants our skin, fire or not. So let's watch it, it can go very fast, you know."
- "Yeah, I know. Thanks, Garius. How many hours' walk do you think we've got left?"
- "Two. Three maybe?"
- "So, three more hours… Tell me, Garius, can I ask you a favour?"
The imposing Fyros frowned and Belenor turned around, a mischievous smile on his face.
- "Could you carry me?"
Garius laughed. At the same time, proving the colossus right, Belenor stumbled and slumped in the sawdust.
- "You're an idiot, Belenor. That'll teach you! I told you to watch your step."
The Fyros held out a massive hand to his friend, whose face now showed embarrassment. Although Belenor grasped it, he did not manage to get up.
"Wait Garius, I think I've caught my ankle in a root. I…"
Suddenly his chest rose. And time froze. Out of breath and with dilated pupils, Belenor stared at the strange root that clutched his left ankle. A root with five fingers. Understanding who the hand belonged to, the Fyros instantly grasped the magnitude of the threat: they had to leave the root bridge at all costs and reach the desert plateau. Belenor barely had time to shout "Riders!" when a hatchet sprang up from the sawdust and sliced off his foot. At the same time, several of his comrades fell to the ground. And like Kamis, thirty or so beings sprang up from the root, as if they had been one with the bark until then. Reacting as quickly as he could, Garius plunged his huge hand into the sawdust and grabbed the throat of the homin in ambush in his hideout. Without further ado, he appealed to his superhomin strength and sent him tumbling five metres away. The savage bounced violently off the bark, tried in vain to secure a grip, then fell screaming into the abyss. Never had Belenor been so reassured by Garius' presence as he was at this moment. Disregarding any pain, the Fyros grabbed his severed foot and positioned it on its stump. The operation would take a few minutes, but he knew that he would be able to reattach his foot with the powers of the Sap. Naturally, Garius stayed with his friend. Drawing his gigantic axe, he verbally threatened the Dune Riders who tried to approach him. With a quick glance, Belenor took stock of the skirmish: while Melkiar, Varran and a few soldiers had rushed at the Dune Riders, and had already managed to kill several of them, Xynala was trying to keep them away from the wounded ones, now in Brandille's hands. As for Tisse Apoan, she was scanning the horizon with her rifle. Soon the number of Dune Riders dwindled, and five of their number found themselves trapped between Garius on one side and the rest of the soldiers on the other. Unfortunately, the ambush seemed to be only part of the enemy's plan.
- "Homins! To the west!" shouted Tisse, who was watching the surroundings from the area secured by Xynala.
And indeed, a few dozen meters from the melee, where the root bridge allowed to join the desert plain leading to Fort Kronk, a platoon of homins was forming. If Belenor hoped they were reinforcements from Fort Kronk, he was instantly disillusioned when he recognised the flag of the enemy tribe: a scarlet-coated mektoub positioned in front of an ochre sphere representing the amber star. The surviving Dune Riders were no longer the only ones to be surrounded. Despite this, Melkiar kept his composure and encouraged his comrades.
- "Soldiers, do not weaken! We are better equipped and trained than they are. No matter how many of them there are, as long as you follow what we have learned, nothing will happen to us!"
Belenor, whose left foot had finally come back to life, took up position behind Garius. As perilous as the situation was, he knew Melkiar was right. All they had to do was stay focused and apply everything they'd seen in past scenarios. After all, this wasn't the first time they faced Dune Riders. And while these homins were definitely the best at setting traps and surviving in extreme environments, they were far less impressive in pitched combat. The Fyros sighed and placed his gloved hands on Garius' huge back. The fact that he had written a story about a religious war did not mean that he endorsed or appreciated armed fights. In fact, he remained very critical of the Imperial Army. If he had signed up as a reservist, it was simply to travel with his friends, to discover the country, to live unique moments and to feel new emotions. To annoy his parents, too. Because before this expedition, his whole life was about Fyre. And not just any Fyre. The rich, comfortable and cultural Fyre, accessible only to the bourgeoisie, of which he was one.While his friends had gradually begun to emancipate themselves from the capital over the past five years, he had become bogged down in a sociable routine. A life that he cherished for its comfort and cultural richness, and that he despised just as much, so much it reminded him of what he hated about his parents... Parents whom he had the impression of resembling, despite himself. Because at twenty-one, Belenor did not like the homin he had become. It was under the impulse of Brandille, but especially Garius, that he had finally decided to leave his comfort zone and accompany Melkiar to the end of the world. However, today, and despite all that he had learned during his journey, he regretted having left. Never. Never had he gotten used to death. Never had he expected to dream about it at night. Definitely, his place was behind a desk, pen in hand, not on a battlefield.
Crossing under Garius's armpit the disorientated gaze of a sickly-skinned Dune Rider, Belenor remembered the emotions that had run through him the few times he himself had come close to death in the past weeks. And just as he imagined he would succeed in demanding their surrender, the squad of Riders perched on the edge of the crevasse began to bang together their weapons in rhythm. At the same time, one of them began to utter hoarse shouts, still in cadence. His cries were soon echoed by all his companions. This was the first time Belenor had witnessed this tribal practice. Taken aback, he exchanged a glance with Melkiar, who seemed to share his confusion. Then suddenly the pace quickened, and the Dune Riders in the centre of the root stuck together to form a compact group, as if they were trying to protect something. Belenor swallowed as he met the eyes of the sickly Rider again. A deep determination was now inscribed in them. And without his knowing why, a vision of horror passed through him. Commanded by his instinct, the Fyros screamed with all his being:
"Flee, they'll blow themselves up!"
Belenor, who was preparing to rush back, had just enough time to give Melkiar a last look. For the first, and perhaps the last time in his life, he saw terror in his friend's eyes. The explosion was terrible. Without him being able to do anything, the shock wave threw him against the wall of the crevasse, which he hit head-on. Unconscious, he fell into the depths of Atys, in a shower of fire, broken wood and pieces of charred flesh.
Belenor Nebius, narrator
