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 deep, sun-scorched ochre. 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, because his tribe was dying. Their wells were dry, and their livestock was nothing but bone; to mend that, they needed every man who could hold a spear.
Beside him crouched Vénto, a boy whose name was as fitting as Ámmon's. Vénto was even thinner than the others, with long fingers and a speed no one could match, traits perfect for the "Quick War" tactics of their people. He was twitchy, his eyes constantly darting toward the horizon. "What is he thinking ?" Ámmon questioned in his head.
On Ámmon's other side was Kaséti, the largest of the three. 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 other soldiers and the Elders to arrive for the great war council; finally, after seventeen cycles, he had been called for his initiation.
Ámmon had known the two 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?" Vénto 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. "The Captain is here."
As the Captain approached the crowd, he lifted his head from a scroll.
"There are thirty-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."
The Captain spread the worn map on the sand, pinning the corners with heavy black stones. "Eighteen days," he grunted, pointing toward the jagged line of the horizon. "We cross the Burning Flats 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."
"And the Savanna?" Vénto blurted out, unable to contain his nerves. "My father said the predators there can smell a drop of sweat from miles."
Be quiet, you giant piece of camel shit. Ámmon thought.
The Captain snapped his head toward them, his gaze piercing. "Silence, boy! You speak when the sand speaks, not before. You are here because we need men, not because you are a strategist."
Vénto 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 lately, dead quiet. The real danger is the Grassland border. They have scouts now, and the forest line is thick. We will stop at the Salt Lake to prepare the raid. From there, we strike fast. We take the children, we take the grain, we load the water onto the camels' backs, and we vanish before their heavy-footed soldiers can even donnish their armor."
The Captain stood up, his silhouette looming over the boys. Looking directly at them, he growled, "Check your blades, clean the sand off your boots. 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. Vénto 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 in the hell 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 eight 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. 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.
"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.
"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.