The Lion Alone

Before the Score, the will was everything. One's thoughts could accidentally topple peaks, and the breeze of a whisper could alter seasons. That was the age when the smallest words could rival gods, when a nomad's only solace lay within. Mothers passed tales of redemption down to their daughters, while fathers taught their sons how a clean soul and a sharp blade could turn destinies. Opportunity, they repeated, was like grasping a handful of sand: sad to let it slip through the fingers, even sadder to clutch it too tightly.

Then the desert tribes were introduced to prophecy, and that sand turned to stone. Largo let the memory fuel his march. He tightened his robes around him and squinted into the heat-bent horizon. Every step seemed to sink into the sand deeper than the last. By the time he reached his final destination, he grimaced, he might dig his own grave. His next stop was just another dot in a futile line--Chesedonia, where money was waiting to hire him.

The wind shaved at his face. Largo had wrapped his scarf around the blade of his scythe to protect it from wear. He resisted the urge to drag it alongside him with one arm. He would just have to taste earth for now.

A vicious squall kicked forth a wave of sand, forcing Largo's hand. His hood undone, his long gritty mane flowed free, and he caught a glimpse of his assailant's eyes in the weapon's reflection.

"Sand wolf." Largo turned to face the towering predator, blade at the ready. "I will pass!"

The enormous wolf howled like lightning. Great sheets of sand cascaded down its hide and whipped into searing winds, but Largo stood his ground, concentrating on the beast's eyes. They were as pale and yellow as any sand wolf's, but he thought he could detect a hint of desperation, as though it could smell how close its demise was drawing.

"I am sorry," Largo lamented. "I know you cannot change your fate."

His fonslots opened.

"I suppose that makes me no better than a monster like you."

His hands rose into the whirlwind, crackling with pure shadow. His lips begat the lethal words:

"Negative Gate!"

Fonons of darkness burst the beast's composition, and it slumped back into sand. A blessing for the wolf, perhaps, but Largo knew there was no meat to be found here. There was no time to grieve. He fixed his hood back on and resumed the trail to Chesedonia.

"Sad..." he said after a while. "So sad."

"Indeed it is, that so worthy a warrior should resort to such meager errands."

Largo stopped dead in his tracks. How had he failed to notice he was being followed?

"I am Dorian General Van Grants, of the Order of Lorelei. A man of valor, just like you. Turn and face me, comrade."

"Fool. I follow no Orders."

Van stroked his goatee and gazed into the sun. "Hmm. Except the orders of your clients? Merchants, aren't they? Wealthy weaklings in need of escorts. It demeans you, soldier."

Largo lifted his scythe so he could see the man's face on the blade's reflection. It was smiling... mocking...

"Slaver," he snarled. "Charlatan! You're here to collect me."

"My my, Badaq," said Van. "Such accusations. Why would anyone send a slaver to catch one already enslaved?"

Largo finally turned, confused. "How did you know my name?"

"You finished Arietta's wolf quite easily back there. My intelligence did not disappoint me, as so often it does. I'm glad I made the effort to find you. You didn't make it easy, though."

"I value my privacy." Largo eyed him wearily as the commandant paced back and forth across the erg, his sword still sheathed.

"So much is evident, my friend. One question remains, however..." Van took a step toward Largo, hand outstretched. "Will you join me?"

"Join you!? And have to run your errands!?"

"There will be no more disparity in my world, Badaq."

"What did you say?"

"No more servitude. Exploited no longer. Imagine a world where you and your brethren could roam without restraint--societal or oracular." Van began to stride closer. "What will it take for you to understand?"

Kneeling, Van placed his sword at Largo's feet. The nomad's countenance loomed over him as chiseled and ashen as a black lion.

"What are you--?"

Van's eyes widened, and his smile vanished. "Come with me, and together we end this mess of an existence. Together we sever the Score."

"Madman." Largo took several steps back from the sword. "Long ago, I spoke to my elders of destroying the Score. I was young and scarred. But today I see more clearly. No matter how much I may resent it, fate is fate and no flame can bend it. All you're doing is chasing an illusion."

"The Score destroyed your wife, Badaq. The Score subjugated your people--my homeland! Or don't you remember? I too see clearly. I see Hod's destruction emblazoned into the planet's memory. And I see the time has come to rid the world of prophecy."

Van picked himself up off the sand and regarded Largo solemnly.

"The choice is still yours. Bury your weapon and take up my sword. Only then shall you inherit the new Auldrant."

"The only difference between this world and yours would be its ruler. Altering the future would not affect the past. Sylvia would not come back, and neither would Hod. Time enforces itself."

"It is not time I wish to subvert, Badaq. Merely causation. This path led Lorelei to forecast damnation. Don't you agree it's wise, then, to replicate this road and abandon the first? Your immediate situation is not dissimilar. Come away from this infernal trail. Come with me to Daath. There we shall speak further."

"I tire of talk, Van Grants. Words aren't as powerful as they used to be. Only battle can suffice."

Van laughed. "You truly wish to fight me?"

Largo's fonslots opened. "Yes."

"Then so be it." They clashed. "A lion, alone! I will give you a pride, Badaq." He leaned his blade hard against Largo's. "I will give you everything!"

Brow furrowed, fingers sweating, Largo poured all his might into deflecting him. "Beat me, and then I will believe you!"

"You desire naught but a strong king, as anyone would," Van shouted. "I will be that king!"

Van's sword tucked under Largo's shoulder, and before he knew the arm with which he was gathering fonons was sliced clean off. Largo crumpled to the dust, saying one thing before losing consciousness: "I am yours."