Chapter 2: The Weight Of Life (II)

Upon a dune in the distance, a man sits whilst idly feeding his camel and watching the showdown in the distance. Eyeing the downfall of the prince, he stands up and pats his camel on the head twice.

Stepping forward lightly at first, he walks forward towards the surviving group and with each step the speed at which he moves multiplies. Moving past the mangled corpses of the identical looking guard and casting a disapproving look towards the few corpses covered in nothing but shoddy cloaks.

Appearing behind the bundle of muscle who was tilting his head at the fallen prince, he unbuckles his sheathed sword and with a mighty swing

SMACK

Smacks the figure on the back of the head, sending him hurtling down into the sand.

Jumping back up instantly, the muscular figure responds with a kick only to be smacked again and again into the sand.

“You are an idiot,” says the man as he grabs him by the scruff of the neck and motions to a few of the bandits who are doing their best to not make a sound.

“Water,” he demands.

The bandits startle like animals of prey and fumble for their water and bring it over and without needing another order they pour it on the muscle-bound figure and wash off all the gore that was covering his figure.

“Boy, I left the easiest target to you after your whining,” begins the man as he peers at the muscular “monster” who once clean reveals a rather boyish face and small stature, “yet I am met with such…shoddy work”

The boy looks away from the pressure of the words, deflating in real time and adopting the look akin to a scolded pup.

“Teac-“the boy began, only to be silenced by a glare.

“Clean up the mess, take what is useful and…wait…is that guy still alive?”

The man, still carrying the boy with one hand, walks over to the fallen prince and notices the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Shaking the boy with one hand, a silent demand for explanation.

“Weak…” began the boy in a low, slow, and gravely tone, “no fight, gave up. Why?”

The man sighed and in one easy throw he launched the boy across the sand into a group of bandits who struggled to catch and maintain his weight.

“Curiosity, huh? Well, I suppose I should applaud any small vestige of human that you show.”

The man drew his blade from its sheath and aimed it at the neck of the prince on the ground.

“Still, the answer is obvious once you fight enough battles. When one meets overwhelming force there is usually only two options.”

The man looks into the eyes of the boy with an intense gaze, his blade pricking the neck of the man on the ground and drawing blood.

“Resist, with all your might. So that you may at least trip the foe with your corpse, or”

With a flick of his wrist, the man’s throat is slit and blood gushes forth from the cut artery. The unconscious man sputters and coughs on the ground as his airway fills with blood and begins to die.

“You lay down and die.”

Sheathing his blade, the man spares not a single look at his kill.

“Now, get to it. Fix the scene up and meet me back at camp. Oh, and you will find three more groups of corpses on the way there. Clean them up as well.”

Flashing everyone present a cheeky grin for a moment, the man makes his way back to his camel.

With his back to them, all that is present visibly releases their tension and take a deep breath to yell in unison.

“YES TEACHER!”

---

Sitting in a chair, shaded from the sun by the cloth roof above his head, the Teacher breaks his gaze from the pile of documents on the table next to him and looks upon the boy.

“Nur, battles are never about individual performance. Not ones with that many moving parts, your actions today were neither bad nor good upon reviewing the information from the rabble”

The boy, Nur, nods along whilst his ears twitch with every word and his face scrunched up in concentration.

“What, wrong”? Nur asks.

“Specifically, you failed to identify the true threat. That guard was quite something, though with him screaming prince this prince that I suppose it would only be natural.”

The Teacher pulls out a medallion from his cloak and presents it for Nur to take.

“Our pursuers were sanctioned forces from the local Sultan. Even if he is the weakest, a Sultan is still a sultan. Even the weakest of his forces are enough to do some damage to us if we are not careful.”

Nur looks at the medallion curiously, noting the well-defined contours of the metal and the crescent moon supplanted directly in the middle above a glistening star made of crystal.

“Now…we will be officially hunted by this Sultan, most likely. It will be annoying but unlike the larger groups they have no ties to the Republic so we will be in no real danger. Regardless, remember to maintain focus in battle and always maintain a wide view. Especially if you are the leader.”

The boy nods his head and hands back the medallion to the Teacher and looks up with a clear gaze.

“Go on and check on the men. Raise morale and express your condolences for the fallen. Even if they are a band of fools, they are still useful. Even a bit tragic if you consider they must resort to consorting with evil men like us to feed their families.”

Nur tilts his head and asks,

“Con…dolences?”

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Rubbing his temple in frustration,

“Right…ah, it means to visibly express your feelings of sadness or frustration. Go say sorry for getting their friends killed. Simple.”

Understanding, Nur gets up and begins to leave the tent.

“Do not forget to practice your writing before you go to bed tonight!” Yells the Teacher, though in response Nur flinches and breaks into a sprint.

Leaving the Teachers sent, Nur stops his sprint and slows to a walk. Sniffing the air for a moment, he turns and begins navigating through a sea of tents of all shapes and sizes.

---

People of all ages can be seen hanging out around the tents, some wearing gear that is far newer than the others while some wear cloaks that were barely being held together by crude stitching.

Making his way towards a lone tent, far separated from the others, and one that is guarded by two men playing cards with sabers nestled on their lap. Nur pauses suddenly.

His nose twitches twice and a boyish smile appears on his face for a moment before he ducks.

“Haiyah!” Yell out a chorus of bell like voices.

Half a dozen children of varying ages jump out in staggered unison from the hidden flaps of opened tents, holding sticks and stones.

Nur jumps into the air, causing many of the children to knock into one another and catches a few stones thrown at him from below and returns them instantly.

“Ow!”

Three cries of pain ring out as stones land on the thick skull of the kids who threw them. Gravity forces Nur down onto the children and a wrestling match ensues.

Now sitting on a pile of pile of children even younger than he, Nur laughs a low rumble.

“Pups, smell from mile away.”

The children groan in frustration and amble out from under Nur with great difficulty, leaving the chuckling boy in the sand.

The oldest of the children is pushed forward from the group, a girl no older than ten.

She looks at Nur for a moment with a gaze full of determination, which holds for no longer than a moment before she signs and kicks at Nur.

“No fair! you always smell us, Nur! Winds, Sandcrawler poop…you just know no matter what!”

The child whines and continues to kick Nur who flicks her head in amusement.

“Smell Fear, smell excitement, many smells. I get more food, dinner”

The children all groan.

“Why did we make that bet…”

Ignoring the crestfallen children, Nur gives each a quick pat on the head and speeds off towards the guarded tent. Smoke can be seen rising from an open patch on the top of the tent.

Nur’s nose crinkles and his smile dims as he approaches the front of the tent.

“Condolences…”

Whispers Nur, the smell of burning human flesh clinging to his nose.

Walking past the guards and entering the spacious tent, Nur comes face to face with a crowd of people. A solemn air hangs heavy on everyone present with some holding urns closely while others glancing at a primitive oven.

He is noticed quickly, and all the downtrodden people greet him. Some nod, some do some odd salute, and others wave.

“Boss” they call him with a respectful tone.

Clearing his throat, Nur speaks slowly, “I, sorry for loss. The pack, my pack, smaller now.”

The people’s eyes widen for a moment, and one is patted on the back by many and pushed forward.

The one pushed forward has skin that screams age and a posture to match, hunched over he walks forward and bows slightly to Nur.

“Boss, we is simple folk. We want life. You give us life, full of thanks we are.”

Everyone present nods in agreement. With some whistling in agreement, though one of the younger ones huffs in anger for a moment and begins to speak in a harsh tone.

“Hayatta kalmak için şeytanlarla ekmek pişiririz-”

A language not understood by Nur, but the man is cut off by others around him who tackle him into the ground and move him out of sight in one quick motion.

The speaker looks behind him and smiles sheepishly.

“He…is young, boss.”

Behind his strained smile, fear is apparent. Nur wrinkles his nose and sighs.

“My Condolences” he says, before turning around and leaving.