He sat alone atop a dune, wrapping his headdress tight to fend off the billowing sand. He loved this part of the day. The red sun above met the edge of the world; the outskirts of his tribe just beyond two mountains that marked the Land of Ash and Smoke.
He pondered the existence of the sun, pondered its distance, and what lay beyond Marquet. These were questions his clan neglected to speak on. Instead, Chieftain Kwalu would proclaim: “We are the pinnacle of the world, we were the harbingers for the new age, of today!” The eldest in the tribe, Kwalu adorned his status in the tribe with his multi-colored beaded hair that clinked with various pieces of metal the Scavengers attained from their expedition to the Lost Decade.
Their world was built from the ashes of the Lost Decade. A time known from the stories of his forefathers as Chult. But today, colonists considered their land Marquet, an elven slur for desert. Azuil cared not for the consideration others brought to their land. “It is ours!” his colony would proudly proclaim. “No outsiders belong unless they have worked their hands to callouses.” Each traveler that made it past the Dunes of Marquet displayed soft hands. They were usually merchants, bringing with them trinkets and fruits from beyond the edge of their world.
Azuil was excited by their presentations, but Chief Kwalu and his father would remind him of his duties: keep with the women. Watch, listen, observe. Many rules were placed around Azuil; rules he could not claim for himself. Azuil would rather watch the Scavengers prepare for their day’s ride, the women of the village prepping them with the boiled water of a stream a Wanderer found a few weeks ago. The same Wanderer had left, seeking new shelter. Azuil watched. He listened and observed all he could from Warriors to Wanderers to Scavengers, but never the duties his father placed on him.
Azuil learned the forbidden language of the merchants that found their way to their camp. They never stayed often, though he made sure to sneak from his village and follow them through the desert to where their wayward ships were. Through his unrelenting spirit, Azuil would discover safe ways to explore the dunes, traveling unimpeded by the desert sands and the creatures of dust. He wasn’t scared.
His routine was the same. Greet everyone during communal dinners at their camp made of baubles discovered in the wreckage of the old age. Do the duties allotted to him, tending to the camp and ensuring the space was presentable for when the men arrived from their daily expeditions. And the task he dreaded the most - to keep watch for when a Wanderer would arrive at their colony. After he hurried along his rotations, he would wander to a place above the ravine his colony secured and practice with his ywkla – a traditional Chultan weapon discovered by Clan Warrior Oswa.
Before his death, Oswa would teach Azuil the art of the ywkla; he’d become adept at the tall, spear-like weapon, having it become a part of his person. “This weapon and its warrior are one. Do you hear me, girl?” Oswa would say to him. “Every tool in your arsenal should be as your arms and legs. One person. You are smaller than your foes, which is good. See, stand taller.” His hand would guide Azuil’s, ensuring the stance was correct. “We need to ensure, that when and if other tribes find ours, and no other warrior is in sight, that you protect them, Azuila. Do you understand?” He bent low, the lines on his face deep with age.
“Sunnuri,” Azuil bowed, keeping calm the rage of yet another slight from the camp’s confusion about his gender.
“Sunnuri, young one.”
It would take Azuil years to master the ywkla, practicing wherever the tribe would go, ensuring that he found a secluded space in the harrowing desert to perfect the art of the Lost Decade.
Above the dune he rested, bringing with him a poorly mended canteen found from a ruin in the dunes, drinking the poorly kept water. It’s time I go to the tribe, he thought miserably. Standing, he brushed the dust from his multi-colored dress, and grabbed the wide slide to weave down towards the tribe. As it was dark, he knew many clan members would be arriving from their expedition. On this day, Scavenger Yapa turned south towards Nyanzaru – a port on the northern end of Marquet. The tribe discovered another colony there, these in an ostentatious dress of color that Chief Kwalu soon adopted. Yapa was quick to conduct trade, offering the desert fruit their tribe learned to yield, and even the meat of sand beasts that their Warriors hunted every day.
Traversal to the camp was a quiet one, Azuil expertly wove into a dune to discover the cave that went deeper still. The soft drips of water sounded beyond the darkness, Azuil making sure to slow his pace to avoid the traps set by the women of his camp before finding the tunnel that led down to his tribe.
The air here was damp. Those around kept their fires low, to keep the heat at bay. But it did little. Their camp was made of about twenty people, some of whom left to the Nyanzaru tribe, some even leaving to trek beyond towards Shammel, or Jrusar. Chief Kwalu detested the idea, believing that their purpose was to survive as their ancestors did at the beginning of the Sundering. So, he opted to scour the depths of ruins, and landscapes for home, never staying longer than a full moon cycle.
As Azuil approached, he caught the smell of the roast the women prepared from the wild boar the Warriors brought in. Some women, meanwhile, cut the crop they’d cultivated. The site was beautiful in presentation – reds and browns laid neatly before the tribe. Despite the women’s tiresome work, Azuil could not help but loath their lifestyle. He wanted no part of it.
“Azuila, where have you been?” Azuil stopped dead in his tracks. He looked up to find his father above him, arms crossed. He looked intimidating, his arms were laced with a hidden blade, his armor made of bone and sinew and leather from the abominations that he killed. Everyone in the tribe wore something akin to this dress, though theirs were more the net material that Scavengers discovered in the ruins of the Old World – this was loose and breathable, and still protected them from the harsh sands above. The material was also colorful, their ancestors were fascinated with dark blues and greens, reds on the hem, with dulled white fabric in places to allow the clothing to stand out. Outfitted on them were designs of nine trickster deities Chief Kwalu prayed to every day. They were the gods of their ancestors. Azuil did not understand their importance. The nine gods had died and were buried after the resurrection of the Titans by the demon Chief Kwalu called the Goat Lord.
“Ensuring the traps were laid,” he explained, finding himself talking fast. “I found another entrance south of where the northern one lies. I wanted to make sure that no creatures could get to us.” Azuil saw the disbelief in his father’s eyes, though he was tired nonetheless and wished not to participate further in what would be Azuil’s millionth lie.
“How many times must I tell you not to wander, Azuila? I cannot keep making excuses for your deviancy to Chieftain Kwalu.”
“And you won’t have to, Abba,” Azuil bowed. “May I sit at the table and observe?”
“You may sit with the women and hear what lessons of the world you missed.”
“There is nothing that I have missed, Abba. No traveler has set foot in our new home, and therefore no news has existed for weeks.”
“I hear Yapa has news of the Nyanzaru tribe,” his father tried. “Perhaps questions and rumors will keep you occupied while we discuss our next steps beyond this cave.”
“Has a Wanderer arrived with sightings of a new location?”
“I do not know,” his father answered gravely. “It is not for you to know until Chief Kwalu has decided for all to know. For now, run along.” Azuil’s father turned to the place where the men of the tribe sat to discuss the politics of the nearby tribes and cities, and the direction their tribe would take on the following moon’s cycle.
Azuil did a show to walk towards the women and children. He overheard them talk of rumors regarding the men of their tribe and the ongoing Wanderers and their discoveries.
“I bet they found us a new place to live,” a woman said, her clothing tattered, her body dirtied. “I don’t like this one much.” Azuil did little to interact with them and was fine to not participate in their dull conversations. All they seemed to do was revel in complaining on locations Wanderers put them in.
“Perhaps a Wanderer will come and show us to the River Clans?” a smaller girl said. Her brother nodded alongside her. Their skin were as dark as the caverns about them, the dim light revealing their deep-set black eyes.
After a moment of standing around them, Azuil moved to hide in the shadows, wandering closer to where the men were, making sure to avoid where the fires were set. Finding a slit in the cavern, Azuil listened and observed.
“I’m just saying,” Yapa began, standing to make his point. The men sat around the makeshift table of bone and dull-colored twine. There were seven men in total, Chief Kwalu at the head. “This map can help us to outline where we should go next. There isn’t any need for Wanderers anymore.” He pointed at the item in front of him.
“These markings matter not, Yapa.” Chief Kwalu disclosed.
“Not anymore, I agree. But below the sands, the Old Cities exist! We all know this.” Yapa pointed once more at the map, in an effort to have them concede to his argument.
“We have lost many Wanderers to their expeditions to the Old Cities. I have decided we will no longer have men to Scavenge. Already we have plenty that we need.” Some of the men nodded to Chief Kwalu’s decision. Abba, meanwhile, listened intently, his elbow to the table, head resting on his fist, the food before him untouched.
“Chief, if I may,” Azuil’s father spoke.
“Abba,” Chief Kwalu held a hand for him to proceed.
“The trade with the Nyanzaru tribe seemed successful, and for that, we thank you; though it appears we wished for more than a map. With that though, Chief, I believe our old ways are failing us. Wanderers die in the Land of Ash and Smoke. We cannot keep relying on their expeditions to tell us where to go. With this map, we have an opportunity to identify spaces for us, even if it is above ground.”
“And what of the creatures of the dust, Abba?” Kwalu challenged.
“Then we deal with it,” Abba answered. “We have warriors.”
“Exactly!” Yapa exclaimed.
Chief Kwalu was silent, listening to their words, his brows furrowing, the deep lines seemingly going deeper. The light that caught his face made him seem ancient to Azuil. “I propose an opportunity for you to change my mind,” Kwalu considered. “Abba, take the map and Yapa with you. Tomorrow you may take the hidden blades, and the tools of the Scavengers, on an expedition to the nearby waypoint.” He glanced at the map, “Nangalore.”
No, Azuil wanted to say. His father couldn’t agree! What about me? Who will speak for me if anything happens to father?
“I accept,” Abba said gravely. “Yapa, we best get rest. We will leave at the crack of dawn.”
“And what of your daughter?” a wanderer asked.
Yes, what about me? Azuil leaned closer, forgetting himself.
“She will be fine. She has the women to help her should anything go awry,” Abba said.
“Then it is settled.” Chief Kwalu raised a painted cup full of water. “To the future of our tribe.”
I
“Azuila?” Abba called to him. They rested in a small alcove of the cavern, outfitted with many trinkets of the old world. Azuil did not answer his father. Instead, he closed his eyes and steadied his breath to pretend he was asleep. “Very well, I just wanted to say I am leaving on an expedition to the dunes tomorrow. Be wise, be strong, should anything befall me.” Azuil refused to say anything, deeply conflicted with his father’s departure.
It might have been an hour, but soon Azuil heard his father’s snoring at the other edge of their alcove. Turning, Azuil stared at the ceiling, the shadows of the cave’s daggers looking down at him. Father is leaving. What did that mean for him? With his father gone, there was no one to keep the clan from kicking him out for his deviancy. He was to be exiled for not following the clan’s rules. Father will be fine, Azuil believed. But his father’s age showed. Every morning he struggled more and more to effectively don his armor; Azuil had started aiding him. He understood that his father couldn’t show his weakness for fear of being superseded by another in the tribe, removed from the chief’s council, or even removed by the tribe to wander the dunes to die.
Just then, an idea formed in Azuil. He could take his father’s place. He could don the hidden blade. That, and with his skill with the ywkla, he could effectively survive the sand creatures. While he had never wandered too far from where the tribe was in his expeditions to practice his fighting, he felt assured he could survive the Dunes of Marquet. He needed the map to find where Nangalore was, but aside from that, Azuil felt confident in his skill.
Quietly, he stood, making his way to where his father kept his leather and armor. Most of it, Azuil could not wear, but he could outfit the leather to his size and work the bone with the hidden dagger. With that, Azuil got to work, quietly functioning in the dark, the steady echoes of water dripping from far in the caverns and the distant sound of howling his only companions. With his father’s armor donned, he grabbed the hidden dagger and placed it where the leather strap below the arm was, securing it with a bone fragment. Confident, he then snuck away to Yapa’s quarters, investigating his otherwise empty cave to where the map was.
Gods of my ancestors, guide me to my destination.
Following the route to the southern exit, Azuil was met with the still sands of Marquet beneath a starry night. On the horizon, heavy clouds extended their reach. A sudden gust of wind hit Azuil hard in the face. Quickly, he wrapped on his headscarf before he began his trek to Nangalore; the wind pushing his dull-white dirtied cape behind him.
What am I doing? Azuil thought, horrified. A ray of the rising sun hit the sands before him. He felt regret and fear grip his heart. I am not fit for this journey. I am… Azuil shook the thought away. He was cursed by his ancestral gods, placing him in the body of a girl.
He would not be what his father and the tribe said of him. He would be more, he decided. He needed to be more.
Removing the ywkla from his back, Azuil used it as a walking stick, keeping the blade at the end raised high. Stray beams from the early light breaking through the horizon caught the blade. The ray of sunlight reflecting from the steel acted as a sign of hope to Azuil.
I must…no. I will be more than what they think of me, he declared. I will fly above my ancestors. I will be their hero. They’ll see! They’ll see…
Inspired, he pushed forward into the Dunes of Marquet.
II
The journey took all of the morning, the afternoon sun clouded by the darkened sky above.
Exhausted, Azuil took a drink from his canteen. He was running out of water and only hoped that this Nangalore held a hidden alcove that he could drink from. Losing hope that the map was wrong, Azuil then caught sight of a fantastic edifice rising from out of the desert. Coming closer, Azuil could not deny the beauty that came from the old world. He could only imagine this as an exotic garden from before. But now, only the harsh desert remained.
He wandered down steps between two massive, ruined elephant carvings. Beyond them, a broad avenue ran arrow-straight for more than a hundred feet before ending at a broken carving of a tyrannosaurus’ face. Its jaw was unhinged; within it, a vulture hid, its body hardened from years of evolution, wings sharpened and bony. It cawed once seeing Azuil before turning its attention within, settling further within the jaws, unfurling its wings only to take off into the desert sky. Five-foot-high terraces flanked the boulevard. Low archways – three on each side – were built into the terrace walls. These archways were in various states of collapse, as were the tunnels beyond them. Beautifully carved, larger-than-life stone faces were mounted between the arches.
A wild profusion of cacti grew on the upper terraces. Above them, Azuil witnessed a herd of oryx. Sensing his presence they turned to leave. Their horns reminded Azuil of demons, and then the Goat Lord, Chief Kwalu would scare the tribe with stories of.
To the north, a dilapidated brick dome rose above the tyrannosaurus-head waterspout. Smaller, bell-shaped, domes surmounted the highest terrace to the left and right. Azuil was astounded by the enormity of the space. Certain alcoves of Nangalore appeared lost to the sands of Marquet, though that which showed itself were beautiful to behold. Azuil could not help but utter an astounded, “Wow!” as he found himself touching the sides of the walls around him. He concluded that water flowed down the main concourse once, branching off into the main avenue which was once roofed over, but now appeared caved in, and three others partially collapsed.
Debris choked the walkways where the tunnel roofs fell. The roofs that remained had desert fauna hanging down from them. The covered tunnel was smaller, Azuil having to duck down into them before being greeted with space below.
Beyond the tunnels, Azuil was met with four stone visages staring across the avenue between the walkways portraying a regal woman whose expression changed slightly with each visage. Inscribed above each face were scratched phrases in the old tongue, forming a message. The first face was a bemused expression. The message above it read: “This garden is dedicated to Napaka, the last queen of Omu and jewel of Chult.” The second held a condescending expression, reading: “Worshiped by her people and by Thiru-taya, who loves BETRAYED her.” The word “betrayed” was scratched into the stone above the word “loves”. The third was stern. “In this, the tenth year of her reign, may she govern forever in splendor.” The fourth face held a serene appearance. “And may the gods themselves marvel at this humble reflection of her beauty.”
Azuil considered them all before he noticed a body near an untamed overgrowth that couldn’t hide the fact that this would-be garden was once a haven for exotic plants that did not grow naturally in the surrounding desert. Unfamiliar flowers, towering ferns, and even stranger plants resembling giant pinecones or lily pads spread and tangled everywhere. Desert hummingbirds flew between them, and yet another vulture hawked at him.
Cautious, Azuil walked to where the body lay. The man seemed dehydrated, his body dry, his lips cracked. He appeared like the other traveling merchants that once grazed the tribe’s presence, though he carried no wares to sell. On his side, held by a thin scabbard made of dark leather, was a sword, the pommel held a design of a ship adrift at sea. The stranger’s hair was long and unkempt, the brown of his hair dirtied and matted with sweat and sand. The man was alive, drawing short, unsteady breaths.
“Hello?” Azuil called tentatively. The man groaned his response. Quickly, Azuil bent and presented the rest of his water to his cracked lips. The man drew the canteen closer with his right hand. Surprised, Azuil dropped the water on the man’s chest.
“Thank you,” the man coughed, wiping his mouth. On the back of his right hand, Azuil noticed a mark that was only told to him in a tale by Chief Kwalu – the mark of the Whispered One, the Goat Lord, The Dread Lord.
“Who…who are you?” Azuil tentatively asked.
“Wilder,” the man stated, his breathing shallow, voice strained from the lack of water. “Captain Jean Wilder.”
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