FINALLY NEARING THE OSKI'S FAR BANK,
As his heart rate slowed, he started trudging forward again. The bank on this side of the river was muddy, and the muck clawed at his sandals as he struggled toward dry land. Annoyed, he looked down, wondering whether he should remove his sandals until he reached solid ground. But as he turned his attention toward his feet, he froze. Beside him, a line of footprints, each as large as his face, was preserved by the mud.
He'd seen similar footprints in D'Win— a triangular pad dotted by four teardrop imprints made by the dainty feet of D'Win's many alley cats. Lev grimaced, and he grabbed his sword hilt as he stared at the prints next to him. A much, much larger cat had recently visited the river.
A leopard. Undoubtedly a leopard.
Lev sucked in his lip. From what he'd heard, leopards were nocturnal hunters. If true, he had hours before he had to worry about this one, and by then he'd be miles away. To be safe, he could travel south until the heat grew unbearable. Then he'd find an elevated place to rest and hide until the cooler afternoon and evening.
Plan made, Lev slogged through the remaining muck. When he finally reached solid ground, he paused to determine his destination. Since the Oski was behind him and to the north, he simply needed to head in the opposite direction. But how? No clear path lay ahead of him—just a menacing landscape filled with gritty soil, jagged rock formations, and desiccated plants. Brown upon brown upon brown.
Nothing about the Varraran Wastes invited him forward. Lev's hesitation, though, soon gave way to fearful thoughts filled with claws and fangs. He forced himself ahead, picking his way over the uneven dry soil and around the scrubby brush that dotted the landscape, keeping watch for serpents and scorpions. His eyes darted from side to side, up and down, scanning for movement in all directions. But the further he traveled south of the river and the higher the sun arced through the sky, the less life he saw. And after an hour, only the air seemed to move, shimmering from the intense heat. Everything else had retreated into shadowed recesses or had burrowed beneath the cracked earth. Other than a speck of a vulture, circling far to the southeast, the Varraran was devoid of life.
Tugging at his damp neckline, Lev nodded in agreement with the hidden denizens of the desert. The greatest threat of the Varraran Wastes had fully emerged. Its searing temperatures. The oppressive heat had already sapped the energy from his steps. Even breathing was laborious. He needed to find shelter and rest, or soon the vulture would be swirling over .
Ahead and to his left, a building-size chunk of cragged red rock offered hope. He hurried forward and circled to the outcropping's western face. His shoulders sagged with relief as soon as he slipped into the cool shade. And thankfully, a ledge two body-lengths long, jutted toward his shoulders. Smiling, he unbelted his sword and set it and his knapsack on the ledge. Then he scrambled up and joined his only belongings.
Once atop the ledge, Lev sat with his back propped against the part of the spire that soared higher. He leaned forward, turned his gaze to the left, and stared at the bumpy southern horizon. Even though he had traveled for hours, the distant mountains, his destination, still seemed impossibly far away. He groaned and slumped back against the spire. All his effort felt pointless—other than soaking his tunic and trousers with sweat.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Stop it, he thought. I've barely begun the journey, and so far, everything has gone according to Yudi's plan.
Trying to stay positive, Lev pulled his knapsack closer and dug through it. He tugged out a brown water skin, a dried strip of meat, and a fist-sized seed cake. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he yanked the water skin away from his cracked lips. Hadn't realized how hungry he was until he devoured the gritty seed cake and dried beef. Needing to wash his meal down, he reached for the water skin again. But as he began to guzzle, the thoughts of the distant mountains intruded.
Careful, he thought. There's a long way to go.
Nodding to himself, he swallowed the water in his mouth and no more. As he capped the water skin and returned it to the knapsack, the daunting reality of his journey pinched his stomach. Yes, he could reach Behrad. But he had to ration his supplies. Follow Yudi's instructions better and take small sips while he walked.
For now, though, he needed to rest. He shifted positions on the hard ledge and lay down. Trying to get comfortable, he wriggled against his stone bed, but the lumpy contents of his pocket irritated his right hip. He dug into his pocket and retrieved its contents: his father's journal, Yudi's small scroll, and the silver coin.
The journal's cover was moist with his sweat. Worried, Lev flipped through its pages, relieved that the writing all seemed intact. But the glimpse of the journal's contents made him pause. Something seemed odd.
Lev turned to the first entry and tried to read it—only to tilt his head and scrunch his face. He was staring at gibberish. A string of letters that made no sense. He flipped page after page, but each was filled with more random combinations of letters. Was the journal some sort of joke?
No, it couldn't be. Of the two men, Yudi was the prankster, not Lev's father. He'd also handed the journal to Lev with that serious look—left eyebrow raised, head tilted, and a focused stare from those piercing blue eyes—the look his father had used whenever his message was important. The same look he'd given whenever Lev had made a mistake while sparring. Or whenever he had burned or undercooked flatbreads.
A tear trickled down Lev's cheek as he thought of his father. But he sniffled, tilted his head back, and refrained from sobbing. No more tears, he thought. Not now. Not when water is so precious.
Biting his lip, Lev stared at the journal. More likely, the strange writing that filled its pages was a secret code. Rebellion stuff, no doubt. But even if he never understood a word of the small book, he was glad he had kept it. What good would it have done Yudi? The Tolians had Nish. Lev's father was dead. Whatever rebellion had been simmering had lost its flame. And the journal was all Lev had left of his father ... as such, it was Lev's most valuable possession in the world. No one deserved the journal more than he did.
Reinvigorated with new purpose, Lev kissed the journal. Realizing it would be safer in his knapsack, he dragged it to him and tucked the journal inside. Then he spotted Yudi's small scroll, plucked it up, and groaned. It was damp, too. With quivering hands, he unfurled the note and heaved in a deep breath when he saw that Yudi's neat script was still legible.
"Praise the Three," Lev muttered as he refurled the note and added it to the knapsack.
Lev shook his head as he threw in the silver coin, too. Still trembling, he let out a sigh, pulled the knapsack close, and hugged it. Moments ago, he had thought he'd done so well on the first leg of his journey. But in truth, he'd been fortunate to avert disaster. Something as simple as sweat could have led to his demise.
What would have happened when he reached Behrad if Yudi's note had been ruined? He could have completed the impossible journey across the Varraran, only to be placed in a foreign prison—or worse. Lev stared blankly into the brown wasteland ahead of him, and despite his earlier conviction, tears streamed from his eyes. This place was dangerous in ways he couldn't conceive, and his next mistake could well be his last.
