Sand and Bone

Chapter 5: Halfway There

One can be told a tale endless times, but it doesn't make it true. Experience it once, and it will be learned forever.

—Desert proverb

Spinning on one foot, Rutejìmo ducked underneath Nifùni's stick. He didn't move fast enough, and the wood clipped the top of his skull. Even though they were sparring, Nifùni's blow rang Rutejìmo's ears. He lost his momentum and dropped to a knee, wincing as the pain shot up his leg. Desperate to avoid a second strike, he thrust his tazágu up. The steel weapon had no edge and only a sharp tip. It whistled through the air before he brought it to a halt where he expected the blow to come from.

No impact ran through his hand. No blow smacked him in the back or side.

Rutejìmo looked up, his eyes coming into focus.

Nifùni had stepped back to bring his stick into a parry position. The younger man, in his mid-twenties, had a mask of rage on his face. He stepped back and shook his head violently. The strands of his black hair clung to the recent wound that cut a line from his forehead to his cheek. Even after two weeks, the cut hadn't fully healed from when the robber's attack.

From a rock a few yards away, Desòchu grunted. "What's wrong, Nifùni?"

Stepping back, Nifùni swung his stick haphazardly at Rutejìmo before tossing it aside. "No... no more. I'm not fighting against anyone who has a real weapon."

Desòchu stood up from a wide rock and brushed off his orange trousers. He had stripped off his shirt after they made camp. The lines of his pectorals and abdomen were well-defined and covered in scars from years of fighting, the gray hair curled between the scars flowing with his movements. His left arm had a scar that ran from his thumb to his shoulder, and more lines crisscrossed his stomach, shoulders, and neck.

He jumped off the rock, and his bare feet crunched in the sand. He strolled over to where Rutejìmo and Nifùni were sparring. "Why not? We all need practice."

Nifùni gestured angrily at Rutejìmo. "Why does he get to fight with a real weapon, and I get... I'm fighting with a stick from one of the sand-cursed tents! He could kill me with that... that thing!"

Desòchu shook his head. "No, you are in more danger of getting bit by sand flies than Jìmo hurting you."

Rutejìmo straightened up and wiped the sweat from his brow. His tazágu shook in his grip. Unlike the reds and oranges the entire clan wore, the leather of his weapon had been dyed black and blue by its original owner. Rutejìmo had engraved a Shimusògo name along the length of the blade when he first blooded it, but the rest of the weapon came from another clan, one that gained power from the moon instead of the sun.

"That's a lethal weapon!"

"Yes," said Desòchu, "but he's also been using it for fifteen years."

Nifùni snorted and gestured at Rutejìmo. His shirt clung to his sweat-soaked chest, and he peeled it off with the movement. "And he hasn't killed anyone in all that time. All he does is run away whenever someone even says a strong word! He's a moon-bleached, sand-damned coward who can barely keep his bladder under control, much less swing a weapon!"

From a few rods away, the other clan members looked up. Mapábyo knelt by the fire and stirred a small pot of food. Chimípu sat next to her while she cooked thin strips of meat with an alchemical flame.

The third was Byochína, the other courier attacked a few weeks before. She only wore a white band over her breasts and a pair of orange shorts, making the fading cuts and scars along her bare arms more visible. Her back still glistened with sweat from her high-speed sprint around their campsite after they stopped.