Soul of Rage - Introduction. (Patreon)

Should I be working on BoD or Chrysalis? Yes. Yes I should. But I did this instead today.

Playing around with other worlds and concepts is one of my favourite things to do and it feels so good to have time for it again. Whoo!

After listening to the Cradle audiobooks I started playing around with a cultivation concept in my head and this is my attempt to put it on paper. Let me know what you think!

Not to worry, Chrysalis and BoD will be back over the next three days.

Ironsand crunched beneath the young boys unshod feet. Each step scorched him, the pounding heat from above, which matted his silver hair to his head, baked into the sand below, but he endured. Slung across his shoulders, the bag weighed him down until every step became a struggle. His shoulders burned, calves and thighs ached, but he made no complaint. Step by determined step, he marched from the pit to the foundry, following the trail left by the others.

Wind kicked across the sands, carrying metal filaments that cut and stung at his cheeks and eyes. To take a hand from his cargo and protect himself risked dropping it, something he could not allow, so he squinted as best he could and carried on, one foot at a time.

"Don't hold up the line, boy," a deep voice rumbled as another worker passed him, six bags stacked across his arms and shoulders.

Effortlessly, the giant strode past, not looking down to see if the boy struggled. It was good that he didn't, it would have brought shame. Gritting his teeth, the lad firmed his grip and increased his pace. Dozens more passed him before he arrived at his destination, each demanded that he increase his speed, that he work harder, and he responded to them every time.

The foundry was so hot the air itself shimmered before his eyes. Smoke belched overhead, rising from the wyrdfire that burned in the heart of the oven. Exhausted, but filled with the glow of pride, the boy took his place in line behind the others still waiting to deliver their cargo. Hard men and women, all of them, their tough, red-tinged a sign of a long life in the Red Desert, none remarked on his presence despite his young age, only five summers. A sign of acceptance.

They shuffled forward slowly as each had their bags inspected before pouring the contents down the chute and into the furnace. As they drew closer, the heat grew even more unbearable, until the boy felt he might faint. Finally, it was his turn at the front of the line. He looked up to see a gigantic man staring down at him, his short cut black hair framing eyes so dark as to be almost black. With no shirt or coat, the man's reddened skin and intimidating physique were on full display. Arms and shoulders thick with muscle, he looked powerful enough to carry a hundred times the weight the boy had shouldered. In one hand he held the hammer of his office, forged from pure redsteel and edged with bright silver from Beneath, it gleamed in the glow of the wyrdfire, catching the boys attention in an instant.

"Gron," the forgemaster of the tribe grinned down at him.

"Father," the small boy replied, then glanced around. "Where's uncle Fu?"

"Scouting with the hunters, or some such nonsense. Who can tell with a softskin, like him?"

For a long moment his father held the boys eyes, then threw back his head a laughed. The sound rippled through the air, louder even the roaring flames of the furnace behind him. When he met Gron's eyes again, they burned with the light of his Fire Wyrd. That same power fuelled the fire behind him, forging molten iron as they spoke. It almost burned to look at him.

"I thought I said you were too small to work the pits," Garrak said.

"You did," Gron nodded seriously.

"So why are you here with a sack of fresh ironsand on your back?"

"Because I am strong enough," the boy said proudly.

The forgemaster looked down on the lad, swaying on his feet, but with the sack clutched in a death grip, then shook his head. Far too serious, this son of his. He jerked his head to the table before him.

With visible effort, the boy hefted the sack from his shoulders onto the flat surface with a loud *thump*. Reaching out, the forgemaster untied the knots that sealed the bag, shifted it so the opening faced upwards and placed a hand over it. In moments, fine sediment began to rise from the dark red flakes caught inside coalescing into a ball of black grain the size of a marble.

"Need to be more careful with your sifting," the forgemaster said in a stern tone, and the boy nodded.

Finished removing the impure material, he flicked the ball to one side with a flex of his wyrd, and pushed the bag back toward his son.

"What are you waiting for child?" he demanded. "You're holding up the line."

With a nod, Gron walked carefully, one step at a time, to the furnace. He was so short, he had to stand on the tips of his toes, straining to get purchase on the sand. He reached, but only just, ripping his bag open and letting the powdered metal slip down the chute and into the flame. Hands scorched from their close exposure to the fire, he snatched them back the moment he was sure no trace of ironsand remained.

He'd done it.

"What are you standing around for?" Garrak bellowed, pointing with his hammer back toward the pit, a fierce look in his eyes. "You think one sack is enough for the tribe? Get back to work!"

"Yes, forgemaster!" Gron shouted, bundling the sack tightly under one arm before he ran back along the trail.

"Isn't that a little harsh?" a wry voice said as the next in line stepped forward to have her bag inspected.

"He's ready," Garrak shrugged.

The voices faded behind him as he rushed along the trail, the breath rasping in his throat. The first trip had been so difficult, but he could do it again. He would do it again. He refused to be babied like his sister.

"Pssst. Gron!" a voiced hissed from nearby.

He turned his head to see a flash of silver hair vanish behind a tent. When he didn't move, a hand poked out and gestured for him to come closer. The boy battled with himself for a moment before he sighed and trudged off the path. He stepped around the tent to find the person he was expecting, a warm smile on her face, holding out a waterskin for him.

"Well done, my son," she said, "now have a drink. You can't work if you collapse in the sand."

She stretched out the skin but he pushed it away stubbornly, refusing to meet her eyes.

"It's still light, I can't drink yet," he muttered.

Duslin's eyes crinkled in laughter at the dour expression on the boy in front of her, but she was careful not to let her amusement tinge her voice.

"Children are allowed to drink during the day," she said.

Dark eyes, just like his fathers, flashed with anger as Gron finally looked up at her.

"I'm not a child," he said.

The determination on his face, still chubby with youth, painted such an incongruent picture. Duslin yearned to reach out, pinch his cheeks and tease him, but she resisted. A pang of sadness echoed in her chest. Children grew up so fast in the Red Desert. They had no choice, but it was such a shame.

"Where is Britl?" he asked, peering up at her with suspicion.

He didn't see his sister anywhere. If his mother had snuck away and abandoned her to bring him water….

BAM!

"Cheeky brat, suspecting your own mother!" Duslin growled after wrapping him on the head with her knuckles. "She's right here!"

With practiced ease, she reversed the sling on her back, slipping it over her shoulder to reveal a tightly wrapped bundle. There, swaddled in padded sanox hides, the face of a baby poked out.

"She's asleep," Gron observed, watching her carefully.

"Of course she is," Duslin said, "she's just had a drink and needs rest. Same as you."

Gron's eyes flashed, but his mother had already tucked the waterskin away, tying to the belt at her waist.

"Unfortunately, you're becoming a stupid man, who doesn't know his limits and pushes too hard. So go back to work. I'll come get you when you collapse face first in the sand."

The boy grinned and lunged forward to give his mother a hug before he turned and raced away, sack still tucked under his arm. Duslin smiled at his enthusiasm before she turned and walked back to her tent.

"I hope you don't grow up so quickly," she said to the sleeping baby still strapped to her chest. "You'll make your poor mother lonely."

By the time he reached the pit once more, Gron's burst of energy had long faded. He ached all over, especially in his legs, but he refused to let that stop him. Most workers did dozens of trips in a day between the pit and furnace, carrying five to ten bags of ironsand each trip. He'd never live with himself if he only carried one on his first day. Like everyone else returning from the furnace, he reported to the foremistress.

"Back again?" she said, grey hair curling around her scarred and weathered face.

"Of course," he replied, trying to hold himself steady.

She snorted and pointed to his left.

"Most wait until they ignite their wyrd before risking exposure to the sands for good reason boy." She pointed at his face and Gron lifted a hand to touch his cheek where she indicated. It came away red with blood.

"The wind is calm today and still you are cut by the metal in the air. On a normal day you'd be slashed to ribbons."

Gron's face hardened into a stubborn expression, glowering up at the old woman who glared right back at him.

"Stubbornness is good, boy, we don't need quitters in the tribe, but foolishness is likewise useless to us. Stupid doesn't last long in the sands. If you don't learn the difference between the two then you will die young."

The boys expression didn't change and the foreman snorted once again.

"My Iron Soul tells me there is a soft patch of ironsand over there," she pointed. "Make sure you crumble and sift it carefully, otherwise the forgemaster will beat you for bringing him inferior material."

"Yes foremistress."

With his sack, Gron jumped down into the pit, falling four feet before landing with a tumble, then he was off. Unused tools were racked in a neat row just beneath where the foremistress stood and he grabbed a mattock, the smallest one, and a sieve. A fine powder of dust filled the air within the pit, making it hazy and difficult to see. The boy pulled the cloth around his neck up to cover his face, before he dashed to the area he'd been pointed to. It didn't take him long to find it, despite having to move around those tribesmen, woman and older children already at work in the pit. Neither adults or youths spared him a glance, focused on their work, vital to the wellbeing of their people. Without ironsand, there would be no trade, without trade, how would they feed themselves here in the waste were nothing green would grow?

His arms burned, but that didn't stop the boy. When he reached the area he'd been pointed to, he set to work with a single-minded focus that had characterised his training so far. The mattock went up, then down, the weight of the tool doing the work, cutting away at the layers of flaked iron. After a few swings, he would shift is sieve to ensure the loose material was caught in the wide basket. Swing, swing, shift. Swing, swing, shift. Swing, swing shift.

Pain and fatigue warred for Gron's attention, but he stubbornly forced them away. When the basket was finally full, he let the mattock drop from his numb and trembling hands. When he tried to sit, it was more of a collapse, but he didn't care, as long as the basket was in reach. Now he took up the pestle, the grinding stone, and began to pound it into the soft flakes.

Impurities accumulated within the iron, especially where it was soft. By grinding the flakes to powder and sieving them, he would be able to remove the bulk of it. Forced through the gaps in the wire lattice, grain sized particles of iron began to fall, ironsand, the lifeblood of the tribe. Not wanting to be scolded again, he focused as hard as he could on the task, searching for the dark streaked flakes that had become impure and removing them from the sieve. Periodically he would run a hand through the growing powder in the basket, picking out the dark grains and flicking them onto the ground.

By the time he had finished emptying the sieve, his head swam with fatigue and he was forced to consider giving up. When he emptied the basket into his sack, his mouth tightened with disappointment. Only half full. It had taken over two baskets to fill it last time, but he'd hoped his experience would help him somehow, though he wasn't sure what that benefit would look like.

He could return with half a sack. The trip would be easier. Despite his stubborn attitude, he was aware enough to realise he may not make it back were he to carry a full load. Then he thought of his father's expression when he had given him a full bag. Pride had burned in him then, warming Gron all the way to his toes. To return with half a bag would be shaming. To not return at all, collapsed in the sand would be shaming.

There was only one way to avoid shame, and that was to return with a full bag.

The small boy grit his teeth and stood, ignoring the burning in his legs. Children as young as seven were allowed to work in the pits, he was only slightly smaller than them. Of course, he ignored the fact that most of those had already ignited their wyrd, whereas he had not. He could do this. Once again, he pulled the mattock into his hand and began to swing.

He lost himself in the work again. Swing, swing, shift. Swing, swing, shift.

It was slower than before, but the sieve was filling, slowly and surely. So focused on the task, Gron didn't notice when the wind began to shift. Voices were raised, questions shouted across the pit, answers called back, and the workers began to move.

When they moved, they didn’t walk, or jog. They ran.

Gron jerked back as an steel grip wrapped around his arm, forcing him to drop the mattock. He jerked his head around to see the foremistress glaring down at him, her grey hair shifting ever so slightly in the breeze.

"Wind is picking up, fool child," she growled.

The boy's eyes widened. He made to run.

"As if you'll be quick enough," the old woman snorted, hauling him into the air with one hand as easily as a bowl of water.

The world blurred around him as she pushed off the floor of the pit, a rush of wind all he could feel aside from that painful grip. When the world stilled, he realised they were out of the pit, having cleared the distance in one bound, then she leapt again. Another two jumps and they had reached the outer line of tents that bordered their temporary settlement. Atop the dunes he could see the faint stirring of dust as the air shifted, a hint of what was to come.

She let him go and Gron fell to the sand with a thump. He did not complain, but picked himself up quickly and nodded to her gratefully. She had likely saved his life.

"Back to your tent, boy," she told him, "I have others to see to."

She crouched, gathering strength in her legs, and then she was gone, a burst of sand kicked into the air the only sign of what had happened. Gron turned and ran back into the settlement. Someone had begun to sound the gong and his people swarmed liked ants between the tents. Ropes were checked, sandshields inspected, barrier flags hammered quickly into the sand and anchored. Those with a Wind Soul had leapt high into the air, shooting up dozens of metres where they hovered, hands swirling as they tested the strength and direction of the shift. The Iron Souled ran the edge of the settlement, checking the sandwall they had established, reinforcing and strengthening it before the coming storm.

The boy ran on his little legs until his family tent came into view, his mother, Duslin stood at the threshold, staring worriedly toward the pit. When she saw him, relief washed over her expression and she ran to him, appearing with a flicker at his side.

"There you are, foolish boy," she said as she snatched him up.

He tried to assure her he was fine, but the world lurched around him and the air in his lungs lurched with it as his mother leapt back to the tent and shoved him inside.

"Dust yourself, quickly," she demanded, shoving the course brush into his hands.

Of course, she didn't wait for him to complete the task himself, taking another brush and applying it to him with vigour. Only after the ironsand had been swept from his hair, skin and clothes was he allowed to step through the first sandshield and onto the woven mat beyond.

"Quickly, Gron," his mother urged him and he did his best to comply.

He stripped down to his small clothes, placing the robe he had worn into a tightly woven basket and brushed himself again, head to toes. Duslin passed him a damp cloth she had wet in the clay jug that sat within the first shield and he used it to wipe himself down, that too went into the basket. Through the second sandshield and into the tent proper, Gron saw his sister, still asleep, at rest flat on her back upon the rug that covered the tent floor.

He ran to his own corner and grabbed a clean robe, a soft covering unsuited to outside and pulled it on. When his head poked through the opening, he saw his mother had joined him inside, checking on Britl before moving to the corners of the tent and inspecting each seam.

"How bad will it be?" he asked softly.

"They aren't sure yet. The change occurred suddenly, there hadn't been a wind expected until tomorrow."

Gron nodded. Despite how keen he was to prove himself, he would not have gone out unless it was expected to be calm.

"With a little luck, it will blow over in a few hours and we can get back to smelting. This was a rich pit," Duslin frowned.

Another day and they would have gathered enough ironsand to keep the forges hammering for a month. With that much metal, the tribe could have travelled back to the Spine, off the sands, where her children would be safer, for the rest of the season.

Something stirred at the entrance to the tent and Gron sat in anticipation, waiting until finally his father poked his head through the second shield. He went to speak but his mother spoke first.

"Have you even brushed yourself!?" she demanded and Garrack scowled.

"I have to go back out," he told her. "The fire is out but I want to cover the furnace. Just wanted to make sure… " his eyes slid to his son for a second before focusing back on his wife, "… that you were all safe."

Duslin's eyes softened.

"We are fine," she said, "now go, quickly. Be back as soon as you can."

The forgemaster nodded, turned, and vanished back outside. The sides of the tent billowed slightly as the wind began to push against them. It wouldn't be long now. Heart thudding in his chest, Gron sat and began to meditate as he had been taught, searching for the Wyrd inside him, stoking it, fuelling it with his own vital energy.

The first grains were already pattering against the tent wall when Garrack returned, brushing and washing himself carefully before he stepped through the second shield in his smallclothes. Gron eyed his father's frame with jealousy. Red-tinted skin covered his frame, thick with muscle and devoid of fat. Broad shouldered and with a neck as thick as a sand-sieve, Garrack was powerfully built. When he was older, Gron was determined to be even stronger than his father, then people wouldn't tell him what he could and couldn't do.

The forgemaster noticed his son and grinned down at him. "It's not my fault you're still tiny," he laughed, stepping forward to tousle the boy's hair with one thick, calloused hand.

"It's at least half your fault," Duslin sniffed.

"That's true," Garrack smiled as he sat in front of his oldest child. "Come now, enough meditation. Show me your form."

Gron leapt to his feet and ran to his corner, snatching up his hammer and rushing back to his father and taking his stance. Garrack nodded approvingly.

"First form," he said, "no excuses about being tired. Nobody told you to work in the pit instead of training, that was your own choice. If you slack in practice you weaken the tribe. Begin."

Moving with agonising slowness, Gron began to move his body through the first form, the most basic of all hammer movements under his father's critical eye. Every now and again the forgemaster would reach out and poke the boy with one finger, correcting the angle of his wrist or the placement of his feet, demanding he begin again. After ten minutes, the storm hit.

In an instant, the world outside the tent was obliterated. Once the wind reached sufficient speed to pick up the heavy grains of sand, the tent became enshrouded in darkness. The wall of the tent, thrice thick and hardened stone lizard skin, billowed and bent under the constant barrage of ironsand.

Gron knew that moving at such speeds he would be dead in less than a second outside the walls of this tent, cut to pieces by the metal. He hesitated for a moment as the noise grew deafening, but his father reached out and poked him in the forehead.

Continue, he signed. You must train.

Gron nodded and went back into the forms. An hour passed as they waited out the wind. Britl woke, crying and hungry, disturbed by the noise and Duslin rushed to her side, gathering the child into her arms and murmuring words of comfort. After being changed and fed, the baby settled, staring up at the tent walls with wide, curious eyes as endured the fury of the desert.

A distant crack was the first sign that something was wrong. The sound was like a boulder breaking in half, loud and piercing it cut through the storm, snagging in Gron's ear like a hook. Garrack heard it also, his head snapping toward the sound as his eyes began to blaze with the power of his Wyrd.

"What do you think that was?" Duslin asked her husband.

Garrack frowned.

"I'm not su -," he began, only to be cut off as the sound repeated, closer this time, shearing through the storm cleanly as a sword through cloth.

The forgemaster surged to his feet and snatched up his hammer from its resting place near the entrance.

"I have to check," he said.

"Be careful," Duslin said simply.

He nodded and stepped through the sandshield. Gron watched him go, part angry that he couldn't go with him, but mostly worried as his father dressed himself and stepped out into the storm.

As one who had advanced his wyrd beyond the Forging stage, though how far beyond, Gron didn't actually know, Garrack could endure the storm, though there was risk out there, even for him. With her daughter clutched in one arm, Duslin drew her son to her with other, holding her children close.

For once, Gron didn't resist her, easing into her side as he stared at the sandshield beyond which his father had gone.

"He'll be fine," she reassured him, kissing him on the head. "This is the first time he's gone outside in a storm is it?"

Gron silently shook his head as the three of them continued to wait, the incessant drum of sand filling their ears.

Garrack had been gone for ten minutes before they heard the first scream. They tensed, uncertain of what it meant, until the clash of metal on metal rang out. Duslin pulled her children tighter as her breath quickened.

"A raid," she breathed, eyes narrowing to slits.

Gron's heart pounded in his chest. A raid? During a storm? It could only be them.

More screams, shouting and roaring, cracks and dull booms as warriors invoked their wyrds. Battle had been joined.

Duslin passed Britl to Gron, running a hand through the soft, soft hair that clung to the child's head before she leapt to her feet and rushed to a locked trunk in the corner. She opened it within a second, removing the pieces of her armour and strapping them on with hands that moved too fast for Gron to see. He had just finished settling his sister in his lap when his mother had finished sheathing two gleaming machetes on her back.

"Take care of your sister," she said, "make sure nothing happens to her, do you understand?"

Gron swallowed and nodded.

"Good. I will be back."

Then she too was gone, leaving the boy alone with his baby sister as storm and battle both raged beyond the walls of the tent.

"Shhh, shhh," he comforted Britl, shifting his weight from side to side, but perhaps he was only reassuring himself. Unaware of the peril, the baby looked up at him, silver hair and bright blue eyes, just like their mother, gleaming in the dim light.

How long did he wait there? Even years later, Gron was never able to say. It felt like hours, like days. In all directions, the battle raged. A warcry would sound from behind him, but before he turn his head there would be a scream from somewhere in front. At some point, the fighting was amongst the tents, with a dozen metres of where he sat. The warriors of the tribe battled against the enemy as the weak and defenceless huddled within the safety of their shelters.

During that terminal period, he heard the sibilant whispers of them for the first time in his life. They hissed with fury and shrieked in pain as the fighting drew closer, their inhuman voices scraping against Gron's ears and vibrating his teeth.

He clutched his sister closer and she squeaked in protest but he didn't hear. He'd awoken that morning determined to prove himself to be grown up, but in that moment he had never felt so small. All his stubbornness was dashed to pieces by the din in his ears and it was all he could not to cry out as the fighting went on.

Every moment that passed he hoped desperately for his mother or father to appear, to poke their face through the sandshield and smile at him, let him know that it was all over. Every moment they didn't froze his chest a little further.

A clash beside the tent shocked him and Britl cried out in his arms. Gron hurriedly loosened his grip, and shushed her, terrified as he hadn't been just a moment ago. All they would have to do was cut open the tent and he would die. He was so weak, that was all it would take. Exposure to the storm would be fatal in moments.

He looked down at his sister.

Even more vulnerable than he was, she'd been born only two months ago, just before they'd left the Spine. What could he do to protect her? The fighting had drawn closer now, at any moment a wayward slash or technique could puncture the shelter that protected them. As quietly as he could, not that it mattered much in the storm, he stood and moved to the corner of the tent where the bedding was stowed. As carefully and as gently as he could, he swaddled the baby in blankets as thunderous clashes boomed through the dark, sand filled air. He covered her as much as he could, her little face poking out as close to the corner as possible. If one wall of the tent were breeched, perhaps it wouldn't touch her here.

Then he sat, with one hand on her head to let her know he was still present.

It would be alright, he told himself, shivering in the dark. Any moment now, it would end. Any moment.

But it wasn't.

Then came the sound of someone bursting through the first sandshield and Gron froze where he sat. It would be fine, it was one of his parents, he was safe. Yet he didn't feel relieved, only terrified. Irrationally, he wondered if this person would brush themselves off before they came inside, but off course they didn't.

"Gron," his mother called, her voice harsh. "Are you alright?"

He almost collapsed with relief, his bottom lip trembling at the sound of her voice. His mouth opened, ready to reply, but the words froze in his throat when she stepped into the tent. Blood matted her silver to her head. Her armour, which had gleamed in the dull light when she left, was battered and slashed, stained with red and black. One of her machetes was lost also, a hammer gripped tight in her right hand.

A very familiar hammer.

She saw him at the same moment he noticed the hammer, huddled in the corner and went to rush toward him.

"Where's father?" he rasped.

He stubbornly refused to consider any thought something had befallen the forgemaster. He had dropped his hammer, that was all.

Before she could reply, Duslin was interrupted by a low, rumbling hiss from behind. Raw, boundless fury and grief washed over her face, though Gron didn't see it, as she turned to face the creature who had followed her through the storm. The redsteel hammer dropped to the rug as she brought both hands to the hilt of her remaining blade, and only then did Gron realise the full extent of her injuries. She'd been cut in many places, dark blood staining her robe down her left leg. Her right arm had been slashed, the cut packed with ironsand by the wind. The red grains mixed with the lifeblood that leaked from the wound, trickling down her arm.

He stared, numb and unable to speak, unable to breath, as his mother confronted the creature from Below.

He'd never seen one before, but tales of the enemy were fed to the children of the tribe along with their mother's milk. Hunched, with long limbs covered by tattered cloth, it held a short sickle in one hand and a glowing dagger in the other. Yellow eyes gleamed beneath its hood as it stalked into the tent, snuffling at the air. It too was wounded, thick black blood oozing from a number of cuts and it visibly favoured one leg, yet still it approached, its eyes fixed on Duslin.

It was over in an instant.

With a roar, the tribeswoman lunged forward, long blade slashing like a crescent moon as she infused it with the full power of her wyrd. She moved so quickly, Gron couldn't see it happen, nothing but blurry afterimages appearing in his eyes. The thing from Below reacted though, shifting its weight, raising the sickle above to block and lunging forward with that ominous dagger.

When they stood still again, the boy could see what had happened. His mother's strike had been too strong for the creature to block one handed. The sickle had been driven down by the force of the blow, her blade sunk three inches into the creature's shoulder. But it still lived. With its other hand, it had driven the dagger straight into Duslin's heart.

The thing from below staggered back, a low, pained hiss rattling from its throat as the tribeswoman collapsed to the ground, her sightless eyes rolling in her head.

Gron's chest exploded with heat. The boy screamed, not the scream of a child, but that of a savage beast. He screamed until his throat tore and the veins in his neck bulged with the force of it. Inside him, something flared to life, pounding within the cage of his ribs, beside his heart. It's strength flooded him even as it drove every thought from his head. Only one instinct remained: fight and kill!

He lunged forward, snatched up his father's hammer in both hands, rolled back to his feet and leapt, still screaming.

The creature tried to lift and arm to snatch the child from the air, but forgot its wound and flinched. Cut by the machete, the muscles had been severed and it was unable to raise its hand above its waist.

The hammer came down with force beyond what the boy could muster. Muscles tore, tendons snapped, but the hammer came down and shattered the creature's skull. The thing from Below collapsed at once, blood and brain pouring down its face.

Gron hit the ground hard, the hammer still gripped tight in both hands. The impact drove the air from his lungs and finally the screaming stopped, as did everything. Consciousness faded, and he knew no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man known as Uncle Fu stood atop his sword and let the Red Desert whip by below him. No matter how much time he spent here, the majesty of the dunes never failed to take his breath away, especially right after a storm. After the rage and fury of the wind, when the ironsand could strip the flesh from the bones of a sanox, the calm that descended was almost spiritual. Clear sky as far as he could see in every direction, virginal, untouched sand all around. It felt as if none had ever been here before him, as if this place had existed in this way for a million years, just waiting for him to find it.

Of course, that wasn't true.

"You look ridiculous," Roran called to him as he bounded up to the same height.

The tribesman hovered there for a moment before he was seized by gravity and fell once more, only to reappear a moment later after his next leap.

Fu rolled his eyes.

"As a Master Cultivator, I am able to harness the power of my Soul and Qi to manipulate by blade to fly through the air. You, on the other hand, utilise yours to jump really high and far. You think I'm  the ridiculous one?"

There was a reason the people of the tribes didn't fly out here, and they all knew it, but some banter was almost required in circumstances such as these. A softskin couldn't be allowed to put on airs here in the Red Desert.

Roran appeared to ponder before he fell back down, then reappeared with his quip prepared.

"It's the beard," he said, pointing at the offending facial hair. "It looks silly flapping in the breeze."

Fu broke his dignified pose atop the sword long enough to tuck his long, grey streaked beard into his belt.

"There," he said with satisfaction. "Now you have no right to complain."

Roran inspected him on his next leap.

"I'm not sure it's better," he said solemnly.

Fu wanted to retort, but he spotted the camp in the distance.

"Ah. I can see it!" he called to the others and they cheered as they bounded across the sand.

Exerting so much force through the legs that the sand acted as solid ground in the moment they kicked off was a feat that he had never been able to recreate, no matter how much he'd tried. Garrack had laughed himself silly when he'd spotted his hidden attempts to learn the technique.

"You're just not strong enough," the tribesman had shrugged when an angered Fu had confronted him over it. "All you have to do is jump harder."

A fond memory, but thoughts of his friend faded as he saw the camp more clearly.

No, no, no, no.

There had been rumblings of the enemy in the area. He'd gone with the scouting team, his more refined senses were useful for this sort of thing, but they'd found nothing. Had it been a false lead to lure them away?

Please, no.

"Trouble," he yelled to the others and their faces snapped into focused aggression in an instant.

They drew their weapons, drew on the power of their souls, or wyrd, as they called it, and leapt higher and further than before, seeing the ruins of the camp for themselves. Tents had been slashed and half covered by the sands after the boundary flags had failed. Bodies and blood could be seen strewn about amongst the cloth.

Surely Garrack and Duslin would have survived. They were strong, they would be safe, along with the children.

"Softskin," Roran growled, his face twisted with hate.

Fu knew it wasn't for him.

"Do you sense anything?" the tribesman forced out.

Is there anyone alive down there?

Fu brought his sword a halt, flaring his long sleeves and he flung out his arms to maintain his balance and then drew upon his Qi, expanding the reach of his Soul over an instant until it encompassed the entire camp.

"Yes," he choked out. "There are two. Down there," he pointed and then rushed down upon his sword.

Too weak. Far too weak to be them.

A part of him desperately hoped his friend had survived somehow, in some way. He would believe Garrack and Duslin were dead when he saw them with his own two eyes, but for now he had to tend to the living. That was the law of the tribe.

He reached the ground a moment before the others, Roran at the lead, staring around the ruined tents, mad fury in his eyes.

"Where?" he demanded.

"We have to dig for them," Fu said as he jumped to the ground, guiding his sword through the air and into the sheath on his back. "Follow me, quickly. One of them is there, the other is here. Quickly, dig!"

He rushed to the stronger of the two responses, hoping against hope it was Gallack, wounded and on the edge of death, but still alive. He and Roran shoved their hands into the ironsand and swept it away as fast as they could. When a face was finally exposed, Roran sighed with relief even as Fu's heart froze in his chest.

His son survived. That's what he would have wanted, he told himself.

The boy was alive, but barely. Any longer under the sand and he likely would have suffocated. His other injuries were… unusual. Fu stretched out a hand as Roran carefully pulled him from the sand. Somewhere behind them the others called out they had found the other, Britl, the girl.

Fu blinked the tears from his eyes and forced his hand to steady. He had to master himself.

Extending his senses once again, in a more focused manner this time, he swept his awareness through the child and gasped at the state of his injuries. Somehow, the boys entire body was riddled with damage. Tears, rips, snaps. What could possibly have happened to the child? Then something else caught his attention.

"The boys soul has awakened," his said, eyes widening.

Roran paused for a moment, looking at him as if to determine if he was serious.

"He's only five, isn't he?" he said.

Fu leaned forward, as if he could see that flickering Soul with his eyes.

"It's true," he breathed.

"What is his wyrd?" Roran asked, using the tribes word for soul. "Can you tell?"

Finally the boy was free of the sand and they could see his hands were still locked around the hilt of a familiar hammer. Fu lost all hope his friend had survived in that moment. Garrack would never have let that thing go, willingly.

Grief filled him, but he pushed it back down. He had to care for the children.

He stretched forth his hand once more and directed his senses to the centre of the boy's chest, beside the heart. After a moment he pulled back his hand and sighed. Now it made sense.

"Rage Soul," he whispered and leaned back to look up into the infinite red sky. "Mother have mercy, the boy is Rage Souled."