The wind beat on the dunes of Herli, the western desert. With each gust, it took up a handful of sand, spewing it about the rest of the desert. It swayed back and forth, dispensing the grains throughout the field.
Anaran slid from his mount and took a few steps forward, summing up the setting. Booming markets separated them from ticket booths, docking tunnels, and the ships themselves.
Nebolly stepped next to him. “What’s that?”
This far out, the wind was but a minor distraction to conversation. Without responding, he broke out into stride. Each step increased the wind’s volume slightly. Not enough for the casual walker to hear, but it was unmistakably more impactful.
Sibolt and Nebolly followed behind. Nebolly had most likely never been to the Ravine before it would be quite an experience riding in a boat for the first time. Anaran couldn’t even remember his first trip, it was too long ago. Was he excited about it? Was he scared? Did he go alone, or with friends and family? What ship did he go on? What country did he depart from and which did he dock in?
Useless questions, as none of them impacted his current situation. In the future, when Nebolly remembered this trip, she’d ask herself the same questions. And the answers would be dreadful. She wasn’t alone, instead she went with a dangerous, evil Warden, who had been the cause of her father’s death three weeks before. She was terribly scared because she had no one in the world that cared about her. She left from Herli and landed in Torolna, the desolate country.
“Where are we going?” Nebolly asked.
Anaran stopped and pivoted to face her. From under his cloak, he produced a netted bag of blue sand that encompassed his entire palm and then some. He placed it in Nebolly’s hands. “One hour. Meet by the docking tunnel for the Champion Racer.”
“Anaran,” Nebolly started, “I can’t take your money, the Survivors wouldn’t like it. Besides, no one will accept it from a woman.”
The Warden suppressed the need for religious controversy at the moment, saying, “Show them this.” Handing her a cloth square—embroidered with his Warden Symbol—Anaran turned and walked off. He had more important things to discuss before too long, his breath was to be saved.
He dashed off before Nebolly could protest more or return the money. Sibolt would be fine alone until they boarded the ship. He heard the time and destination, and Menthium were extremely intelligent, he would meet Anaran just as Nebolly would.
As he entered the bustling crowd, gasps arouse. Anaran’s blue garbs confessed his royalty, his face conveying his identity, which could strike fear into any heart. The Warden was supposed to be traveling about Grunuil for the next month, so Herli should be spared his torment until then. Of course, that means another Warden is making his way about this desert, reaping the food that they’ve sown in banquets thrown for himself.
Anaran had contemplated hiding his attire under a plain brown cloak, as he did whenever he went out, but decided against it, as he did each time. The fear and alertness given to the passersby when they saw a Warden instilled his confidence. His blatant appearance had the possibility of stirring an assassination attempt, or even a riot, but he wasn’t too worried about that either. He could more than handle himself in a fight.
As the civilians attempted to keep their gaze to the heavens, their feet, or vendors—anywhere besides the Warden—they formulated a large bubble of empty space around Anaran that let them keep their distance.
The crowd’s uneasiness didn’t hinder Anaran’s determination in the least. He’d grown accustomed to being stared at, disapproved of, and feared. Without such an aura, he’d be a different person.
He approached a ticket booth. Those waiting linearly in front of the small building stepped away when he neared, though retained their places. The howl of the wind, which hadn’t ceased its increase, seemed to go mute in the awe of the crowd.
As Anaran reached for the knob to the booth, the door swung open, a man and a woman standing in its frame, ready to leave. And then they saw the Warden’s cloak and face. Obscuring the path of a Warden could result in execution. Doing anything to halt Anaran—the Crazed Warden—could result in the unspeakable.
The couple fell to the ground, each covering their heads. Trembling. That’s what Anaran did. He made people tremble. Cower in fear of his power and ruthlessness. And everyone knew he couldn’t change. If anyone thought otherwise, they’d try to help him change. Instead he was left with cowards too afraid to do anything in his presence.
Anaran stepped to the side, arm extended in a friendly way, those his face was hard. The man saw him step aside and grabbed the woman’s hand, running with her from the booth. No gratitude. Because they felt if they looked at him the wrong way, he’d slaughter them. Maybe he would have, he hardly even knew anymore.
The Warden entered the stone building and slammed the metal door closed. The winds seemed to pick up once he was inside. A typical ticket booth. Schedules on the walls, a messy desk, a weary, though not fearful, docking officer seated at the desk. But something did take him by surprise. The officer was a woman.
“Who?” He asked.
“Hello, Anaran. My name is Tershtin.” She replied with a smooth voice. “I am a representative of Warden Klianory, hallowed be his name, and—”
“Stop talking.” Anaran said, shedding his usual whim of minimal-word sentences. “’Hallowed be his name?’ Since when did Klianory gain the devotion of so many on a religious level? As the Head Warden, he has thousands of servants, but worshipers? That doesn’t quite sound like him. Of course, wanting attention sounds like him, and having pawns to do his bidding sounds exactly like him, but he knows as well as anyone that religion is just myth.”
Tershtin sat quietly, hands folded on the desk, and spoke immediately when Anaran had finished, as though he’d not interrupted her, “Of course Gallorism is false. Gods in every individual essence. Trees, wind, sun, rain. Preposterous. Even more so, of course Survivorism is false. A group of refugees who inhabited the Church of Gretherin before becoming gods. Child’s play.
“But the High One is a god. He brought peace to Malkor when it knew only chaos. He set in place the twenty-one Wardens to watch the world and he instilled the common Covenant Vial. He calmed the countries when they waged war on each other.”
“Yet Ashure and Leun’Shi still battle over something as trivial as land.” Anaran stated.
“Indeed, but Ashure and Herli don’t. Axor, Epenim, and Teslir don’t. Sharnu’d and Epsarloge have some of the best relationships now, when they were sworn enemies fifty years ago.”
“After the war Sharnu’d was left as the poorest of countries, with half the population struggling with starvation.”
Tershtin’s voice didn’t rise, “That’s due to the crime rate, robberies, murders, and swindles, rather than the war.”
“I’m sure you’d know plenty about crime, as you’re working for Klianory.”
Tershtin stood, slamming her fists on the desk, “You will not insult the High One! He is a god of justice and love, seeking only what’s best for his people.”
