The dust from the road caught in Hamel's throat, sending him into yet another coughing fit. Though the sun was sinking toward the horizon and his first waterskin was nearly empty, there was still no sign of Benjelton.

Once he had left the oasis and Mellel behind, he had reached the road within an hour and had made good time. He had only stopped once along the road to give his horse a break and have a mid-day meal, but his lack of time spent on horseback in recent years was slowing him down. Every muscle and joint hurt.

"It's okay, boy," Hamel said to the young stallion. He was concerned as he listened to its breathing. Between the sun's heat and the dust, he feared the horse would find it difficult to make it the entire way.

Travel on the road was far easier than through the wilderness. When he had first left the oasis, the way was rough and dangerous. With the rocks, cracks, and crevices in the ground, he had needed to move at a crawl to make it through. Once he reached the road, everything changed for the better, aside from the dust and heat.

Hamel bent his head low, allowing the hood to droop over his face as he passed a few more traders moving along their routes. Their dress and accents revealed them to be from Olmos. While most of the Olmosite carts were covered, Hamel knew they likely carried salt or various household goods.

A few miles before, he had passed a group of Ridge traders, heading to the Olmosite border. They would exchange their fruits, vegetables, and other wares at the border. He kept his head low and disguised his voice as best he could when he greeted anyone from Ridge.

Hamel's military mind always noticed the presence of soldiers, whether they were dressed as such or not. Most traders either traveled in large groups or hired men for protection. From under his hood, he examined each man he passed. While many had broad shoulders and carried large rifles, their faces suggested that they had lost a few too many fights. Not one of them moved with the confidence and control of a Soldier of the Ridge.

Neither Ridge nor Olmos tolerated thieves along the trade routes in any measure. Hamel had only once recalled a report of thieves harassing caravans. He had immediately dispatched four battalions, and his men soon discovered the Olmosites had dispatched a similar force. The thieves were rounded up within a day and been tried immediately by Olmos.

He had heard the Olmosites gave the death penalty to thieves. Hamel was not sure if that were true. He knew very little about their ally. The Olmosite people were very private.

Ridge only gave the death penalty for treason or for slave-trading. As he reflected on such a thing, he realized either Eddel, if he lived long enough, or whoever took over for him would be receiving the death penalty if Hamel ever were to regain his honor. He had witnessed the death penalty once before. A man serving under him had been charged with treason and was convicted by the Council. He had been thrown from the wall. It had been a mercy, compared to the punishment for slave-trading. If one were caught treating a human in such a manner, they were lowered slowly down to the Valley Floor—in the middle of an attack.

He had never observed such a thing, but he had read about it in the archives. The man who had written the account had stopped part way through his description. He had written, I cannot finish. Despite the heinous crime, I feel compassion for the man and wish the Beasts would simply kill him.

An image of the young boy in Eddel's compound flashed into his mind, and anger boiled inside Hamel's chest. The child had sat with his mother, covered in bruises and scars—some old, some fresh. It had taken all of Hamel's restraint not to rescue the two.

Hamel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He hollered out, "They were slaves!" Hamel's fingers hurt, and his nails dug into the palms of his hands. The horse came to a quick halt as the reins pulled up tight. He screamed as loud as he could and then yelled, "They were slaves, and I left them there!"

Hamel's eyes opened. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and the sweat poured down his face and back. The road ahead was empty, and the landscape before him was all wrong. It should have been on fire. The sky should have been collapsing. People across the world should have been screaming and clamoring for his throat. No man should ever walk away from a slave when it is in his power to rescue him.

"No!" he spoke aloud, hoping the sound of his voice and the wisdom he knew to be true would pull his mind back to reality. "I could not rescue them." While he knew the words were true, he could only manage a whisper. Taking a deep breath, he cried out, "But I will go back!"

Hamel shook his head to help focus his thoughts. His stomach turned with all the grief he felt, but he could not dwell on the woman and the young boy. He had a long journey ahead, and it would be foolish to let his mind drift from his task.

Hamel lowered his head once again and allowed the hood to fall low over his face. Off in the distance, there was movement on the horizon. As he drew closer, he noticed the clothing was in the Olmosite style with long flowing cloaks and little detail or design. There were four men, as was the custom for traders—two on horseback and two on the wagon.

The Ridge traders followed the same pattern. Four was enough to handle repairs, allowing for one to go for help if needed. If they did meet a thief, four people were difficult to overcome.

The occasional trader had tried to strike up a conversation, but he had kept his head down and not engaged them. He would reply with grunts or shrugs, and eventually, the traders would cease their attempts to engage him. The hardest ones to deal with were those traveling the same direction as himself. He had spent an entire mile trying to get around a cart while the trader had talked non-stop about a concerning spot that had shown up on his horse's flank. Hamel had not paid much attention to the man, but he did hear the man explain in the end that the spot had turned out to be nothing other than a splatter of mud from the road. Hamel had grunted a response to the man and then found his way past the cart, quickly leaving the man behind.

By mid-afternoon, the walls and turrets of Benjelton took shape in the distance. He pushed his horse a little harder in the hopes of reaching the city. It had been years since he had ridden for longer than fifteen or twenty minutes at a time, and the proof was in how every muscle hurt and the way the saddle wore on his legs.

The road continued beside the city. In his study on the area, he had found the maps to show a large roadway heading from the trading route into Benjelton. His concern was that the passage of time might have made the roadway impassable.

As he came upon the road into the city, he was pleased to find it was relatively clear. There were plants and trees growing along the way, but no large rocks, and the road was still in relatively good condition.

He brought the horse to a halt and looked up and down the road. Only one group of traders was visible in each direction, and they were making their way toward Hamel from the direction of Olmos. Traders considered the city to be haunted, causing Hamel to feel it would be the perfect place to spend the night.

Hamel climbed down off his horse and pulled out some food and one of his waterskins. Until the traders passed, he could not enter the city. The sight of a man traveling into a place believed to be haunted was cause for a great deal of gossip. He found a large rock just on the edge of the road and sat down to have his evening meal as the traders approached. The hood on the cloak Mellel had given him was ideal for keeping his identity hidden.

"Ahh, an evening meal! What a great idea," the man holding the reins of the cart called out. "Do you mind if we join you?"

Hamel offered a noncommittal grunt.

"Excellent! It will be good to enjoy some new company," the man answered.

It was an Olmosite caravan. The four men spoke in the thick accent of Olmos and did not seem to notice or care when Hamel did not speak to them.

The hood fell low enough over his face to work as a disguise, but not so low that he could not watch the four men. Ridge traders would undoubtedly recognize Hamel, former Honored Patir of their people. He did not think it likely that men from Olmos would recognize him, but there were two other problems. For one, the Olmosite and Ridge accents were distinct. Hamel had been practicing the Olmosite accent for years, doing his best to perfect it. He had not, however, had the chance to try it out even once on a native Olmosite speaker. He suspected he would soon have his moment. Since he wore an Olmosite robe, he could not speak in his regular accent.

The other problem he faced was his looks. Since he had survived the Dusk, he had learned that his face was changing. Most men or women gained the occasional line on their faces as they reached their thirtieth year or so, but since no one had ever passed thirty-four years of age except him, they did not know that the lines continued to appear. He had far more than anyone he had ever met. Some said he looked better as the years passed, others looked for ways to say he looked worse, but in a kind way. Better or worse, he looked different. He might be able to fool them with his accent, but not his age.

The men gathered around on rocks, taking seats where they could find them. They each pulled out food and water, and then stared at Hamel.

Hamel waited himself, examining each trader one by one. He did not have time to socialize. He wished to get into the city before nightfall. He had work to do.

The men held their tongues, and not one took a bite or drink from their waterskins. They looked upset, and the leader of the group, or at least the man who had been driving the horses, wore a frown. Hamel noticed as well that there was fear in his eyes.

The Olmosite people were private. Even with all the years he had spent with Pulanomos, he knew little of their culture. He wondered if perhaps he was considered a guest among them. As such, he might need to say something or do something.

The man who had spoken got to his feet and bowed low before Hamel. His voice began to shake, and he said, "Forgive me, Master. We are simple traders, unaware of some of the finer etiquette required of the elite. Please, tell us what we must do to receive your permission."

Hamel's mind raced through what he had just witnessed from their actions and words along with all he had learned over the years through observing Pulanomos. The Olmosites were not a people driven by honor. They were a people driven by power. The People of the Ridge expected to show honor to all, but especially those of greater honor. The greater the honor, the more trustworthy the Matir or Patir. It was so because a Matir or Patir gained their honor through trustworthy actions.

The people of Olmos were not inclined to such patterns. If a man or woman climbed to a higher rank, it was due to power and control and money. It could even come as a result of fear.

He looked down at his robes and, for the first time, noticed that they were of very high quality. The dagger at his side was masterfully made with three or four jewels on the handle. His clothing and dagger might suggest a man of power. The trader had called him, "Master," which Hamel suspected was not because they knew him but was a title offered to people of rank.

He knew he would not be able to pretend he knew what the man was talking about, so he decided he would make them tell him what he needed to know. It was time to test his accent. He spoke up with a stern and angry voice saying, "Young man, why don't you tell me what just happened and what you were expecting from me?"

The man bowed low and held his arms out to the side. Hamel was pleased to see the man had not reacted to his accent.

"My apologies, Master. We have acted the fool. We approached you and, seeing you were a man of rank, wanted to join you for a meal. We did not wish to offend you. We have sat down, and we are awaiting your permission to eat."

Hamel nearly smiled. He did not realize the solution could be so simple. "You have my permission."

The men took their seats, and all four dug into their meals. They did not speak, nor did they look at Hamel. He did, however, notice each man's eyes moving to scan the area. An uneasy feeling began to grow in the pit of his stomach.

Hamel reached down and discretely pulled slightly on the blade to ensure it was loose. He also pretended to be looking for something in his pack and moved his sidearm to the top, sitting just inside where he could grab it in a moment of need.

The meal continued in silence until all four men had finished their food and nearly emptied their waterskins. The man who had spoken before then stood up and bowed. In a loud, formal voice, he said, "Thank you, Master, for allowing us to share in your presence. We are grateful you welcomed us into your meal."

Hamel took a guess that he should respond but decided not to say much. "You are most welcome."

The man paused for a moment as though he expected more, but then asked, "May I ask, sir, if you are traveling alone?"

Hamel thought the question was out of place, but he knew what it meant. The men had been looking around as if they had expected Hamel to have friends or others with him. He was about to be attacked. He decided to face the issue head-on, rather than try to find a way around it.

"Yes. I am traveling to Pollos alone," he said. He was still seated, but he positioned his feet to allow himself to spring forward in a moment. His mind slipped into old habits as he evaluated the threat level of each man. Out of the four, only one appeared to be a concern. He was large, and his face suggested many fights over the years.

Hamel held back a smile. Men such as that man fancied themselves to be dangerous. They generally had no training and little skill; hence, the face that looked as if he had been on the receiving end of many fists. The only danger a man such as that posed was if he was able to get close. A single well-placed strike by even an unskilled fighter could be the end of Hamel.

"Yes, we thought so, Master," the man replied.

"Why is that any of your concern?" Hamel asked coldly.

His mind raced through his options. If they were to attack, he would use his blade to take down the man who had been doing all the speaking. He was closest, and Hamel would not have any difficulty dispatching him by throwing the knife. The other three were far enough away that Hamel would be able to get his sidearm out of his bag before they could reach him.

Hamel had never enjoyed taking a life. Even on the battlefield, he had often searched for ways to allow an enemy to live. Sadly, if the four men were to attack, they would all need to die. If he were to allow anyone to escape, he risked that man coming back at a more opportune time, perhaps even while he slept. He also risked the survivors telling others about him.

"Why is it any of my concern?" the man replied in a mocking voice, and the others laughed. All pretense of respect was gone. "It is my concern because we are in the business of profit. If you could hand over that cloak, your blade, and your packs, we will allow you to walk away with whatever you are wearing under that cloak... assuming it's not of value."

Hamel still hoped he could talk his way out of the situation. "Please, my friends, this is not a wise choice. Why don't you get back up on your wagon and horses and ride off? There is no need for violence."

"I beg to differ, Master," the man said, but that time the title he used for Hamel was said with disdain. He then stepped forward as the others rose to their feet.

Hamel threw the knife and caught the man just below his heart. As the apparent leader of the four dropped to the ground, the others stopped in their tracks. Two of the men's mouths hung open, while the large man with the abused face sneered.

Hamel's hand closed around his sidearm, but he did not draw it from his pack. He still hoped they would walk away. It would be foolish to risk the story getting out, but he thought perhaps they would keep it to themselves out of shame for attacking a man of rank such as they suspected him to be.

He remained crouched low to the ground with his hand in his pack. Without taking his eyes off the three men, he slipped the safety to the off position. They had not seen his face. His hood had remained up the entire time. He knew he was looking for an excuse to let them go and for hope—hope that they would walk away.

The large man charged, and Hamel drew his sidearm. The man went down, and Hamel was confident he would not rise. The others had not moved, nor had they closed their mouths. One of them had not even taken his eyes off the leader who had fallen first. Hamel wondered if perhaps they weren't aware of the plans the leader and the large one had made to rob Hamel.

"If you walk away right now, I will let you go. The men turned their heads to one another for a moment, and he saw a slight nod between them. The one on the right began to weep, and the one on the left dropped to the ground and begged for mercy.

Hamel accepted the fact that the men would die at his hand. The one who begged for mercy took two steps on his knees toward Hamel. The other one discreetly took one small step.

Hamel brought himself to his full height. He had always been taller than most men. Even the large man who had just fallen had still been shorter than the former Honored Patir. "I will not fall for this charade," Hamel warned. "One more step, and I will fire."

The second man fell to his knees. The one on the left inched closer as he begged for mercy and wept. Each move he made toward Hamel was subtle and appeared innocent.

By this point, both men were crying out for mercy, and the one on his right was reaching toward him and waving his arms. As he cried out for mercy, he slowly fell onto his face, just out of reach of Hamel.

Hamel almost missed it. The man on the right who had fallen to the ground was the distraction while the other man reached behind his back. Hamel had just happened to move his eyes back to the man on his left in time to see a flash of steel.

Hamel put a bullet in the man's head and turned back to the man on the ground. The final man let out a scream of rage as he climbed to his feet and charged. Before he had taken two steps, his lifeless body hit the ground.

None of the men had needed to die. Hamel was beginning to think he did not want to enter the land of Olmos. He had heard rumors of their violent tendencies, but the few men and women he had met in his lifetime were nothing like the four traders. The others had been peaceful, calm, and trustworthy.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself, "I am not without family. I do not face the world alone. I must continue. There is work to be done."

He bent down, retrieved his blade, and cleaned it off before he moved to the wagon left by the four traders. It was full of bags of salt to be sold in Ridge.

He shook his head at the waste of life. He wondered what lay ahead for him in Olmos.

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