Durest:

  I see the glare of the huge skinning knife before my client does. Unfortunately for him, I can’t speak. So, in the time it takes me to grab his attention, the knife is already drawing a bloody streak across his neck.

  And there goes three days of hard work

  Three days of trying to keep my client alive.

  Three days of surviving the dogs, the warfoxes, the bug mares.

  I want to scream, but I can’t. It's a frustrating conundrum—one that has haunted me for many years.

  But, as my father always told me, I just have to ‘deal with it.’

  So that’s exactly what I do.

  When the knife-wielder turns their attention to me, I scramble over the fire pit, send sparks scattering into the starry night, and race for the caravan.

  They thud behind me, foregoing any of the subtlety that allowed them to get past my wards. Wait, on second thought, how did they get past my—

  I want to smack myself.

  Of course. Of course it's him—my great tormentor. He can’t let me end easily, no no no. He wants there to be a great climax! As always.

  Well, I’ll give him a show.

  I reach the horse-drawn carriage and clamber onto its back, toppling into a clutter of crates and goods.

  I feel the wagon’s weight shift as the dagger-wielder hoists himself on. Some of the wood begins to crack. My pursuer grunts and mumbles some curses.

  But he’s too late.

  I grasp the long, familiar shepherd’s staff and I heave it around, pointing it at the shadow that hounds me.

  Quite the shadow.

  The first thing I can’t help but notice—mostly because they stick through the roof of my carriage—are the horns.

  And they.

  Are sticking.

  Through my carriage.

  The carriage, which I spent most of my life savings acquiring. The carriage that I imagined would one day make other merchants weep of jealousy. For it would belong to the great and wealthy and famous Durest. The legend of—

  “Oi! Lil twat. You piss-stain,” the creature belched. “Move that staff outta my face. Or else I’m going to kill ya. Ye hearing me? Ya little gob shit knocker.”

  I blink. Out of all of the voices I imagined for this Dev of the Green Shore Woods, I never thought it would be… this. I thought Devs are supposed to be mysterious and almighty sorcerers. They are meant to have skin the shade of twilight and share equal height with mountain ogres.

  The creature facing me retains echoes of those folklore traits. His skin is pale blue. He stands, not quite the height of an ogre, but certainly taller than any man. Yet, his belly bulges like my dead uncle’s and he wears the crudest of white kilts. Stone bracelets with bits of stolen silver adorn his bulging arms and bicep muscles. Angry, yellow eyes peer down at me. Teeth like tusks.

  How disappointing.

  I expected a real Dev. Like one of the storybook ones. Yet this… this is like the hybrid, sorry child of a Dev and a goat-farmer. The longer I look at his sneering face, the more I want to just end this run.

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  I should give it a good go regardless.

  I shove the staff closer to his face.

  The Dev growls. “Don’t ya do that. I’ve seen what wizardry you do with that thing. Don’t ya do that.”

  If I could speak, I’d probably ask, ‘or what?’ at this point. But, given that I can’t, I’m just forced to continue on with my silent bluff.

  Bluff.

  I have to keep the stupid smile off my face. I ran out of innate magicks last night. And, since my powers don’t draw from ambience, I’m basically useless right about now.

  But he doesn’t know that.

  Sometimes, silence is a gift. It taught me a lot of things.

  Most people respect you more when you just shut the fuck up.

  The Dev actually begins stumbling backward, his feet shuffling to the edge of the caravan. The more the carriage heaves, the more cringing I have to bite back. Every inch this buffoon takes on my damn ride damages it. Well, as long as he doesn’t break through the wagon bed, then it should be alright—

  The final step the Dev takes goes through the floor, cracking the wagon bed.

  I want to kill this thing.

  I want to kill that damned primordial, who is no doubt laughing his ass off about all of this somewhere.

  But I can’t.

  And of course, I can’t scream.

  So, I do the next best thing. I hit the Dev with my staff. Smack him right solid across the jaw with it—see his blue skin ripple as the wood of my staff cracks into splinters.

  It's a stupid move, I know. But, eventually, the Dev would figure out I’m bluffing. And he’d just attack me then. So, why not catch the bastard by surprise?

  As my father used to say, ‘the blows that hurt most are the ones you aren’t expecting.’ And this Dev was expecting magicks, not bludgeoning.

  I’m surprised it works as well as it does. The Dev stumbles off the wagon, nearly falls flat on his back. He catches himself with that overly-large skinning knife of his. ‘Knife’. It's as big as a spear really. With surprising agility, he twists midfall and stabs the thing into the ground.

  I don’t waste time gawking. Instead, I toss the remains of the staff at his back and tear my way to the front of the carriage, where Qaswa still waits. The horse is antsy—she knows something’s up. Beautiful chocolate mare. Seen her die lots of times.

  I unlatch her wagon stirrups and hop on her back. Then, I set her off.

  “SHIT-STAIN! YA’LL PAY FOR THAT!”

  ‘I’m sure I will!’ I would’ve yelled back. It’s a tragedy that, in all my time of silence, I’ve only gotten better at retorting against my enemies.

  As Qaswa pounds away into the night, I feel the full toll of my exhaustion.

  Are you happy now? Zaman?

  Nobody answers of course.

  Well. Maybe that’s a good thing—

  The forest begins to heave. I try stopping Qaswa.

  Not fast enough.

  A tree falls in front of us and her legs break right into it, flinging me from her saddle. I tumble away. Hear the pained cries of my only friend in this world. Not for the first time, I want it to end.

  “I told ya shit-stain,” the Dev voices. I groan, try standing.

  He grabs by the neck.

  How did you even get here? I think. It’s not like you can teleport.

  He regards me with hungry eyes. Yellow saliva drips from his tusks.

  Right. Devs eat human flesh. I suppose he isn’t such a disappointment. At least he got that part right.

  “Last word’s piss-stain?”

  If I could sigh, I would.

  But I can’t.

  Because…

  Well, you know.