Nomad pushed through the crowd at Jrekil Plaza to get off the main sidewalk and into the park. He hated all the people clogging the thoroughfare so late into the evening. The cacophony of the shopkeepers hawking their goods on the street started a pinprick of a headache right above his eye. Gritting his teeth as he waded through the throngs of people hunting a Lizardman he had never seen for a reason he wasn’t entirely clear on.

  Qol wasn’t keen on divulging the whole plan until he was already acting on it. He took a breath and thought about simpler times before he joined the 7th, when he lived in the woods, hunting and stalking prey for days on end. Alone.

  He longed for it, longed for a moment alone, but with Qol living in his head, that didn’t seem possible. A small piece of him wondered why he put up with the kobold and if it was still worth it. But a more significant part of him knew he needed Qol’s abilities to restore his memories. The noisy, dirty, stinking mess of Gubbins was worth putting up with to get those back.

  For now, he’d grin, bear the city, and follow orders from two masters, Zengi and Ikemah. He found that he liked Zengi and was growing to hate the position Qol had put them in with Ikemah’s orders to kill her. Many long nights had discussed how to avoid following Ikemah’s order, but so far, they were coming up empty. It had only been a few hours since they left the war camp, leaving Zengi to search for a spy that wasn’t there. A piece of him wished he could tell Zengi the truth about everything, but he was sure she’d kill him on the spot. She didn’t take bad news very well.

  Closing his eyes, Nomad grimaced as he remembered he’d have to report on the massacre in the alleyway in the residential district. The mangled corpses of the firbolgs popped into his head, causing him to shudder, but what bothered him most was his friend. There was no concern at the gruesome scene while he dispassionately studied the bodies as if they were toys. They shared a lot of adventures these past three months, but did he know Qolmador the Kobold?

  Glancing down, he saw Qol’s pupils spun into their mandalas, studying the plaza. Groaning while rubbing his temples, he scanned the plaza for the lizardman or anyone that seemed suspicious. A crowd of late-night shoppers enjoyed the crisp, calm wind blowing through the Jrekil trees to the east.

  Closer to the southwest was a group of cultists standing in front of a genuinely bland shop, bugging passersby with the message of their god.

  The shop stood out to him because of the lack of window treatment and dull, dirty glass. Every other store on the street was pristine, with bright lettering describing what the shop sold. Except for the unremarkable little store that beckoned him forward, a flash of what the plaza used to be skittered across his mind; it was a far cry from the overgrown roots protruding from it only a few months before. He thought about when Ikemah forced him and Qol to clear out a village of gnolls living in the Jrekil roots. His heart started to race as his blood boiled from being blackmailed, getting lost in the memory.

  Ikemah’s makeshift throne room took shape in his head with its wild colors and silk cloths hanging from the ceiling. The smell was more potent than the first time they had entered. Angrily glaring into Ikemah’s eyes, he considered putting a bullet into his head and letting fate sort itself out.

  “I ain’t going in there.” Nomad crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at Ikemah.

  “You are always so combative, darling. I’m merely asking for you to clear the Jrekil roots.” Ikemah sighed, hovering next to a few Awakened. “I will provide all the ammunition you need for a quick cleansing.” As he spoke, he rested an arm on the head of one of his Awakened followers, rapping his nails repeatedly. “Look at our dear Qolmador; he’s already lost to us in planning.”

  Glancing at Qol made Nomad roll his eyes, as he was familiar with the routine at this point. Yawning, he leaned against the wall opposite the fixed, stained glass window that Qolmador broke weeks ago. “Why is this so important?” He asked.

  Ikemah pursed his lips Nomad. “Because it’s the city’s exact center. Not this slice we call Gubbins, but the entire city and the Jrekil trees—” His eyes lit up, and a crooked smile crossed his face. “—are living, breathing creatures that exist in one spot their entire life, giving wisdom to those holding their hearts” The white glow in his eyes intensified, betraying a fervent fanaticism. “Every major religion worships them, and even small saplings can give wise words to a ruler. But I could have a veritable forest in the city.”

  “Great. Why can’t it wait?” Nomad asked.

  Ikemah threw up his hands in frustration. “Aren’t you listening!? Endless wisdom is but a heart away, and a group of gnolls….” He paused in a rare moment of excitement, letting something slip.

  Snorting his annoyance, Nomad glared at him. “I knew about the gnolls but didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to know.”

  Heaving a great sigh, Ikemah rolled his eyes. “Whoops. In any case, they have the hearts, and it’s only a matter of time before the Jrekil trees impart wisdom on them.” He floated toward Nomad. “Which could be bad for everyone in the city and strain my loyalty to the second demon lord.”

  Nomad sniffed the air hard. “There’s at least forty, and there ain’t no way we can deal with that.”

  Ikemah tutted. “Such a lack of faith yourself; with Qolmador at your side, you’re unstoppable.”

  Nomad narrowed his eyes while folding his arms tighter across his chest and grunted. “It should be the last place we clear after the 7th come to town. Zengi—”

  “Zengi is your mark, not your friend.” Ikemah’s smooth rage slithered into his ears. “Let me show you what’ll happen if Qolmador doesn’t fill his obligation to me.”

  With that, he snapped his fingers, and two Awakened appeared at his side with their eyes trained on Nomad. Without warning, Ikemah sliced his hand over their heads in one smooth motion, causing them to drop in a heap at Nomad’s feet. Carefully, Nomad used his boot to flip one over and grunted.

  A wicked grin raked across Ikemah’s face. “Don’t let your friend fail; get my hearts before the 7th show-up. Because if you don’t,” He motioned to the Awakened goblins. “you’ll never learn about your past.” The smile stretched further at Nomad’s wide eyes. “Oh, wipe that look off your face, darling. Everyone that meets Qolmador will use him until the day he dies.”

  The words stung, even now, several months removed, and he sighed. The memory faded as he crossed the park under the yawning Jrekil trees to the east and west. Trying to get back up on the sidewalk proved more difficult than it should have been, with so many people getting in his way. Soft wet grass sunk under his weight, making his boots soggy enough to soak through. Looking over the plaza, he saw the Cathedral to the south and the simple storefront southeast.

  Not wanting to push through the people, he decided to trudge through the grass toward the mediocre shop. Moving southward, he noticed a procession of goblins with black robes and hoods drawn over their heads. They were led by an Awakened, in blue robes trimmed with gold, up the cathedral’s steps. Their slow, reluctant gait told him they were doing this against their will. None of the happy shoppers seemed to notice the poor goblins, or they didn’t care; Nomad couldn’t tell.

  Every so often, the Awakened would turn, eyes glowing bright, and extend his hand, making the goblins rigid for a moment, then relax to continue their ascent. After a minute of watching this, the doors to the cathedral opened, and a stream of cultists exited wearing Ikemah’s blue and gold color and broke off into the crowd in tight formations.

  He stood and watched as the lead Awakened extended his hand again, making the goblins rigid and leading them into the cathedral.

  Shaking his head of the scene, he found an opening in the crowd and ducked back in toward the shop, noticing — for the first time— the single light hanging from the ceiling. It illuminated a primarily empty store housing a single counter at the back where a single figure sat or stood; he couldn’t tell from his vantage point.

  Deftly cutting through the throng of people, he walked closer, scanning hundreds of faces for the lizard. No lizard, nobody looking confused from walking into a camouflaged lizard either, and no signs of blood. Back in the alley, where the dead firbolgs were, he should have asked Qol more about what he found, but he was so annoyed at losing the trail he didn’t want to. With that thought, he glanced at Qol, who stood in the middle of the park—staring daggers at the cultists. It was the look he got when he was about to do something stupid.

  “Look alive, Qol,” Nomad thought at the kobold. “This place is too big for me to match every face,” He could feel the annoyance in his words. “The lizardman ain’t gonna just pop up; we need your mind here.” Feeling that familiar tickle in his mind told him that Qol was back in the moment. Whether that meant he would do his own thing or not was hard to tell.

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  When the large group of cultists, moving in their tight formation, walked down the sidewalk toward Nomad, he heard Qol’s response: “Ja, okay.” The push of thought from Qol echoed in his mind as the cultists passed him by. Nomad swore he saw the pupils of Qol’s eyes shift for a moment, but he blinked and turned away. Focusing back on the store, Nomad froze. Only a few feet separated him from the store with its door open, and a friendly jingle rang out from a bell. A stale warm air wafted out over his face.

  Now that he could see inside the store, he saw a nondescript man standing behind the counter, wearing a beaming smile. Dust danced around rays of light inside the shop from the calm wind wafting in from the park. The shop had four bare, wood-planked walls ending abruptly at a gray stone floor. Quickly casting his gaze skyward, Nomad saw an endless night devoid of the pale green moon.

  “C’mon now, boi, don’t let out all the stale air,” The man motioned to the open door behind Nomad.

  Behind him? The realization that he stood inside the store blindsided him. Numbly, he reached over and closed the door. Without thinking, he put one foot in front of the other to stand in front of an extensive glass counter with no items inside. Looking up at the man, he saw a long pointed face with a long nose and sharp features. Beyond his features, Nomad noticed that the man wore a long luxurious cape that draped over the floor and cascaded down into the abyss to the back room.

  “What are you in da market for?” The man asked.

  Nomad, slack-jawed, shook his head but said nothing.

  Shaking his shock of red hair, the man laughed. “Cat got ya tongue, huh?” He tapped the glass in front of Nomad. “Tell ya what. Since ya new here, let me show you what I got.” Sweeping his hand over the counter, Nomad saw rows of bullets illuminated on all sides.

  Red bullets with snowflakes carved into the side, blue shells with lightning bolts stamped into the brass, and yellow ones with leaves painted on the tip. Meaty fingers rapped on the glass drawing Nomad’s attention back to the merchant with the red hair. “Anything grabbing your fancy?” The merchant asked, leaning over the counter. “I see that long shooter on yer back; maybe you be wantin’ something a bit stronger.” With a wave of his hand, the bullets faded into nothing as longer cartridges with the same designs as the slugs.

  Some tiny voice in the back of Nomad’s mind told him to buy as many bullets as possible. It wasn’t a familiar voice, as it lacked his typically cautious nature, but it was growing louder. With his eyes glued to one gleaming silver bullet, he felt himself talk before he could stop the words from tumbling out. “How much for that one there?” He tried to jab a gloved finger on the glass counter, but his hand went through instead, inches away from the beautiful silver round.

  The way the light played off its surface mesmerized him. His only thought was to take up the bullet, load it, and fire it at the first thing that moved. Completely lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the man getting inches from his face.

  “Dat dere is a good choice,” The merchant said, sweeping his long cape over the counter. “Gwan, boi. Take it.” A flicker of mischief crossed the man’s endlessly deep eyes, staring through Nomad.

  With his hand a hair away from the bullet, Nomad hesitated. “How much is it?” He found himself asking through numb lips.

  Quickly dropping the glint in his eye, the merchant straightened up, curling his lip. “Something trivial, something you’d hardly miss,” He flourished his pale hand in the air while shaking his hips. “For that dere, I’d take your earliest memory. If ya want a full mag, however, it’ll cost the memory of your first friend.” He added a head nod to his silly dance, then jerked his eyebrows up twice. “So, what’ll it be?”

  Pulling his hand away from the cabinet, Nomad studied the merchant, shaking his head in disbelief. “You want my memories?” Speaking the words aloud forced him to realize the odd situation he found himself in and the even stranger store he stood in. Assessing the room caused his mind to whirl; it didn’t have a ceiling, the walls were further apart than they should have been, and the counter was far too long. On top of that, the man’s face didn’t have a recognizable feature aside from the bright red hair cascading down his strong shoulders, melding into his cape.

  Nomad backed up to the door with the man’s endless eyes following him the entire way. “No, I…” He paused, closing his eyes to gather his courage. “I have bullets. I don’t need anything,” Reaching back for the door, he tried to find the knob to let himself out.

  A shadow fell across the man’s face but vanished just as quickly from his blazing white smile. “Okay, ain’t nothing wrong with not wanting bullets. How ‘bout somthin’ else?” His smile stretched out further than should be possible, tapping the glass. “I got information too.” Inside the cabinet, bullets vanished, making way for hundreds of flickering images floating on the shelves. Sticking his hand through the glass, he plucked an image that danced in his hand out to Nomad. “Maybe you wanna know what happened before you woke up two years ago?”

  Nomad froze as ice coursed through his veins, a sensation he wasn’t even sure he could feel. Flashes of the desert skittered across his mind reminding him of the dirt and sand clogging up his joints and gears, combined with the pain of being alive. “How…” He started to talk but lost the words.

  “How? Dat’s simple; I buy and sell memories. Might could bet dat I bought these memories from you.” The man taunted. “Might could be dat I bought ‘em from the ones that created you in the first place.” His endless eyes widened as an ivory smile cut across his face again.

  Nomad’s hand rested on the door, but his feet pulled him forward against his will, kicking his long coat as he moved. “I want that.” At this point, his body took over from his desire to remember, and he let it. “How much?”

  “How much?” The merchant echoed. “For something as crucial as your memory, I want your loyalty.”

  Nomad furrowed his brow but shrugged. “Fine. I’ll be loyal to you.”

  The merchant’s smile split into a hearty laugh. “Hahaha. No, my friend. I want the very concept of loyalty stripped from you to sell to someone else.”

  Confused but offering a nod, Nomad shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Now dat dere is a deal! Lemme get your memories and….” The merchant trailed off as he flipped through the cabinet, taking his turn to furrow his brow. “Ain’t that about a bitch. It seems I’m fresh out of your memories.” Scratching his head, he swept his eyes over Nomad, boring holes into him, then snapped his fingers. “How foolish of me. I sold your memories to a little kobold a few months ago. He was about yay high.” He held his hand horizontally about 3 feet off the ground. “Blue critter with big ol’ eyes. Dat ring any bells for ya?”

  Nomad stopped walking with his mouth agape, standing in the empty store. “Qolmador?”

  Slapping his hands together, the merchant cheered. “That’s the guy.” His boundless eyes flickered with mischief. “I’m sorry we ain’t gonna do business together today, but you go ‘head and keep what’s in your pocket.”

  Turning up his lip, Nomad reached into his coat’s pocket to find a full mag of silver bullets. “How…”

  “Parlor trick boi, you try those out ya hear? Seek me out when you want more.” The merchant threw him a wink, then motioned to the open door behind Nomad. “Oh, and before I forget, I think your friend is color blind.” With that, he waved to him, and Nomad stood before a solid brick wall.

  Blinking away the shock, he reached into his coat to feel the mag of silver bullets still there. A brisk breeze kissed his cheek, and hundreds of conversations filled his ears with nonsense and cultist sermons. Punches of body odor mixed with floral smells trying to cover it up hit him square in the nose. Then, a familiar tickle played across his brain as the rest of the world assaulted his senses.

  “Help.” The small thought pierced his overloaded senses, forcing him to shake his head. Stepping back from the wall while turning to face the crowd allowed him to see the mass of people clogging the sidewalk. “Nomad.” Again, it whispered, in his head, as he scanned the crowd for the source. Obliviously, the people passed by him without a glance in his direction. Finally, his eyes fell on a little blue kobold, frozen in an awkward position holding a black box. When another thought invaded his mind. “Bomb.”