No one said a word. Zawne was pensive. He doubted Thun’s words. Zawne was thinking he could never be more alone than he was in that moment.
“These are your maps.” Thun walked along the line of recruits and handed every fourth man a paper map. “This is your guide. You have no technology, nothing but this map to point you toward Lodden. You will first cross the Ganga Sea. All twenty-three of you will share the small raft over there.” Thun pointed to a rickety platform of logs bound together by rope, a limp cloth sail on its shoddy mast. It didn’t look big enough for a group of four, never mind twenty-three. There were six thin wooden panels affixed to rings on the edges.
“Some of you will die before this raft reaches Surrvul. Without working together, you will all die. The sun, the salt water, the harsh cold of the night, the elements to ravage your body. If you slip your toes into the water, you will likely be eaten by a shark. You have no fire. You have no water. It’s one week of paddling to reach Surrvul’s shore and the small cache of water placed ahead of your arrival. It will be your only mercy.”
The men glanced at each other nervously, then glanced at the raft. No one said it, but they were clearly terrified. Half of them had probably never been in the ocean before.
“When you reach Surrvul,” Thun said, coming to a stop and folding his massive arms, “you must trek through the wasteland to the other side. This means the entire western portion of the Surrvul continent. There are no people. It’s a no-man’s-land. There are small rodents, snakes, sand scorpions, and antelope. You may eat what you catch, if you can catch anything. Upon making it to the channel that separates Surrvul and Lodden, you must push your weary bodies across its shark-infested depths. In Lodden, you will begin the real training.”
Everyone kept quiet.
“Bolster your thoughts,” Thun said. “Steady your focus. Harden yourself. Brace for pain. When the pain comes, let it fill you. That’s what being an Aska is about, accepting pain and using it as a tool. Should you cross this treacherous course and complete your training, you will be the most formidable of men, able to carry any burden and weather any storm. You will be greatly honored in our society and have far-reaching opportunities.”
Thun nodded. “That’s it. Your boat awaits. Upon reaching Surrvul, you’ll split into groups of four and work together to survive. Good luck, men.”
No one moved. Thun watched them with his arms folded. He had finished his pep talk and would offer no further assistance. It was only when the silence deepened into an inescapable dread that Zawne left the line, determination black in his eyes, and started for the boat.
The other men followed.
With morning came heat and dehydration. Six men rowed the crummy raft, Zawne included. He grunted and rowed with his mouth pinched. The current was strong in the ocean, and seventeen men lay in a pile in the center of the raft, half-naked, with their shirts tied around their heads as they chopped through the waves. They were sullen and grumpy, twisted into ugly contortions for the lack of available space. Mouths smooshed against shoulders, legs tangled in knots of limbs. And then someone screamed.
“Sharks!”
All around the raft were gray shark fins like arrowheads cutting through the water. Zawne kept rowing, his dull expression unchanged. But one of the other rowers lost his mind. “They’re going to come onto the boat!” He took the paddle and tried to whack one of the passing sharks. The paddle smacked the water, and the man lost his balance and fell in.
There was a soft splash. A few bubbles rushed to the surface, then blood. Blood frothed around the exposed shark fins, and the man was gone.
Zawne shouted, “Someone take his spot! Keep rowing!”
Four days later the twenty men left on board were very thirsty. There was no water. The sun beat down on them with unrelenting fury sixteen hours a day. The salt water had their lips cracked and dry, split and caked in blood. Zawne was deathly pale. So were the others. They were thirsty and lethargic and near death. They did what they had to in order to drink and stay alive. It was ugly.
They washed up on Surrvul’s southern shore in the night, nineteen alive and one dead. Two of the recruits dragged the boy’s corpse up the bank and into a patch of stark grass. “We should bury him,” someone said.
Zawne shook his head. “There’s no time. Anyway, we can’t bury him deep enough without tools. The scavengers will get him.”
The men looked unsure, glancing at each other with unease. They had survived the brutal week on the raft, and now they had to leave the dead boy on the beach to be eaten by vultures. In most Geniverd traditions, not burying the dead was bad luck.
“I’m with the prince,” said a bald man. He was wiry and young, probably from Shondur, like Zawne. He stepped through the men and said, “We don’t have time. Let’s find the water cache left for us, rehydrate, then start walking. It’s better to walk in the night and sleep in the heat of the day.”
“What’s your name?” Zawne asked him.
“Nkem,” he said, “but it doesn’t matter. We’re all nobodies here, food for sand fleas. Let’s make our teams and get off this beach. I’ll team up with the prince.”
Another man came forward. “Me too.
