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The Wagon's wheels rattled and groaned on the rocky trackway.

Every once in a while, they squelched through a puddle of sucking, clueless mud left behind

by yesterday afternoon's brief downpour.

With a 20 horseman riding in front of and behind the vehicle, the brainstorm had seemed

like a message from the gods, the dark clouds rolling in and blocking the summer sunlight.

But that message meant was unclear, and the writers had argued about it as they ate

and drank around the fire.

It was a sign of honor for the Wagon's passenger, one man said, an acknowledgement of a great

man's passing.

Another said exactly the opposite that the sun would have shown uninterrupted on one

beloved by the gods.

Either way, their chief didn't was dead now, his pierced through body occupying the

back of the wagon, the blood washed away by the ray.

His sword, its bronze blade razor sharp but notched in half a dozen places from its final

encounter, sat next to his right hand.

His spear, the shaft snapped in half, accompanied his left.

His bronze helmet had been lost during the fighting, tumbling down the slope into the

river, his shield destroyed by the same long-handled bronze axe that had cleaved through

his collarbone.

The other warriors had tried to save him, fighting their way through the melee to reach their

...