The desert winds whipped to and fro in a deadly whirlwind of jagged rock and sand. Clutching his tattered cloak tighter across his broad chest, the traveler grimaced slightly as he adjusted the considerable weight of the rawhide pack slung across his back. Stretched out behind him lay countless footsteps instantly dashed away by the sudden gusts. Blazing rays of sunlight began to dissipate as the orange sun vanished beneath the distant horizon. For seven nights he had dared to walk the treacherous Muzandri Desert, far from the last bastions of civilization that dotted the outskirts of the mighty dunes. Even with his impeccable sense of direction the first tendrils of doubt had begun to creep into his mind. His water skins had grown light, perhaps enough for three or five days if he reduced his rations even further. As it was barely enough passed through his lips to wet his parched throat. Each step deeper into the relentless furnace sapped his strength and will like a growing leach upon his chest. And yet despite these fears he continued onward maintaining the same stride as when he had left the great obsidian walls of House Guldar; continuing steadily deeper and deeper into the dunes, as if pulled forth by an unseen force.

A short burst of laughter escaped the traveler's parched lips. I must be mad, he thought, to abandon all and vanish into these wastes. However, he was unsure as to what he had abandoned. Brow clenched in furious concentration, he struggled to recall his own childhood, to remember anything before the desert, as even the memories of Guldar seemed distant, like the shadow of a half forgotten dream. The few strands he managed to retrieve were as incoherent as they were vivid.

Darkness. Pale moonlight stretched through endless corridors; a piercing cry in an unknown tongue. Blood stained sheets. The soft voice of a woman, singing, “Elo ali elo ali nurzban, Sheznor eri muran.” The words were foreign to him and any meaning they contained completely lost. Perhaps he would discover what the dreams meant, but for now he trudged ever onward into the darkened sands.

A dying moon's last sliver hung high in the pitch black sky, drenching the unending desert in a faint, eerie light. The red sands had settled many hours earlier and the dry air had remained still since then. Even the lightest footfall upon the cracked earth would carry on into the distance and the weary traveler made no effort to conceal his crunching steps. He had yet to see a single creature in the dunes and doubted anything could survive for a sustained period of time in the sweltering heat.

For hours he stumbled almost aimlessly through the barren land in a half delirious state. The heat of day had long faded only to be replaced by the bitter chill of the desert’s night. Half buried under layers of rags and wraps the wanderer still shuddered miserably from the cold. His black eyes stared forlornly into the distance at objects unperceived by the mortal eye. It was in this state of fatigue that he first heard the noise. At first it was slow and stealthy, nothing more than a faint scratch, but the pace rapidly quickened into a frenzy that sounded as bone rubbed against rock over and over. The sound grew louder and louder as the traveler spun in a circle. Sweat rolled down the nape of his neck, passing the tremors of fear that made their ascension into the deepest of bowels of his mind. Unable to withstand the horror, his eyes dilated pitch black yet wide with terror; he let out a primal roar and drew forth a short blade from leather scabbard strapped to his thigh. His cry of bravado soon received a reply in the form of an ear splitting, inhuman shriek. In the corner of his eye a shadow loomed.

The beast charged. Its four legs scuttling rapidly in a fashion alien to the wanderer. For a moment he stood, frozen in place and time, before adrenaline electrocuted his veins and forced him into action. Unthinking he swung his blade back and forth across the beasts path and barked out in a voice as deep as he could muster. With a hiss the massive reptile lurched back and briefly rose upon its hind legs. Its glinting eyes looked down upon its prey with what almost seemed to be a bemused expression, as if a monstrous lizard could even make such a face.
Without warning the creature lunged forward, mandibles snapping viciously. The wanderer barely rolled away and struggled to lift his battered form off the ground in time to dodge a second attack. He took up a fencer’s stance, jabbing and thrusting wildly as the beast circled this surprisingly virulent quarry. Knuckles stretched white, the wanderer charged forward with a slashing strike that succeeded in gashing open several inches of scaled flesh. Howling in pain the creature counter attacked, but it was blinded by both blood and agony. The wanderer moved effortlessly to a safe distance a few meters away, breathing heavily, his sword arm hanging limp with fatigue.

Sniffing frantically, the monster followed, guided by a superior sense of smell only partially deterred by its gushing wound. It nearly managed to strike the wander with a powerful bite to his trembling calves, but only succeeded in tearing forth a bit of sweat stained rags. As it gathered itself for yet another assault the wanderer leapt forward, high into the air. He spun partially around before landing on the creature’s back and with a two handed thrust drove the sword through the fiend’s skull deep into that bundle of grey nerves it called a brain. With a violent twist he tore the blade free. Four limbs and a tail shuddered momentarily. A half minute later the ordeal was over. Breathless, the man collapsed onto the creature’s broad back. Exhaustion overcame him and the world faded to black.

Many hours later…

The first rays of sunlight spread out as if fingers of outstretched hand moving over the land. Slowly, the night’s chill was driven away to be replaced by its mirror counterpart. With the rising heat came three shadows born from far beyond the horizon. They grew with the rising sun and soon stretched a dozen meters in length with the appearance of a two headed, four limbed beast. The long faces of three white horses appeared shortly after, followed by the cloaked, hooded, and masked heads of their respective riders.

Each of the riders wore thick, knee high leather boots, with thick soles and spiked steel toes. Across each back was slung a four and a half foot long recurved composite bow. Quivers hung not upon their back, but in front of their right thighs. Around each waist was a one foot wide leather belt, covered with iron studs. From these belts hung a variety of small bags, a myriad of knives, and a single curved scabbard which held a steel scimitar. Their only exposed flesh, were dark, gray-green fingers and three pairs of contemptuous brown eyes that shone with a fierce intelligence and cunning.

For near an hour the trio rode in a silence, save the swish of their khaki cloaks as they fluttered lightly in the wind. The eyes of the rider to the left narrowed into slits as they gazed deep into the desert, detecting a distant form sprawled upon the sand.

“Muhadrin,” spoke the rider in a high, nasally voice, “I see a figure in the distance. Immobile.”

The middle rider replied in an even tone, “Man or beast?”

Squinting, the left rider said, “I think…both? But there are no other hunters bold enough to wander here.”

Without a reply the middle rider cracked the reins of her steed and took off in a gallop. Wordlessly, her comrades followed suit and after three minutes of hard riding they reached their destination. Still overcome by exhaustion, the wanderer on foot lay fast asleep, his head rested on the belly of the now stinking beast he had barely managed to slay. The riders surrounded him and his kill quietly.

“He’s alive,” murmured the nasal voiced rider, “Barely. “

“Heat sickness,” said the previously silent rider in a rumbling baritone.

Ignoring them, the lead rider dismounted her steed, handed the reins off, and approached the dying walker. Crouching down, she loosed a waterskin from her belt, and poured a few drops onto the stranger’s chapped lips. His eyes struggled open and slowly looked up at the dismounted rider, too fatigued to be startled. His voiced cracked as he spoke, “Who,” but his mouth was too parched to continue.

“You need water.” The rider placed the skin upon his lips. “Drink.” Greedily, the wanderer sucked down the precious liquid. “Enough,” spoke the rider as she pulled the skin away, corked it, and returned it to its proper place upon her belt. “Can you speak clearly now?”

“Yes,” said the wanderer, “thank you.”

“Muzandri is not kind to the weak. How long have you been out here?”

“I-I’m not sure,” he stammered, “six, maybe seven days? “

“Why are you here?” asked the rider.

The wanderer frowned, his brow creased furiously in concentration, but no clear answer came to mind. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I…had to. To come here.” His bright green eyes were filled with a sudden light and he rose rapidly to his feet, still stumbling from fatigue, but overwhelmed by a clarity of mind and vision. “To find her, the unifier, the Muhadrin!”

Without warning he grabbed the dismounted rider around her left arm in an iron grip. A crazed look came into his eyes as he stared at her momentarily, before he said, “I have to help her… Her journey…the war. I have to help her win the war.”

“What war?” bellowed the largest of the riders, “It has been twenty eight years since the clans were united.”

The wanderer stumbled, tilted his head to one side, and collapsed onto his knees. “No, no, no,” he said, first murmuring, then screaming, “NO!” and began banging his forearms into the cracked earth like a petulant child.

In two long strides the dismounted rider approached the maddened wander, grabbed the collar of his ragged shirt and lifted him bodily from the ground. His feet dangled several inches off the ground as she held at arm’s length. “Calm yourself,” she ordered. “I am the Muhadrin Ankara.” In a single motion she cast him down, flipped back her weather worn hood, and then removed the cowl that masked her face.
She had sharp, but strong features, with prominent cheek bones and broad, flat nose. A pair of thin lips hid two rows of sharp teeth and elongated canines. Her face was darkened and leathered by decades spent in the sands and steppes of Sedith. Black hair was shorn short on the sides and long on top; pulled back into a single thick braid tied into a tight topknot. Her dark eyes glinted as she spoke, “I do not believe in coincidence. You will speak with the shamans and spirits. Perhaps they will reveal your purpose.”

Still speaking, she walked over to the lizard’s corpse, “It is a runt, but the leather and meat may still be of use.” Kneeling down, she opened the creature’s mouth and ran a finger across its lower fangs. “First set,” she muttered, “a large child. It is good you killed it now, it would have a menace full grown.”

"That monster is a child?" exclaimed the wanderer. "I nearly died fighting a child?!"

"Indeed, better to use bow or spear than sword with these dragons," replied Ankara.Rising she turned towards her companions and barked out orders, “Duvak. Kalish. Clean the kill and return to camp. I will go now with…” she paused and took a long look at the prostate wanderer, “What is your name stranger?”

“Mahkzor…I think,” he replied uneasily. Ankara’s eyes seemed to widen momentarily, but Mahkzor failed to notice, as his eyes were cast downward.

“Indeed, a strong name,” said Ankara. Ignoring the stirrups, she quickly up onto her mount. “Come, my steed is strong enough for both.” Mahkzor, still fatigued, struggled up and seated himself behind her with one arm wrapped around her torso. The horse whinnied, but otherwise seemed unperturbed by the extra weight. “Yah!” shouted Ankara and she snapped the reins violently. Her horse bucked slightly and took off at a gallop into the east. Duvak and Kalish busied themselves field dressing the stinking corpse of the lizard as their leader vanished into the distant horizon.

Elsewhere…

A lithe figure maneuvered deftly through the jungle’s thick underbrush. Night cloaked the land in darkness, but she never neglected her training and move stealthily. Her footfalls disturbed not so much as a twig or leaf. The only noise emitted was the occasional sharp breath and droplet of sweat completing its fall to earth. In her hands was gripped an oversized long rifle, unique to the land she ventured.

She ran for perhaps three or four minutes, but covered a great distance before coming to a sudden stomp. As she dropped to the jungle floor she shifted into a prone position, placing the rifle’s butt firmly into her right shoulder. Her right hand was nearly undetectable as she worked the bolt action, loaded a comically large metallic cartridge and eased the bolt home. A slight click sounded as the safety depressed. Her breathe was now slowed to a deliberately measured pace. In the distance a great cat roared, but the only sound or movement near her location was that of insects and the occasional nocturnal bird fluttering in and out of the canopy.

Time passed slowly. Various unpleasant aches began to wail across her figure and muscles tightened harshly in her arms and back, but the assassin refused to shift. Pain merely reminded her that she was alive. She had imbibed dozens of potions and elixirs crafted by half crazed Imperial alchemists to enhance her reflexes, strength, and speed, but not once had a single drop of a draught to kill pain passed her lips. Biomancers had pushed her even further, working archaic and forbidden spells that augmented her bones and tendons to the strength of steel. Even numbed from the agony of reshaping, few volunteers survived the process. She had embraced every miserable second of the pain, internalized it, made it her own, her own knowledge that nothing ever again inflicted upon her would be unbearable. And so she ached and endured.

Purple and gold rays began to streak through the sky. Inhaling deeply, the first gust of early morning air shot sharply through her nostrils, temporarily alleviating any need or desire to sleep. Her hazel eyes observed every movement in the now visible valley stretched out before her blind. Many days ago she had mapped out the valley and established multiple subtle markers for distance and elevation. None of which was notable, except from her vantage point.

The sun was well on its ascent by the time her target appeared. She shifted slightly for a better angle and gazed intently, quickly locating a marker not twenty steps from the pale and heavily tattooed man. The man yawned, stretched his long arms, and lower back. Kneeling down, he began digging a small hole in a patch of soft earth. Once satisfied, he loosed the dirty loincloth that covered his privates and crouched down. The man gazed around casually and picked idly at a scrap of food wedged between his teeth as his bowels loosed and dropped noisily into the hole.

Struggling to suppress a smirk at her target’s soon ignoble death the assassin took note of windage, elevation, and distance as she lined up for the shot. She deemed the target near enough that iron sights would be sufficient and in that perfect moment of peace between heartbeats and breaths compressed the trigger. The rifle’s report was violently, ear splitting loud and flocks of birds fled from their roosts to safer pastures. The kick was equally vicious and had it not been for her augmentation, it would have shattered her collarbone long ago. Before the bullet had completed its journey, a cartridge and been ejected and a live round chambered and readied. It proved unnecessary. The first shot had done its job. The tattooed man’s head disintegrated into a pink mist that hovered briefly in the air. His body collapsed and rolled roughly down the hill, still continuing to disgorge excrement. The assassin vanished back into the jungle’s loving shadows long before the corpse came to a rest at the valley’s heart.

Elsewhere

A thick fog hung over the harbor of Greycliff. The docks were silent, as always in the morning. Only a sole shallow bottom rowboat sluggishly made its way towards an empty berth. In the rowboat sat an old sailor, struggling visibly with each stroke. Thick beads of sweat were rolling down his sunburnt face. His skin was crinkled and thin like parchment. Heavily veined hands, desperately gripped the oars. Every breath that burst from his lips was labored.

Seated across from the venerable oarsman were two massively built, but disparate men. On the portside was the smaller of the pair, a dark skinned man with a strong jaw and prominent cheekbones hidden beneath a thick, but closely shorn beard. His head was shaved smooth and a pair of hazel eyes cautiously observed his substantial companion. Shifting suddenly, the larger man, bent over the edge of the boat, nearly capsizing it in the process, and began to violently vomit over the edge.

“Watch yerself! Damn bloody oaf!” cursed the old sailor angrily. In response the dark man let his lips form a slight smile while the sickly man continued to expel his breakfast of smoked ham and moldy cheese. Undeterred, the sailor continued his tirade, “How the hell has he managed to throw up so damn much every damn day?!”

Shrugging, the dark man responded. His voice was deep and rich, each word came out clear and precise, “Viktor insists on eating and drinking constantly. As consistent as daybreak and nightfall, he gorges himself and the shifting seas encourage it up again.” Viktor tried to retort, but another fit came over him and he began disgorging last night’s dinner into the harbor. When his stomach had finally been emptied, he heaved thrice, wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and glared bitterly at his healthy friend.

With bits of ham and onion still flecked in his dark red beard, which was also a disturbingly dark tint in the center, the invalid began to speak, “I’m not trying to lose a damn leg an’ a half on this voyage ye bastard.” He rumbled on, “Lost enough as it is, weaker than a week old cub now.” The loss was evident; his skin had the loose and sickly look of one who has lost a great deal of weight in a short time.

“No worries, we’ll have you righted soon,” smiled his companion in response, “But look, our friend,” he gestured magnanimously at the doubled over, red faced sailor, “Has graciously brought us to the next stage of our journey.” Digging into one of his cloaks various pockets, he procured a pair of golden coins and handed them over to the oarsman.

“Viktor, come on. Up onto the dock, I will throw you the gear.” Grumbling, the redhead rose shakily to his feet and stumbled onto the wooden berth. Glancing uneasily at the loudly creaking planks straining under his still prodigious mass, he spoke.
“Quick, I don’t trust these old boards.”

“Of course.” The smiling companion rose deftly and easily balanced in the shifting boat. He busied himself with hurling a variety of gear up to the giant; a hand and a half sword in a finely crafted scabbard, a rather large claymore in a heavily worn scabbard, two ammo belts each with a holstered six shot revolver, a shining steel cuirass, a larger battered and grubby cuirass, two heavy rawhide packs covered in pockets, and a single hand crafted hunting rifle. Task completed, he bade goodbye to the old sailor.

“And a good day to you Husad,” replied the sailor in a grateful tone. The two gold coins he had been awarded were greater than his pay for the entire two month long journey from Duendaun to Onder. He smiled and his face creased into a labyrinth of deep lines, “I think I’ll rest a spell first. A good day all the same.”

Husad glanced up from assembling his load, favored the old man with a two finger salute and returned to his preparations. As the pair readied themselves, Husad discussed their coming journey, “It is forty four miles to the fort under Rachelle. We’ll do the walk in two days, recuperate-“

“The hell with two days!” ejaculated Viktor, “I’m sick ye bastard. “

“Of course, we’ll do it in three then. Fifteen, fifteen, fourteen then. May I continue?”

“We’ve gone over this before,” grumbled Viktor.

“Indeed. I take it you prefer silence for now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Husad smiled, but didn’t reply. Only slightly weighed down by the load strapped expertly to his back, he began walking in long strides out of the docks and into the city proper. Viktor sighed, heaved up his precariously balanced load and followed suit.

They walked in silence through the sleepy docklands into the now waking market. The giant’s green eyes greeted the townsfolk with mild disgust. At least until they fell upon a young woman with full hips and an ample bosom barely contained by her tight corset struggling through the cobblestone streets with a sack of flour slung over each shoulder.

“’’ey there lass,” grinned Viktor, revealed two uneven rows of tobacco stained teeth.

The girl didn’t even break stride as she cut lose with an array of insults, “Ye an ‘alf ogre or something? Yer mother bugger a troll or two? Ye got food in your beard and you smell like a bear’s arse. Bugger off.”

In response the giant’s jaw went slack and he froze in place, his mind working furiously to comprehend what had happened as Husad chuckled quietly. Viktor’s pale face burned a bright red and he roared, “’ey you little wench. Ye supposed to dress up in yer mum’s clothes not yer lil’ sis’!”

Still walking away the girl shouted back, “That the best ye got? Are ye daft? Touched in the head perhaps?”

A strange noise emitted from Viktor’s mouth and his lips twisted in rage. He made as if to go after the girl, but his calmer and wiser companion placed a strong hand upon his shoulder and held him in place. Husad whispered, “Careful there. The townspeople are watching.” He smiled his broad smile and gave the gathering crowd a friendly wave. “No worries, no worries. My friend means no harm. He is sick and has a bad temperament when ill.” His words failed to pacify the murmurs, but as Husad stood several inches taller than the largest of the fishermen, and Viktor a full head taller than Husad, nothing came of it. The travelers moved unmolested, but with haste, to the city’s edge.

Elsewhere…

Mahkzor was livid. He cursed and screamed; bloodied his hands repeatedly striking the walls of the lightless cell Ankara had buried him in as soon they reached the obsidian city fortress of Dal Qura. Solitary confinement did his condition no favors. Already mentally unstable from his trials in the dunes, Mahkzor hardly maintained his sanity. Time had become meaningless. Day was night, night was day. Meals consisted of a rancid gruel and came at seemingly random intervals. He had at first refused the rotting food, and then forced himself to eat it only to vomit it back up minutes later, and finally starvation had managed to keep it down for the sake of survival. A pile of growing excrement, urine, and half-digested food littered one corner of the tiny cell. He was a tall man and the confined area prevented him from stretching fully. Sleep came in fits and he frequently awoke with some part of his body stuck deep in the filth.

His fits of rage were gradually growing shorter. Sapped of strength he fell face first onto the stone floor. Tears rolled down his face, but soon ended. There wasn’t enough fluid in his body to perform vital functions, cool his overheated and trembling form, and reveal his despair. In the darkness he lay, shaking with hunger, disease, and fear.

“So, this is how you die. Alone and unloved, hidden away in the shadows,” spoke a laughing voice, “How the mighty have fallen! “ It laughed maniacally. The ascension into a fever pitch was skipped, it leapt directly into madness.

“Why?” whimpered the dying man. He slammed a bony fist down. “I was supposed to help her. That’s all I know.”

“Help her? You can’t even help yourself,” the voice chuckled, “Behold this savior, what a specimen, starving and saddened. Sickened and subdued. Savor your saliva. The guards have forgotten about you.”

Mahkzor abruptly felt the dryness in his mouth. His tongue stuck to the palette. Desperate to speak, he wiped a hand across his sweaty brow and sucked every droplet of moisture into his parched mouth. “You’re lying,” he said without conviction, “I can’t die here.” He cried, but no tears fell to cool his cheeks. “I CAN’T DIE HERE!”

“You have no choice. It is out of your hands. Even if you could get out, what would you do? You’re too weak to run, let alone fight. Death is better. Just close your eyes and embrace the warmth of eternal sleep.”

“I can fight, I can always fight!” shouted Mahkzor at a bit of dried feces.

“Then get up, “replied the voice, no longer laughing madly. Obedient, Mahkzor rose into a crouch. The ceiling was too low for him to stand erect. “By your right foot there is a crack between the stones. In it is a pin. Pick it up.”

Bony fingers fumbled urgently at the ground. His fingertips brushed against a thin, metallic object. Mahkzor shouted and grasped it up.
“Good. Now pick the lock.”

The momentary joy he felt dissipated. Mahkzor spat out bitterly, “I can’t pick a lock. I don’t know how.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Heart beating rapidly, the prisoner leaned forward and felt for the keyhole. Once discovered, he began his clumsy attempt. Grunting in frustration he cursed loudly and began laughing crazily saying, “Yes…a voice in my head told me to a pick a lock and escape a heavily guarded fortress. I am mad. Truly, deeply mad.”

“Keep trying.”

Mahkzor jumped and slammed his head brutally against the ceiling. Vision blurred, he fell backwards and cracked his tailbone roughly against the cold stone.

“Keep trying.”

Still dazed and in a great deal of pain, he leaned forward again and began a second attempt. This time his fingers took on an uncanny dexterity and moved with a mind of their own. The heavy iron door creaked as it swung open. Flickering candlelight filled the room. For a moment, Mahkzor was blinded by the first light he had seen in what seemed an eternity. As his vision adjusted to the dimly lit room he uttered two words, “Thank you.”

The voice laughed and a cold dread ran up Mahkzor’s protruding spine as he realized it was his own.

“You’re just thanking yourself. No worries. Together we’ll remember every skill you’ve lost. Now, I think we just evacuate this locale before the guards remember they threw a vagrant down here.”