The luxurious hovercar sped through the highway, the dim moonlight reflecting on its glassy surface. It was by all accounts a beautiful and calm night. The evening traffic of workers, servants and minor dignitaries had just died down, leaving the gargantuan road free for the vehicles and convoys of CEOs, nobles and people with enormous wealth and power.

Within the expensive interior, Cylin pouted as she made another attempt to hook up a new limiter around her neck. She hated the damn things, but by law, she had to wear one. As useless as such a toy was on her. However, the main cause of her sour mood was not the damnable limiter, but the thing sitting just across her. The poor excuse for an elf, Martell employed as a secretary, was making sure to avoid any eye contact and made a show of looking at the foldable screen in her slender hands.

“Enlighten me, if you will…” The woman barked in the Scorian dialect she had used since her birth. “Why is that thing here?”

“She has a name and I suggest you learn it,” Martell answered without opening his eyes from the seat next to the elf. “I never thought you, out of everyone, would turn xenophobe.”

“Qui? Moi?” The mage exclaimed in an exaggerated fashion. “I have nothing against their kind. But this one… I find her presence most disturbing, considering where we are going and who we are meeting.”

“Really? It has nothing to do with you thinking I have taken a liking to her?” A hint of a smile appeared on his face. “Never mind. I need Viin for clearing the documentation at the port since I can’t do it. One of the downsides of owning a large corporation.”

“I find that hard to believe…”

“Of course, you do.” He opened his eyes and looked at Cylin. “She is here to keep you from doing anything foolish.”

“You think a little elf-girl is going to stop me from killing you?” A laugh escaped her lips. The very idea was preposterous. “I can turn her in a pile of ash before you lift your hand…”

“I know you can. As I know you won’t.” Martell closed his eyes again and relaxed in his seat. “I know you Cylin. You would never hurt an innocent and you would go out of your way to keep our secrets.”

The remark earned him a chilling glare from the mage. She bit down any retort she had planned and focused on connecting her limiter. Without one, she would trip all manner of security sensors at the starport. Attention both of them could do without.

Cylin would allow him his fun. For now. She knew Martell well enough that there had to be a reason for all of this. He was, after all, a man of habit and he loved his clever plots. No matter how stupid she found them to be. Still, no matter how hard she thought about it, bringing the elf along was a bad idea. After all, the old man had a very unhealthy obsession with their kind.

Satisfied that she finally managed to get the damned limiter connected, Cylin shot another disapproving glare at the oblivious thing in the seat across her.

“I’m not the same person,” she added, revealing some of the sadness chocking her heart. “None of us are.”

“Just in case, you might be having some unhealthy ideas, remember this. Viin is my property,” Martell discretely revealed the tip of the knife hidden in his sleeve. “You should know very well what that means.”

 

 

The Slayers had spent two years roaming the towns and hamlets dotting the coastline of Scoria. Two bloody years, dealing with orcs, warring despots and greedy merchants. True, most of the time they liked what they did and there had been a lot of fame to be earned. These days, there was no one who didn’t know about the Slayers. From Scoria-Erst to Scoria-Lupa, from the orc tribes in the Burned Wastes to the horned men inhabiting the Screaming Pillars, all thought twice before engaging the mercenaries. But in all that time they hadn’t made a single step towards their original goal.

Under the heat of the blistering sun tensions between members of the mercenary band had flared. There was so much Regis could do, to prevent them from killing each other. Especially when they were out in the deep desert. These were uncharted lands and for a good reason. Sand and heat were all there was for days. Convincing the Slayers to venture into Scoria’s heart was a difficult task, that became even more difficult when every time they did so, there was nothing to show for it. At least this time, he hoped, the lead they were following sounded half-promising. Regis doubted that there would be another expedition if this one didn’t pan out.

“I still say it is a waste of time,” Nadene grunted, the bags under her eyes making her look a decade older. “Everyone knows that Scoria-Erst, Scoria-Dava and Scoria-Lupa are the only major towns on this entire blasted continent.”

“Go twenty days east-ish of Scoria-Erst, does sound questionable…” Sarduk chimed in and wiped the sweat covering his tanned brow.

The two of them might be at odds as to what might be the source of magic and were at each other’s throats most of the time. But the young shaman was kin to side with Nadene on this topic. Then there was the rumour the two of them shared the same bed as of late. Something, no one in the Slayers really cared about, usually.

However, when both the shaman and mage of the band were actively looking out for one another, it impacted the wellbeing of all the Slayers. Especially Sigismund. The charming warrior did not take kindly to the fact, Nadene had found someone else to keep her warm during the cold nights. There were so many possible options for people to explore their carnal needs, which lead to a lot of drama and bad blood between the members of the Slayer. Most of the time Martell kept things under control, however, there were times when Regis had to step in and as of late, those were becoming the norm.

“Just shut up already. And you keep moving!” Vor barked and pushed the slave they had “liberated” as their guide.

He was as savage as the northern tribes bred them. Stocky and muscular, with arms and back covered in numerous tribal tattoos. His face twisted in a permanent scowl. And all that with a temper to match it. A born killer, who had his uses.

“This wretched thing says the place is true. If he is saying the truth – good. If not… I will eat his beating heart after I feed it his own cock,” Vor flashed the slave a smile of broken and jagged teeth.

“It true! It true! This one not lie!” The emaciated man screeched in broken Common. 

“No, you will not,” Regis came next to him and patted the slave on the back. “Vor it is time to switch. You and Asmund are up for hauling duty. And this time make sure you do not damage any of Thill’s equipment. Or by Regzala Lord of Wrath, I swear I’ll let the old prune check if there is a brain in your head.”

“Have that imbecile, Big Uhr take my turn.” The stocky man snapped back.

“You heard the captain,” Martell had stopped a few steps away from the northerner. His hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Vor grunted and shoved his way past Martel and issued his warning in a low venomous voice. “You are pushing your luck little man.”

“Vor is becoming a problem.” The Second followed the brute with his eyes for a moment before turning to their captain.

“Time for water, worms! You have an hour to catch your breaths and enjoy the shade!” Regis gave the command and the group huddled around the two carts carrying their provisions.

“Walk with me.” The commander told Martell.

Once out of ear’s reach, the leader of the Slayers stopped and turned to face his Second. The usual mirth was gone from his face.

“You are making a lot of enemies out here, Mar. You shouldn’t be this hard on them.”

“Vor has been a problem since we arrived.” The Second waved away the warning and adjusted his long hair away from his face.

“I know. As I know he and his brother Asmund are itching for an excuse to crack your head open,” Regis sighed. “Mar, you are too strict. Not just with the two of them, but with all the Slayers.”

“I am so that you don’t have to be,” Martell unfastened the waterskin from his waist and took a swing from it. “That’s what we agreed when I took the position of your Second.”

“I know, but with Sarjak and Calder out of action for the next couple of weeks, there are so many people to watch your back.” The captain took the offered skin.

“The Faceless, Lilly and Seth are eager to let the winds of Scoria strip the meat from Vor’s bones. Till and Sonya are shagging again, or she’s pregnant, either way, this grinds on Dominique since he’s got his eye set on her.”

“Damn, that old man’s full of surprises. I didn’t think he had it in him to bed a someone who could be his granddaughter.” Regis chuckle died as Martell continued.

“Kurt and Mekset are at each other’s throat day and night. Lilly’s in one of her moods. Big Uhr is testing Sarduk’s patience…”

“Mar, I get it.”

“Nadene, Sarduk and Sigismund are in a mess of their own. Asmund and Little Uhr are a remark away from tearing one other to shreds. Os is getting tired of warning Dominique to stop looking into his past.” The Second continued refusing to stop listing all the intrigues and grievances plaguing the Slayers.         

“Mar. that’s enough. I get it. There’s a lot going on and a lot of people trying to kill each other. Trust me, my friend, I know it all.” Regis shook his head and spat in the sand. Days like this, he wondered if he should just allow them to do it.

“Do you really? If you understand it, I should be your last worry.” Martell took another swing from the waterskin before giving it to his commander again. 

“And here you’re wrong, Mar. You have to learn to read the mood. Sure, they hate one another right now, but above all else, they hate you.” Regis sighed. “You’re not the only one who has to put out fires, Second. Look, you know I can’t show favour to anyone.”

“Really? I should tell Inney that.” The Second flashed his leader a rare mischievous grin.

“The fuck you will! She’ll have my balls!” Regis laughed off the remark, yet scanned their surroundings for any sign of the elf.

“How is she?” Martell asked and spared the two wagons a concerned glance.

“Not that well… The heat is too much for her. She can barely tolerate it under the shade.” Regis ran his hand through his hair. “It’s been what, ten days and we are five men down…”

“Five?” Martell raised an eyebrow.

“Yeh. Dominique has the heat sickness and Little Uhr has been delirious since this morning. Thill is certain the scorpion must have been poisonous.”

“Shit… Have you told Big Uhr?” Martell scratched his face in irritation.

“Have you gone mad? That hulking idiot is going to break every bone in the old man’s body.” Regis threw back the waterskin at his companion. “We keep him away from the healer’s wagon, at least for a while or until I figure out what to tell him.”

“Makes sense. He is too protective of that weasel, just because they share the same name.” The Second looked at the horizon and his face turned sour.

The Gods were cruel at times. For all the strength and endurance, they granted Big Uhr, they had taken as much from his mind. Keeping the large man in check was not a hard thing to accomplish, as long as he didn’t get angry and Little Uhr’s well-being was one of the best ways to get him angry.

“Why are we out here Regis? Why now? For two years you didn’t want us to go further than five days into the desert.”

“Tch… You are too observant for your own good.” The captain rubbed his tired eyes. “It’s because of the slave.”

“You believe his words?” Martell was genuinely confused.

“I do. But not only them. Orcs would not take humans as slaves, yet they took him. They even risked trading him with the slavers near town. To top it all, Scoria-Erst’s guards knew of it and let them go,” Regis moved closer to his subordinate.

“The people of Scoria are hiding a fucking lot from us, Mar. They’ve been pulling the wool over our eyes for two bloody years.” He sounded hurt and angry, so very angry.

“Then let’s go back and make them talk! Fuck it, I’ll take only Os and Sigismund! Half of Scoria-Erst is going to be burning come sunrise and the other half will be lining up to tell us their darkest secrets!” Martell couldn’t help but raise his voice.

“Do you think I haven’t tried something like this? Did you really think Os had found a whore, who would take him every single night for the past three months?” Regis shouted back. “There a three dozen bodies buried outside the town’s walls and they revealed nothing… But this slave… He has given us so much information without saying a single word.”

“Us?” Martell eyed the leader of the Slayers with suspicion.

“Me and Thill.” Regis ignored the unvoiced accusation. “The old prune examined him before we set off and finally, we found a clue, something to go by – the mark of the Hollowed Gods.”

He reached for the small bag strapped around his waist and from within its depths removed a small ointment jar. Its contents long gone had been replaced by some sort of a black centipede. Glowing orange cemeterial lines covered its body and it moved with snapping bursts followed by sudden stops.

“By Zakaar! What is that thing?!” Martell was not one to evoke the god of death’s name lightly and it only showed how affected he was by the creature.

“Once he got that out of the slave, the wretch was begging to tell us everything he knows… We’ll talk more later.” Regis hurriedly shoved the jar back in his bag and walked towards the man running in their direction.

“Captain!” Kurt shouted nearly out of breath. “Village! Two hours east! Hidden behind the dunes! Slaver raid in progress!”

 

 

It was close to four hours before the Slayers were in position, hidden behind crests of the dunes surrounding the village the scouts had found. It was a miserable thing. Ruined hovels and dead bodies and the scent of fresh blood in the air. The only reason Kurt had found it, was because of all the screaming from the two dozen inhabitants and the battle cries of the slavers. If not for that, the mercenaries would have passed it without being any wiser.

The victors were quite obvious since they were gorging themselves on the stocks of the villagers. For their part, the ten or so who had survived the slaughter were sobbing quietly inside a large wagon cage at the middle of a pile of corpses. Regis knew that the slaves traded at the port towns had to come from somewhere, but he always assumed there were more settlements along the Scoria’s eastern coast. 

“Let’s have this done before sunset. Big Uhr, kill the horses and once you are done go help out Martel by the cage.” Regis looked at the large man crouched next to him. “Do not let any of the slaves die, you got it?”

“You don’t need to tell me twice, boss.” The scarred face twisted in a murderous grin.

“And yet, I have to,” Regis grabbed the man’s beard and pulled him closer to his face. “Not one of the slaves is to die.” Satisfied by the large man’s nod, he turned to the mage on his other side. “Good. Nadene. Give the signal.”

With a smile, the woman drove her right hand into the sand and eldritch words spewed from her throat. The sand before her began to boil and a long breath-taking moment later the top of the dune exploded towards the village.

The Slayers attacked without cries, without shouts, without oaths. In utter silence, they sped down the dunes in three groups, while their prey was looking at the flying sand with superstitious fear. Sonya, Mekset and Kurt covered each group with their bows and took the guards before the slavers could realise what was happening.

Vor’s group was the first to reach their target. Both berserkers of the northern tribes screamed savage blood-chilling cries as their blades bit into flesh. The two could kill free of thought and concern, because Sarduk was close in their heels, channelling all his power to the totemic wards and charms Asmund and Vor wore.

Opposite them, Martell, Os and Sigismund engaged the guards at the cage in a brutal melee. There was no honour in that fight. It was also the one to end the quickest. The Faceless scimitars disembowelled his opponent after first throwing his waterskin at him. The slaver was too confused by the strange projectile and did not react on time. Sigismund’s burning two-handed sward proved too much of an oddity for the people of Scoria and another slaver lay in a pool of blood as he was bisected through the waste. Unlike his companions, Martell overpowered his opponent by dropping his sword as he made the first hit and instead plunged a concealed dagger in the man’s throat.

Soon after, Regis and Lilly joined the fray and plunged into what remained of the shaken slavers. Their blades striking and parrying in perfect synchronicity. The woman proved once more, that even with only one eye she was a deadly fighter, by cutting a man’s wrist and another one’s chest with the reverse movement of her blade. A moment later the screams of the dying men were joined by the panicked neighing of the horses. Each swing of Big Uhr’s axe meant an animal had met its end.

As soon as the fight had started, it had ended. The Slayers shared a victory battle cry. It was a strange mix of roars and howls. Each blood-spattered face looked at the sky in a moment of pure bliss. What followed was something no one hailing from Scoria had ever thought possible. Bodies were mangled and abused for trophies and mementoes, before being searched for anything of value.