Finding Scoria-Tria was not a hard task after the Slayers had gathered a couple of more slaves who had the mark of the Hollow Gods. The city was a fable told by insane drunk sailors and was the source of all the rumours Regis had been gathering. Even here in Scoria, he couldn’t find a single person to confirm the existence of Scoria-Tria, the lost colony of Scoria. All claimed that it was gone, consumed by the desert or burned by the orcs.
And yet, he had found it. It had taken a few weeks to traverse the desolate land of Scoria, but it was worth the wait. True, tensions had been running high and there was much said and done to strain the relations between almost all of the Slayers. However, thirteen months they spent in this oasis surrounded by sands, were enough to heal most wounds.
The town itself was nothing much at first. Huddled clay and stone houses, a small brick wall and a few watchtowers. A couple of thousand people scuttling about, completing their day-to-day tasks. There was no economy to speak of and for the time they spend in Scoria-Tria, Regis was yet to see a single trade caravan come near the town. However, there was plenty of food to go around and the occasional nomadic tribe approached the outer posts leading to the town itself to trade small things, like scales, skins and tools for food, water and wood. And there were also those who offered women to the local guards in an attempt to increase the size of their tribe.
To say that the inhabitants of Scoria-Tira were surprised to see the Slayers approach the town, was an understatement. But they were not as surprised as the Slayers when the mercenaries were greeted like saviours. Food and water were practically shoved in their hands. Women removed their modest dresses and begged for the men to take them, which had made Martell’s job of keeping the Slayers in line a damn hard one. However, the few days of excess were a welcomed change of pace.
When Regis thought about it, it should have been obvious. A town in the middle of nowhere, with a luscious jungle in its backyard, was a major target for the orc tribes and all the other monsters of Scoria. The few dozen guards were hard-pressed to both man the walls and protect Scoria-Tria’s inhabitants when they ventured for water and food in the jungle.
And like that the novelty of the mercenaries was gone in a handful of days when it became apparent that the Slayers planned to stay. The mistrust and secrecy returned and everyone was watching what they said while any of Regis’ people were within earshot. It didn’t help that the guards were constantly watching them from the sides, monitoring everything the mercenaries did or didn’t do. Especially when they ventured out in the oasis.
Calling the oasis, a jungle was not inaccurate, even if it irked the natives. A lake, some few hundred meters wide, fed by a dozen springs at the edge of a three-kilometre-wide forest of exotic and unknown plants, fit the word to a dot. It was an added bonus for the Slayers to use the word jungle so that they could annoy the natives. Since the area was mostly considered sacred and forbidden, with the exception of the outer edges, Regis had made a promise. He would not venture further than a few hundred meters past the tree line. And with the pretext of checking for unwanted orcs or worse, he could go there daily, always keeping true to his word.
What he failed to mention to them was that Inney was not bound to said promise. Every couple of days she would slip through the trees and scout further and further. That meant that Regis had to split the Slayers in two groups. Of course, there was the excuse he was doing that so that they could both protect the town and the gatherers at the same time. The reality was that he made sure to always leave Vor, Asmund, Os or Sarduk in the town. That ensured the guards would be kept busy and would not have their eyes set on his group and Inney.
As for the slaves whom the Slayers brought to Scoria-Tria, most of them meat unfortunate “accidents” in the first few days. The first to end were those who formerly bore the mark of the Hollow Gods. In an unfortunate turn of events, they all expired on the first day after an “illness” caused by eating spoiled meat. As the most skilled apothecary and the closest thing to a doctor, Till had the “unfortunate” task of quarantining them and burning their corpses so that the disease would not spread. Which went surprisingly well with the inhabitants of Scoria-Tria, who as it turned out had a lot of superstitions involving eating meat.
The few slaves who were kept safe had the task of translating the local language to the Common one used by the Slayers. And they had to be kept on a short leash, which meant they had to teach the Scorian tongue to the mercenaries. It wasn’t an easy task, but slowly everyone was starting to get a hang of the guttural speech the people around them used. Soon, the slaves the Slayers brought would have outlived their use and could be safely disposed of in another series of unfortunate “accidents”.
And then there was the problem with the girl Cylin. She was a particular thorn in Regis’s side. On one hand, Martell had claimed as his and he was quite protective of his property for her to have an accident without starting a bloodbath. There was also the issue that she was gifted with magic, which meant both Nadene and Sarduk were interested in teaching her their respective skills. However, she was too rebellious.
She had tried poisoning Martell six times. Failed to stab Seth three times. Had messed with Sonya’s equipment a few times and not even the Second could have saved the girl from the beating she received for that. All that on top of the numerous escape attempts. Yes, he had to find a way to drive a wedge between her and Martell, before the events in Mardaar repeated themselves here in Scoria.
Regis rubbed his eyes feeling the oncoming headache. He would love nothing more than to put the entire town to the blade, but there were just too many people. He was certain that the Slayers could deal with the guards and any opposition the skinny inhabitants offered, but preventing anyone from escaping was another matter.
“Boss, man,” Seth tapped him on the shoulder.
The man was tall and lean. Sweat covered his naked chest and brow. His long light brown hair clung to his face like a rag. Unlike the others, he was in his mid-twenties and barely passed as a fighter. Indeed, he had some skill with a spear, but even Dominique could best him. However, Seth was one of only a few people in the Slayers who could both read and write in the local language, as well as in elvish, dwarven, lamian and at least three-dozen tribe dialects. Combined with his talent to run without end he made the perfect messenger and spy for the group.
“You’re back,” Regis flashed the man a smile. “Have a drink, you need it.”
“Thanks, boss man!” Seth took a sip from the offered waterskin before he continued as if he hadn’t just run at top speed. “It’s done. Vor and Calder have started a fight. The Second is having trouble stopping it, as you requested.”
“Good. And our shadows?”
“Passed by them as they were heading back to the town. Told them I was getting a couple of men to put an end to it.” Seth leaned on the nearest tree and yawned.
“Well done. You should rest for an hour.” Regis smiled. “After all, running through the sand in this heat and searching for us is quite the task.”
“That’s true boss man.” The reply was accompanied by a wink.
The commander turned to the rest of the Slayers who were resting in a loos group behind him. Some were checking their gear, while others snored lightly. He lifted his gaze to see Inney perched on a branch a few meters up. Regis stood still for a moment taking in the sight of her tensed body and smiled to himself. She was like a wild cat, ready to pounce on her victim.
“Inney, it’s your turn. You have three hours.” He raised his voice slightly so that she could hear him. “Meet us by the rock at the lake.”
Without a word, the elf dropped from the tree and sprinted into the thick jungle. No one could blame her. This was the closest to normal conditions for her. Out of all of them, the sands of Scoria had marked her the most. Near constantly blind and suffering a heat stroke after heat stroke, it was no wonder she was constantly angry he was giving her so little time to roam in the jungle. It was a wonder she was sharing his bead during all of this without trying to gut him, a miracle Regis had to repay. But he had to focus.
“Little Uhr.” He singled the ferret-faced man near him. “You and Nadine will be heading back with Seth.”
“Oh, come one!” The stench of the man’s breath was nearly unbearable. “Me and Big Uhr were gonna hunt scorpions. Even have a bet on it...”
“No, you are not,” Regis said with a voice that brokered no excuses. “The last time you hunted those, Till had to keep you alive for a week. Fuck up again like that and I am not even going to bury you.”
“Fine, fine. I get it.” Little Uhr grabbed his sword and waved the argument away, his weasel-like face twisting in a disappointed scowl. “You know boss, you are all smiles and all, but you’s a cruel man.”
The last remark earned him a slap on the back of the head from Nadene. The mage was in a foul mood for the last two days. It was one of the reasons Regis was sending her back to Scoria-Tria. No one could deal with her outburst any longer. It was a blessing she was limiting them to only slaps and shouts and not fire and lightning. Still, he had to find the reason behind this, before their luck runs out.
Cold fury filled Martell as he searched for Vor. Everything was going as planned. The brute and Calder had some drinks of fermented fruits, faked being drunk and started a fight. And thanks to Vor’s reputation for getting into fights when drinking, it made for a convincing excuse to draw the guards. Just as Regis had commanded. For good measure, Dominique and Kurt joined them just before the guards arrived. Since Sarjak and Sonya were tasked with guarding the slaves at Till’s wagon, it only left him and Seth to “attempt” to stop the brawl.
As predicted, the guards were not ready for the fury of the Slayers. A minute after they arrived, they were asking for help. So, as planned, Martell tasked Seth with going back to their leader and mentioned that the guards near the forest should come back to help.
Yes, it was a good plan. At least until Vor decided to be an idiot and run yelling his battle cry into the streets. It had taken the Second a few moments to realise that the northerner was not making a commotion as instructed. He had gone completely mad, it was the only explanation, and the first dead natives on the street were a clear testimony to that.
At first, it had been easy to follow him, Martell only needed to listen for the screams. But after a while, there were no screams. However, he had a good idea where the brute was heading. The east outskirts. There the Slayers were given a few empty houses to use as their camp. It was a good spot. Next to the wall, secluded and avoided by the natives, because the former occupants had died of a curse or something like that.
There had been bad blood between the Second and the berserker and no matter how much Regis wanted to prevent it, a reckoning was coming. It was true that the Slayers hadn’t lost a single person in battle in the last seven years, but that did not mean there were no fatalities. Martell had predicted that either Dominique or Vor would die in Scoria. Deep inside he was happy it was the latter one.
He reached the camp to find it in disarray. Sonya and Sarjak were rounding up the screaming slaves, while Till was trying to stop his wagon from burning hurling obscenities at everyone and no one. Years of carefully preserved stocks of herbs, balms, remedies and tonics, were consumed by the flames. Not to mention all the carefully collected equipment the apothecary used to keep the mercenaries alive. This was going to hurt the Slayers.
“Where?” Martell shouted unable to contain his anger.
“The barn.” Came out Sonya’s cold reply as she notched an arrow in her bow and let it loos.
A slave fell in the sand, the projectile sticking out of his shin. Unlike the others, who were running in fear, this one had actually thought he could run away. At least the dead-faced archer and the sadistic warrior would have someone to vent their anger on, once they were finished sorting their current problems.
Without wasting any time, Martell ran towards the clay barn at the far end of the camp. He could hear Vor’s curses from behind the flimsy door made of sticks and vines. As he was about to crush inside, Martell heard it – Cylin’s cry. He felt numbness, the same numbness he felt a decade ago in Mardaar. No, this time was different, there was no dread, there was no hesitation. He would not make the same mistakes as he did when Nina was alive.
Slowly he opened the door. He was not trying to be quiet, but he would not rush in. Vor would expect that. He saw them a few steps away. Cylin bend over a barrel of water, her nose bleeding. The berserker was behind her. One of his massive hands held her wrists behind her back and the other was tearing through her dirty silk robe.
“She’s a feisty one,” Vor grinned evilly. “You’ve been teaching her some of your tricks, haven’t you, dog?”
The large man lifted his free hand to show a nasty gash on his forearm. Slowly his fingers wrapped themselves around the haft of his axe, embedded in the beam above his head.
“What? Didn’t think I wouldn’t recognise your dagger?” Vor said and pressed harder with his other arm at Cylin’s back.
“I’m warning you Vor,” Martell said through clenched teeth.
“You are warning me?! You are nothing but a dog! All bark, no bite! And I am Vor of clan Darg!” The large man roared.
“You are a fool. No wonder your clan cast you out.” Martell tightened the grip on his sword. “I was only going to take a finger and lash you for what you did. But if you continue, that will be the end.”
“Really?” A guttural laugh escaped the berserker. “Is her hole that good? It’s not fair you haven’t shared her with us”
The northerner removed his hand from the axe and reached for the belt holding his breaches. It was an obvious ruse and the Second would be a fool to fall for it. He swallowed hard, barely refraining from lunging at the large warrior.
“See! All bark, no bite!” Vor laughed once more. “You always liked them weird ones, Mar. Yeh, too bad that pretty bird Nina’s not around so that I could try her holes too.”
His hand darted for the axe. It was the moment Martell was waiting for. He threw his sword, knowing there was a very slim chance the blade would actually hit the berserker. But it was enough to get him on the wrong foot.
The brute used his lightning-fast reflexes on instinct and blocked the blade with his axe. Vor was a killer, not a fighter, and he was as predictable as always. The motion left him open to the warrior who had jumped at him. It was over in a second. A knife in the throat, deep enough to reach the spine.
“You know, my dear, you never did tell me who Nina was,” Cylin purred as she stretched her neck.
“It’s true.” Martell opened his eyes and adjusted his back on the comfortable car seat.
“Are you ever going to tell me?”
“Don’t go there, Cylin.” The warning in his voice was hard to miss, still, it was better than the silence.
“Oh, come on! You can share some more; it could be therapeutical.” She gave him a mischievous smile, knowing very well that he wouldn’t share a single word on that topic.
The luxurious hovercar slowed down as they reached the second checkpoint at the star-port complex, putting an end to Cylin’s plan to have some entertainment. It did not come to a complete stop thanks to Viin’s quick actions. With a few taps of her slender fingers, she sent the proper authorisation codes and nodded to her boss.
“Only one more left, sir.” Her small face twisted for a moment. “I am sorry to inform you that we will have to stop at that one.”
“See. She’s not that useful after all.” Cylin hissed in the dead language of Scoria.
Martell gave her a cold glare in turn and faced his secretary.
“I’m sorry Mr Regis. No authorisation codes are permitted at the last checkpoint. Only visual identification.” The modified elf added quickly. “Apparently there is a top priority private flight arriving in an hour.”
“Thank you Viin.” Martell smiled warmly at her. “Prepare the reflector mask. The car is travelling with only two passengers. You and myself.”
“Understood, sir,” Viin answered and began tapping at the data-pad in her hand. But not before offering Cylin a challenging glare.
