Tancred closed his eyes and listened to the deceptively dangerous silence of the desert. An intense tapping of needles against the stone and the cracking of pebbles signaled the beginning of an insectoid migration to better pastures. It was easy enough to paint a picture: a host of drones carrying the swollen, oversized body of their queen; nimble warriors serving as scouts, cutting down any failing to escape wildlife; and feeders sucking every ounce of flesh from the bones and carrying it to feed the queen.

The wind rolled bleached bones across the sand; an occasional faint shriek marked the demise of a random beast, suffocated in quicksand pits or in the jaws of predators. He expanded his senses, straining his hearing to listen to the teeming desert. Caravanners, be they mercenaries or traders, exchanged jokes, relaxing after the day’s heat. Workers performed maintenance, guards checked their gear, and cusacks snored, entrusting their survival to the group.

Then he heard it. Erratic beeping of sensors coming from the canyon ahead and the swirl of sand flowing into it. Tancred opened his eyes; his enhanced vision pierced the night, the crimson light hidden by the lenses. A stretched hole in the ground, situated in the middle of the busy trading routes, connecting many settlements and villagers.

He nodded to Zero, heaving his bardiche, the Judge, over his shoulder. Zero took the lead; her cloak tightly clung to her body, and armored boots stepped with the lightness of a fallen feather, avoiding announcing their approach by breaking a dried-up branch or a skull. Tancred followed, and they made their way through the jagged ruins of a long-dead civilization.

Metropolises once spanned the area; below the immense coverage of sand were buried parks, hospitals, factories, apartments, research facilities, and bodies, of course. An entire nation died here, there, and over the mountain. The planet became a necropolis of sorts, where a weary traveler could not hope to find a spot bereft of tragedy and suffering.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom. The process of unearthing the lost knowledge continued. Researchers dusted off ashes from the rediscovered terminals, learning about lost technology, lost culture, or the last minutes of a terrifying population. Excavation crews opened bunker doors, uncovering cemeteries and occasionally trapped societies within. The Old World’s technology was remarkable, and even after being diminished in knowledge over the course of their prolonged isolation and radiation- or glow-induced mutations, individuals remained human, and reunions occurred.

But the sight of ruins and death served as a stark reminder of the price paid by the weak when their rulers failed to uphold their duty to serve as protectors. Never will I be found lacking when those bequeathed to my protection are in peril. Tancred swore to himself.

The Ironwills had a long and rich history in the Order, albeit an uneasy one. They had lost three sword saints in rapid succession to poison and in a scramble against invaders. Tancred was twice elevated from the ranks of sages to the rank of Sword Saint against his will, and accepted the Judge in place of a gunhalberd. The relic seemed to hunger for him even when he passed it to a far-worthier candidate. He mourned and missed his lost liege, a young noble who died underneath Blood Graf’s axe. Despite the gentle age, the former sword saint always knew the best course of action for the household and excelled in everything.

He joined Lady Zero out of obligation and guilt. Deaths and injuries in duels between the Tribe and the Order were not uncommon, as brash hot-bloods sought to prove the superiority of their ways. But the wrinkle done by Bertruda and, by proxy, First was insulting. The grandmaster was supposed to mediate a delay to the duel. The Blessed Mother was as much a parent to the Order as the Twins were. They owed it to help their inferior cousins ascend and stand equal to the Ice Fangs.

Tancred was bedecked in the modernized familial battle plate. Its overlapped plates, compact servomotors, and noise suppressors provided excellent agility, and the camouflage cloak hid him from prying eyes. The lenses of his helmet entered infiltration mode, no longer shining. He danced after Zero, evading collision with anything capable of emitting sound.

Zero surprised and intrigued him. The Wolf Tribe favored a more direct approach, and yet she moved as if her suit was a second skin to her, neither creaking nor slipping to reveal her whereabouts. The elegance of her movements carried her easily over treacherous potholes or unstable ground, and not a single light reflected from the round shape of her helmet.

She also didn’t lead him. The warlord marked traps and indicated the approximate radius of the sensors’ detection and placement, but she never guided him. Zero did not act maliciously; she had no soldiers to serve her, no servants to dress her in battle gear, and yet she maintained her position as supreme warlord. She never visited a medical bay for rejuvenation or did so in secret, never removing her helmet.

Such an enigma perplexed the sword saint. Could she have horrifying scars on her snout? A missing nose, perhaps? Was she another victim of the Blessed Mother’s poor mental state?

Together, they weaved their way to the edge of the canyon, avoiding tripwire traps and motion sensors. Tancred’s suspicions were proven correct. The unknown inhabitants had bored caves into the side of the canyon, and electric lights scared away the hesitant night predators. Automatic turrets, rusted and in various states of disrepair, waited to greet the larger beasts. Figures wearing sandy-colored cloaks led patrols, and Tancred’s finger twitched as the light of a passing patrol revealed a familiar four-wheeler in a cave below.

Tancred reserved himself for overseeing the martial and diplomatic duties of his household, entrusting his children to lead the economic part. His children prospered, becoming the owners of an influential company known for supplying light all-terrain vehicles to the nation and anyone willing to purchase them. The smugglers had a product bearing his crest.

Zero leaped in, saying nothing, and Tancred slipped off the side of the canyon where the criminals had flattened it, covering the side with concrete to reinforce the ground’s natural roof. The warlord was clearly aware of this location; she silently landed near the crates, circled around them, and concealed herself in the CCTV’s blind spots. The sword saint held back his wrath and obliged the unspoken request. He crept after Zero, dodging the guards, partly disappointed by their inadequacy. Traders chatted in the open, eagerly commenting on the delivery of rare mechanical parts to excavation organizations, ways to smuggle highly dangerous prescribed medical drugs from the Core Lands, and the sale of art to private collections.

Together, the two Wolfkins scaled to the canyon’s bottom, evading detection. In places where it was impossible to pass the guards unnoticed, they used a cave to descend a level down. Each cave was connected to others through a network of tunnels. Many were far too small for a person in power armor to enter, and undoubtedly there were larger passages to evacuate some goods to safety in the event of an earthquake or attack. The builders used reinforced concrete to protect the place from invasion of underground predators, and Tancred sniffed the acrid stench of a ‘scarecrow’ concoction, a mixture of mass-produced animal secretions. Insectoids believed a rival hive inhabited this place, while regular monsters imagined their natural predators.

Someone had constructed a nice complex here.

Four ancient APCs stood at the bottom of the canyon, bearing the marks of patchwork repairs and what slavers called a flesh wagon, but as Tancred examined them, he understood that the cages for holding prisoners had been replaced by crates for additional goods, ready to be slid down into secret compartments to be hidden during an inspection.

Zero slipped under the wagon easily, like a water flow underneath a rock. On the other side of the wagon, she and Tancred got out and stepped past fifteen guards patrolling around a cave that looked more like a stone house. Its walls were smooth, carpets covered the main entrance and windows, and industrial air conditioning worked in full force.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The warlord and the sword saint leapt into a window, barely encumbered by their weapons and gear. They rolled briefly across the floor, and Zero suddenly straightened and stretched. Her armor turned off the sound absorption, and a series of loud pops filled the room, rousing a man sitting behind a wooden desk, writing in a ledger instead of using a proper terminal.

“Zero, the sweetest sight for weary eyes!” The lanky man rose. The heat had removed any excess moisture he ever had, but his muscular frame remained despite the gray beard. A thin network of scars and a broken nose ruined his face. He wore a roomy dark robe and an anti-heat suit underneath. “Welcome to my humble abode. What’s mine is yours, the priceless pearl of the sands, but pray, do not enter like a sand-sea urchin. You risk giving me a heart attack. The arrival of a princess is more befitting your breathtaking excellence!”

Tancred ignored the platitudes, alerted by the guards’ worries outside. The man was no fool; he wasn’t just trying to save face, but he had also informed his bodyguards that guests had arrived. The sword saint walked around the room, examining wooden shelves littered with the broken remains of artifacts of old. A brand new plasma rifle, powerful enough to damage even his armor, stood in a weapons rack. Such a tool was rare, even in the army, and cost a small fortune on the market. Zero wasn’t wrong in bringing him here.

“Tancred Ironwill, meet Darazdast Siroosi, peddler of exotic goods.” Zero leaned on Darazdast’s shoulder, and the man sat back in his chair to bear such a weight.

“A fabled sword saint has deemed it worthy to grace me with his presence!” The smile on the wizened, wrinkled face never wavered.

“The honor is all yours.” Taking the criminal up on his previous offer, Tancred snatched the ledger from the table and flipped through the pages, accelerating his perception of time to read and absorb information faster. Deals, bargains, debts to collect, no sudden influx of funds, just steady growth as the Wastes naturally turned more civilized… “The use of cancer treatment injections and anti-radiation drugs is mandated by the government or private clinics in the Core Lands. People can die from using them.”

“Those who purchase them have no other choice, oh illustrious icicle. They can either end their lives, die in excruciating agony, or take their chances by using the medicine. We merely provide the said chance to the unfortunate souls, my lord,” Darazdast said.

“And profiting from their suffering,” Tancred said, disgusted at the need to listen to such a creature. He heard noises outside and pulled aside a carpet from the front entrance to face dozens of weapons aimed at him. Most of them lowered their weapons at his sight, but two—a terrified bear of a man carrying a shotgun and a steely-eyed, crimson-haired woman wielding a sonic pistol—held him at gunpoint. “We are having a conversation. Do you mind?”

“Everything is fine, friends.” Darazdast smiled broadly and put his hands on his chest. “Our unexpected but welcome guests and I are engaging in a civilized discussion. Aibeka and Jack, please be sweeties and bring us refreshments. Lumière du matin to brighten up the occasion would do wonderfully.”

Tancred took off his helmet, hiding the annoyance. This specific brand of wine was sold in the vineyards of his household. An irritant, but a well-informed one. Zero still clung to the smuggler, chatting and asking about various gang members like a long-lost friend, but he sat at a table away, hearing the chair creak under his weight. He sipped the wine and read through the ledger and documents he had found in a safe.

Darazdast was a busy little fly. His organization smuggled goods in and out of Iterna, and the Oathtakers, a group of patrons who owed him favors, provided discounts on bulk purchases of vehicles and equipment. Later, his crews dismantled them and exploited their customers by charging exorbitant prices for the common goods of the Core Lands, which required a license to sell beyond the borders. Officially, Mr. Siroosi owned four brothels and donated heavily to orphanages.

I hope he doesn’t pick himself workers from them. Tancred took a long swig from the bottle. The man’s presence sickened him to the bone.

“While your presence overjoys me to no end, forgive me, dear Zero, if I shamelessly inquire about your and the esteemed gentleman’s presence here,” asked Darazdast. “The news told of the Third’s journey to the Core Lands.”

“Unexpected developments demanded a change—a temporary change, of course.” Zero lowered her head, mirroring the contrabandist’s face in her helmet. “A settlement was attacked.”

“Just Peachy, I am aware; it was all over the news.” Darazdast nodded. “Terrible thing; its people have my utmost condolences, and in a gesture of goodwill, I have written off the debts of my clients from there. But I’ve yet to know anything specific, the beautiful flower of my heart.”

“See, I don’t believe in it.” Zero spun and landed her butt on his lap, drawing a gasp from the man. She pressed a finger to his neck and rubbed some dirt away. “We turn a blind eye to your little operations because you know everything that goes on around here.”

“And if you know nothing about the biggest raid in recent times, what good are you?” Tancred said.

“Straight to the point, but this is what Ivar will ask. You know Ivar, right, dear Darazdast? He’ll rip the information from your mind.” Zero tapped on the man’s forehead. “Me and my friend don’t want it.”

“Don’t want to miss it,” Tancred clarified.

“Joker as ever,” Zero laughed. “So help us help you escape this nasty thing.”

“I fear I’ll have to endure the mindscape discussion regardless, peerless star,” Darazdast sighed and punched a wall next to him. It folded inside, revealing a secret compartment containing several portable data banks and a terminal. As Zero slipped from his knees, the smuggler placed them on the table. “The first thing I did after hearing of the attack was to ensure the safety of my men, and then I checked these, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Rumors, under-the-table deals, people plotting to overthrow me, those who refused my friendship and tried to work in my territory… There is nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Nothing at all?” Tancred joined Zero in reading through the hidden materials.

“The strangest thing to happen in Just Peachy in the last month was a traveling pilgrim who asked if anyone knew of a deity called the One True God, oh fearless praetorian.” Darazdast drank some wine and tapped at his temple with a trembling hand. “You know the kind, lost souls whose brains have been dried by the sun. I wasn’t aware of the attack. It does sound incredible, and Captain Ivar is free to unravel my brain, but I really wouldn’t tolerate something so vile directed at children. I’m a changed man. Since the ravenous Alpha spared my life, I have never again been involved in slavery. Please, dear Zero, even if you came to collect my life, spare my men. I am clean, I swear!”

“How can I say no to such honesty?” Zero patted him on the shoulder.

“Easily,” Tancred said, burrowing into the man with his gaze and hoping to spot any sign of him lying.

“I’ll ask Big Sis,” Zero promised. “Wyrm Lord will check you; the touch of his mind should be gentler. Stay in touch, stick to moving goods, or you’ll wake up no more, Darazdi!”

“About goods!” As she prepared to leave, Darazdast caught Zero by her vambrace. “Beautified image of a saint who has descended upon our unworthy world to awe and inspire us! I have a confession to make…”

Tancred reached for the bardiche.

“Stay your hand, good and merciful lord; my immaturity had misled you of the meaning of my words! I implied nothing incriminating.” Darazdast pleaded and smiled, confident and relaxed, enjoying the game. “Greatest of warlords, bearer of the divine blood, there is a matter of unresolved delivery.”

“Elaborate,” Tancred ordered, not taking his paw too far from the Judge’s shaft.

“You see, crimson-eyed defender, the soldiers of the Third often employ the services of your humble servant. Nights are long, and whether they be men or women, the soldier’s lot is arduous. The unexpected shift in the army’s movement had made the usual deliveries impossible, but the transaction had already happened, and it would be bad for my character and reputation…”

“Redundant wordplay, since reputation stems from a character. Get to the point,” Tancred interrupted the contrabandist. The man was getting on his nerves. Thief. Slaver. Scum. Liar, no doubt. He longed for a chance to bury his blade in the blasted neck, but alas, the man was technically innocent. The police, not the military, must solve Darazdast’s mischief.

Calmness. Peace and calmness. We can’t instantly rectify every injustice. It is best to focus on preventing the sale of the Ironwills’ trade goods to this parrot and his apish band of lunatics.

“Our host requests us to deliver the goods, Tancred.” Zero put her paws behind her head.

“As long as you can promise anonymity, oh sweetest fruit of our desolate plains,” Darazdast said with a bow.

“Delivering contraband?” Tancred thundered. “I ought to…”

“We’ll do it,” Zero agreed. “But a favor for a favor.”

“I had planned to do it anyway, regardless, my kindliest and shrewdest friend, as a part of my eternal loyalty to the Wolf Tribe,” the contrabandist stated. “I will contact my former friends and pester my colleagues in the Core Lands. Information is worth tokens, and doubtlessly, they are busy conducting their own investigations. The mystery of our invaders should be uncovered soon. It is in everyone’s interest for us to keep living and thriving in peace.”

“See that desire doesn’t change, or you’ll taste the Judge’s edge yet, slaver,” Tancred told him.

“Former slave trader, noble night! I have served my sentence, fifteen years, in full!” the contrabandist protested. “And I’ll sooner die than let war return to our lands!”

The sword saint remained silent, put on his helmet, and walked past the curious, scrutinizing eyes of the red-haired woman. He waited outside until the crate of unknown goods was brought to Zero, and then silently joined her as they left the canyon.