Dune Sea.

Four days, Magnus thought wearily. Four days the orcish warhost has travelled this sandy hell. He looked around at the barren landscape that stretched for leagues in every direction. Even the outpost constructed where the badlands met the sand was nothing to his sight now.

A token force of warriors, thralls and beasts were left behind to construct and guard the outpost, from there they would secure supplies and relay messages between the warhost and the rest of the Warchief's vast domain as well as acting as a fort from where orcish raids would be sent into the surrounding lands to acquire more thralls and resources, what few there was out here.

That had been days ago when they had set out across these endless dunes, Magnus thought as he trudged on beside the Warchief who was mounted upon his warg. The rest of the warhost trudged behind them as always, though every hour there were less and less of them. Slave drivers eagerly cracked their whips in the early hours of their journey out here. But now they were just as tired and worn as those they beat. Most barely gave more than a grunt to keep the thralls going. Not like they had anywhere to go if they decided to run. All around them was the cursed dunes and sands that had already claimed a few fools that had tried already. Even many of the beasts the Warchief brought had succumbed to the heat.

Those that fell were left behind. Be they thrall, beast, enslaved warrior, or even orc. All were left for the sands to claim. The fishkin that he had fought beside during the gnoll attack didn't last a day out here. What water rations they got wasn't enough for a creature so far from its aquatic home. Some of the others tried to offer him a portion of their rations, but as the heat and sun bore down on them, those offers got fewer and fewer and the fishkin got dryer and dryer.

By morning the next day, the fishkin didn't awake when roused by his kin in bondage, nor by the lash holders. His skin had dried, cracked, and broken before he finally perished from the heat and sun. Some orcs joked about feeding him to the wargs. They enjoy dried fish, they had said. But now they're quiet as everyday looks like they'll soon join the fishkin in being claimed by the sand. The orcs weren't much better in fending off the sun and heat either. Their green flesh dried and cracked the same as the thralls. It took an extra day due to them getting more water rations than the thralls, but eventually they looked as sun dried, and sand beaten as they were.

Magnus looked at the endless dunes, he could see why they were sometimes called the Dune Sea, or Sea of Sands. Dunes rose and fell like waves upon the ocean he was so familiar with. If he closed his eyes he could almost picture himself back there. Back home. Back at Daele.

But Daele was gone, he remembered. Either the Warchief lied and they were all dead, or they really had fled elsewhere away from the pain and suffering of this world. He knew not which was true. What he did know, was that if they didn't find water or shelter soon then the warhost will be something else the endless dunes bury beneath their grainy waves.

Then the Warchief paused and the warhost stopped. On the horizon three riders rushed towards them, some of the warriors drew their weapons with wrapped hands. The sun heated the iron and resulted in many burning themselves upon their handles. But they all sighed in relief as the hazes drew closer and the riders were the scouts the Warchief had sent out days ago.

Three, three of twelve had returned to them. That boded ill for the rest of the warhost. These three that returned were haggard and warn, their green skin was dry, cracked and bleeding, and deeply ruddy in places that were unprotected by the harsh sun. One of them fell as they neared, mount and rider both as the heat claimed yet another victim.

The two remaining riders eagerly came forwards and were quickly given water. As their parched throats were moistened they told the Warchief of what they had found. A settlement of sorts, surrounding a large oasis just two days ride from where they trudged. News of water and shelter ignited the drive of the lash wielders and the warhost moved on eagerly towards their goal.

So for two days they force marched against the sun. Little shade and shelter. What supplies there were for building outposts and setting up anything more than tents were quickly abandoned and swallowed by the ever hungry sand. Leaving everyone to either burn beneath the sun or try and scrounge for meager shade from their own shirts. Only to then freeze when the sun finally slept and the moon arose to sap all the heat they had cursed and now wished to be returned to them, only to curse it once again when the sun rose once more.

Then as the sun began to rise they saw it. A settlement, if it could be called that, surrounding the banks of an oasis the size of a small city! All around it were tents and other temporary shelter by the hundreds. The ruins that jutted from the sand nearby told all why a permanent settlement was a bad idea as layer after layer of sand swallowed what must have been a guard tower at some point in history. From the looks of the tower though, the sand must be deeper than he wanted to realize as it seemed the only thing not buried was the top of it that was now at ground level with them.

All around the oasis and inhabiting the various tents and such, were the desert nomads that scratched out a living in this hellish place. Mostly tan-furred catfolk, but Magnus could see bronze-skinned humans, tanned elves, and even gnolls among them as well. What was even more of a sight was the large ant creatures that sipped and sucked at the water's edge. The nomads used camels as their primary mode of transportation, but they also used these large ants with a bulging orb filled with the water they drank.

The entire oasis turned their eyes up to the worn warhost as they crested a dune. With barely any prodding, the entire force of orcs and thralls rushed forwards, either to battle for control of the oasis or to throw themselves into the water like many of the nomads were seen to be doing, Magnus did not know.

What he did know, was that what "fighting" that happened was quickly over before he even knew it began. What felt like seconds passed and he found himself at the edge of the oasis and eagerly drinking the cool refreshing water as orcish soldiers and thralls alike did the same. Warg mounts eagerly lapped up water beside the others, none cared for anything but to desperately get the moisture into them.

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When at last Magnus looked up he took stock of what had happened. It seems the nomads quickly surrendered, in exchange for keeping their large water ants safe. He could guess why as there was a great volume of the precious liquid within many of the orbed ants that glowed with a yellow sheen to it. Some of the nomads threw themselves towards the orcs to keep them from harming the ants, after many scuffles it was revealed why as a nomad took a heavily sunburnt orc's waterskin and went over to the bulbous ant and produced a small dirk. A slight cut was all it took for the sweet smelling water to begin to trickle out. Pressing slightly against the cut turned it into a stream and before long the waterskin was overflowing with the sweet water.

The cut sealed itself after being left alone for a moment, keeping the rest of its haul safe and secure. The nomad handed back the waterskin and the orc snarled at him before taking eager gulps of the nectar. While the orcs were harsh in their approach, many of the thralls were far more polite in requesting a taste of the sweet water the ants held within. The large lumbering ants themselves barely seemed to notice the cuts its orb received.

Magnus got up and looked around, despite the rush of orcs and brief scuffles for the protection of the water ants, most of the oasis seemed like it didn't care. The nomads freely bartered and traded in their different tongues without issue, many disrobed and flung themselves into the water and bathed without care or judgement, others cooked on sorcerous fires the various creatures of the desert. Scorpions, snakes, and even small tawny hares were roasted with mouth watering spices that filled and stung the nose and roused the stomach.

Some of the nomads lurched and fumbled around the oasis as they drank from what looked like a cactus. Plucked of all its spines and safe to hold, the nomads drank of the juice within and slurred and wobbled like they were drunk. One particularly tipsy catkin hobbled over and almost fell within the water were it not for Magnus catching him. Something he immediately regretted as he got a face full of the sickly sweet cactus juice upon the cat's breath as he thanked him.

"Thank you new friend! Ish good for Jezar to have many friendsh to keep him from drowning ish it not? Ah! But a way to go ish it not?! Drowning in water in the deshert! Shuch a comical fate it would be!"

"I suppose so." Magnus said as he held his breath as the catkin got uncomfortably close.

"Are you here sheeking The Losht City?"

"The what?"

"The Losht City! The ancient home of Jezar's people! Losht beneath the shands many many shuns ago! It is shaid that when the shun rishes in the wesht will the losht city rishe above the shands once again! And wealth and proshperity will flow from it again!" The cat slurred as he gestured to the vast expanse of desert around them.

"Uncle?! Don't be telling him about that old story! You'll get in trouble when his friends don't come back!" Another catkin rushed over and began to push the cactus juiced cat away while trying to secure a large pack that had what looked like fishing tackle poking through.

"Bah! Ja'kar, it ish no shtory! It ish truth! Jezar hash sheen it!"

"Oh? And where is it then?" The nephew asked.

The surly cat looked at his nephew suspiciously.

"Why do you want to know?"

"So we can go and find it so we can lead our people into wealth and prosperity." The nephew said sarcastically.

His uncle eyed him for a moment with wary eyes before turning his head to the side.

"Jezar doesh not remember."

"I thought so. Come on, back to the village with you." The nephew commanded and led the drunken cat away to a pair of camels and keeping him from falling into the oasis and possibly drowning on their way there.

Magnus watched them go, wondering if this supposed "lost city" was what they were out here for. He turned and walked over to the Warchief as orcish tents were placed where the others were torn down. He was looking over various people that had their hands bound by rope and dressed in rags.

"Tell me Duke, do you have children?" The Warchief asked Magnus as he neared.

"Why? So you know how many chains you'll need to enslave the whole of my family?" Magnus barked.

"Would it matter if I did or not? They are a world away and will be some time before I can "clamp them in chains". So satisfy my curiosity."

Magnus snorted as the Warchief looked over more of the nomads before him.

"If you must know, then no. I do not have any heirs."

"Oh? Why not?"

Magnus got a pained look on his face.

"The Blessed Mother has not deemed it to be so."

"How do you know?"

"What?"

"How do you know that it is your Goddess and not your mate?"

"How dare you?!" Magnus seethed at the implication. Some of the orcish guards moved their hands to their weapons as Magnus took a step towards the Warchief.

"It is a simple question. Surely as a ruler you have sought to expand your bloodline? If any of my own brides were not capable of bearing offspring then they would be cast aside, either by me or the other brides as they sought my favor at the expense of hers."

Magnus gritted his teeth.

"Before I assumed my father's throne I did as many princes did."

"And sired many bastards I presume?"

A guilty and pained expression formed on the Duke's face.

"Yes."

"And where are these bastards? Were they in Daele?"

"No, they were sent away. Their mothers were offered coin and they took it and the babes away from Daele, away from causing any potential scandal or dispute of succession for the future, legitimate, heir."

"And does your mate know of these women and bastards?"

"Of course she does! She is my wife and I held back from her nothing!"

The Warchief grunted in thought.

"So then it is not by your Goddess's hands that you have no legitimate heir but your mate's."

Magnus bit his tongue as the orcish warriors took a step closer to him.

"She has done her best and there is no fault in that."

The Warchief gestured to a catkin woman and she shuffled over to where Magnus was standing and bowed before kneeling before him. Magnus looked down at the catkin then back up at the Warchief.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"A gift. Use her to provide yourself an heir where your mate has failed to do so. While my men don't care for them, I hear many humans quite enjoy those with fur. Or have her give you water or food or wash your clothes or just have her stand there and look pretty for all I care."

"I will not be toyed with in such a manner! I refuse to accept this so called gift!"

"Very well then." The Warchief stated with a bored expression and gestured to one of the orc guards.

The guard drew his blade and advanced on the catkin that knelt submissively before Magnus.

"What are you doing?!"

"Killing her. I got her as a gift for you and you refused it. We already have more than enough thralls after trading with some of the locals we don't need another, and we orcs don't particularly care for them ourselves. So, we'll kill her and be done with it."

Magnus looked between the advancing guard, the catkin who continued to kneel despite what was about to happen to her, and the curious gaze of the Warchief as he watched the Duke. Eventually, Magnus snarled and grabbed the catkin woman and held her protectively close.

"Fine! I'll accept your cruel gift!"

The Warchief said nothing for a moment as he cocked a curious brow at the Duke before stating simply.

"Very well."

The guard sheathed his weapon and returned to his position. Before Magnus could say anything else though, the wizened shaman shuffled into the tent and bowed before the Warchief.

"Warchief. You summoned me?"

"Yes. We've wandered this desert far longer than I desire. Where is our heading?"

"I have consulted the stars and have acquired a guide." The old one-eyed shaman said as a nomad dressed in dark cloth was forced into the tent and bowed deeply to the Warchief.

"Speak."

"I know where you want to go! I know the lost temple that you seek!" The nomad spoke quickly with his head bowed.

"Are you talking about The Lost City?" Magnus asked.

The Old One-Eye shook his head. "No. The Lost City is but a fable for fools and desperate treasure hunters lost to the ever shifting sands. What we seek is something even the sand dares not claim. The Temple of Sytrix, The Records Keeper."