The Sea of Sands.

It had been three days since they left the giant oasis. Three days since they last saw real water that didn't come from a giant ant and didn't taste like nectar from a flower. Three days since their numbers continued to drop despite the reprieve.

Yet the warchief didn't seem concerned nor seemed to care at all, Magnus noted as he watched the warchief march on upon his warg. If one of his warriors fell due to the heat then there was no funerary rites, no ceremony or pause in their march. They were merely left where they fell for their skin to scorch away and their bones to bleach under this thrice-damned sun.

Those like Magnus didn't even have a mount to carry their aching feet and bones as they marched. Not like he did before, but some of the warhosts' thralls had taken the opportunity to climb aboard one of their more mild mannered pack animals. But that had gone away since their time within this infernal desert. What beasts they still had were either traded to the nomads for guides and the giant water ants or were dying off as their stubbornness finally gave way to heat and fatigue.

Yet the warchief didn't care, Magnus thought as they reached a small island among the endless sands. That's what Magnus thought of it. Their guide seemed less comforted at having solid stone under his feet though. Magnus was grateful regardless to have something that didn't shift under his feet. Even if the smooth stone looked like waves that had been petrified.

Normally they would take this opportunity to break camp upon the scarce solid surface. But their catkin guide told them to wait before they did so. Magnus wasn't sure why though. Few sailors would wave a chance at solid land after being at sea for months if not years. Yet the guide seemed frightened by the stone and glanced along the far edges and towards the dunes as if expecting something to appear before them.

Magnus wasn't sure how their nomad guide could see though. The sun was glaring and oppressive overhead and bared down on them like a crushing wave. Uncaring for the lives that suffered beneath its rays.

That was when Magnus noted that the glare wasn't just coming from above. But from across the way from them. He held up his hand to block out the worst of it to see what was the cause, and his heart almost stopped when he beheld what arose from the dunes.

Terror beasts. Large reptiles that roamed the places of the world far more ancient than even the elves or dwarves. Mouths full of teeth larger than he was tall and covered in armor that could stop any blade or turn any arrow. Some were said to even ward against magic!

He counted six of their number. Three of them were quadrupedal with plates and spikes along their backs, tails, and heads. Two walked on two legs and had a backwards facing curved horn on its head. As intimidating as they were however, there was but one that called forth memories of a time in his youth he long wished to part with.

It easily dwarfed them all in sheer height and mass, with a head larger than even the warchief's warg and full of teeth that could easily be called swords in their own right. Legs that were thick with muscle while the arms were seemingly laughably small compared to the rest of its body. But the raw savage hunger displayed within its eyes made any form joviality flee from his chest.

Their guide was quick to rush forwards and threw himself onto the stone in prostration. Magnus thought he had gone mad until he shifted his hand and revealed that the terror beasts weren't alone. Upon their backs were lizardfolk. Scales were the same color as the sand and their reptilian eyes remained upon them as their guide seemed to speak something in the tongue of the nomads. He wasn't sure if he was trying to speak to them or if he offering up a prayer.

He had learned back at the oasis that the nomads of this desert worshiped a pantheon of gods and at its head was a sun god that held dominion over the land. He also learned that worship was splintered and fractured into dozens of differentialities to the point where there was frequent disagreement over even the pronunciation of the sun god's own name! He was told that he should just refer to him as The Sun God lest he end up insulting no less than half of the nomads gathered there.

He wasn't sure what he spoke to the lizardfolk. But the one that rode upon the terrible of the terror beasts nudged the beast forwards. Its mighty steps shaking the ground as a deep rumble reverberated from the beast's chest.

Now that he was closer, Magnus could see that this lizardkin was possibly ancient. Its scales were bleached from many years under the sun and scars covered them. He was sure the lizardkin had more that he couldn't see, but the rest of his scales was covered in stone and bone armor covered in strange tribal paints. The same for the mightiest of the terror beasts, Magnus noted as he saw deep scars running along the mighty beast's hide. Even the mighty beast hadn't forgone armor though and it had a stone saddle along its back and neck that the lizardkin rode upon. The only comfort he could see upon it was some hide that acted as mild cushioning.

The lizardkin and his horrible beast halted not far from their cowering guide. It glared down at them with a look in its eyes that spoke of ancient knowledge that Magnus couldn't ever begin to understand. The lizardkin stared down for many tense seconds, tense seconds that the remnants of the warhost used to get increasingly restless and many started to draw their weapons in preparation for a fight that they all knew they would not win. If they had encountered them when they first entered the desert with full strength and being well rested than Magnus believed that they might've had hope of beating them. But now? They would do little more than annoy the ancient monsters even with the still sizable number of troops they had left.

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The lizardkin then waved his bleached claw towards their water ants. The nomads acted instantly and decapitated the precious source of water for them. One of the beasts didn't let out even a single noise as its life was swiftly ended and its needed contents was spilled onto the sand.

The orcs, and even the thralls, were understandably quite furious at having such a precious source of water taken from them and some made to execute the nomads before their other sources of water was taken too. Any sense of slave/master being temporarily forgotten as anger drove them to kill the nomads.

But they were still weak from the sun and heat, and were slow and still unfamiliar to the sands. Before the first orcish axe came down or a thralls weakened fist. The water from their ants had already been spilled, and the beasts now laid dead. A fate the nomads soon followed in the fury of the warhost.

If the lizardkin cared for the sudden plight of the nomads, they made no effort to assist. Instead, the lizardkin reached into a pouch, withdrew a small bundle, and tossed it down before the nomad. Then the lizardkin pulled on the thin reins of the terrorbeast, and led it and its party away.

Magnus noted as they began to part that the rest of the terror beasts were also adorned in the same stone and bone armor as the lead lizardkin and his terrible mount. The glare, he realized as they left, was coming from a massive sunstone that glowed with the intensity of the sun above. The giant gem was secured to the back of a terror beast that was low to the ground and had a club for a tail and the lizardfolk seemed to be transporting it somewhere.

Magnus may never know where though as his mind turned to their once vital source of water as it quickly dried in the sun above them, along with the blood of the nomads that had followed soon after to their deaths. As if sensing his thoughts, the catkin slave girl that the Warchief had gotten for him, and had remained at his heels silently the entire time, procured her own ration of the sweetened water and offered the waterskin to him without a word and her eyes downcast.

His throat was parched at just the thought of this being the last of their water. He almost didn't even notice when his hand reached out to take the waterskin without thought. But he stopped himself. He had his own water and it would not be fair to take hers as well. So he pushed the waterskin back towards her.

"No. You take it."

But she merely offered the waterskin again. Her arms outstretched and her face and eyes facing down in supplication. This poor girl, Magnus thought as he once more pushed the waterskin back towards her.

"You take it."

Yet again she held the water out for him to take. He growled in frustration and pushed it back towards her.

"I said take it!"

This time she kept the waterskin close to her. But she made no motion to drink from it and merely held it to her chest. Her eyes and face didn't even flinch at the tone of his voice. This poor thing, Magnus thought as he tore his eyes away from her and towards the nomad as he returned.

"You better have a good explanation if you don't want to end up like your kin." The Warchief rumbled, his warg following suit with a deep growl.

"Then kill me. My hardships will be over and yours will be longer still." The guide replied.

"What did you speak with the lizardfolk about?" The one-eyed orc asked as he stepped between them.

"They do not speak, at least rarely to us. The number of times I have heard a lizardkin speak can be counted on one hand. The times I've heard them speak any known tongue can be counted on none." The guide explained further.

"So what did they want?" Magnus asked.

The guide pointed to the giant water ants.

"They do not care for the ants. I am not sure why, but whenever they come across them in their wanderings they are slaughtered. If our people encounter them while in the possession of them, many times the tribe will execute the ants in an effort to appease them and hope they do not kill us."

"Can we find more?" Magnus asked.

But the nomad shook his head.

"They are a rare find. Never are they found in the same places at the same times."

"Where do they come from then?" The One-Eyed asked.

The guide shrugged his shoulders.

"We do not know. Every tribe has a theory. Some say that they are a gift from the Sun God himself. Others say that there is an entire realm of insects below the sands and that is where they come from."

"And which is true?" Magnus asked.

"I do not know. The most pious would believe the former. The more practical would believe the latter. I am in the camp of the latter. There are many kingdoms and empires buried beneath the sands. What is one more?"

"Do you believe that?" The Warchief rumbled.

"More than the likelihood of gods blessing us with large ants. Besides, there are tales of bands of nomads or thieves coming across lost sections of cities long since forgotten and buried. Among the treasures they inevitably find are strange suits of armor and containers. Some believe it is not suits of armor and containers. But shed carapaces and old cocoons."

"What becomes of these strange treasures?" Magnus prodded.

"Nothing. Those few that try to bring them back to market end up disappearing before the sun rises again. Nothing left of them but beetle infested clothing. There are some fools that still try it from time to time. But most thieves and bands are content to pocket the golden treasures among uncovered ruins and leave the rest for the desert to reclaim once again. On occasion one or two of the water ants can be found wandering such ruins. But this is never a sure thing." The nomad continued.

"So how do you know such tales are true?" Magnus asked.

"Because I have seen such a ruin. I have seen the suits of armor. Light as a feather, yet strong as any armor forged by experienced hands. I have also seen the containers. Some are like an egg, attached to walls and ceilings of old buildings with a hard sticky substance. Others are like a chest but made in golden amber instead. One of my band had the foolish thought to try and return with one of the eggs. He was gone when we awoke the next morning. Nothing remained of him other than his clothes, and the dozens of beetles that infested them."

"How does this help us now that we have no water?" The Warchief rumbled.

The nomad produced the pouch given to him by the lizardkin. He undid the string and pulled out a small stone tablet, a small sunstone, and some kind of lizardfolk spyglass made from bone and glass.

"These will lead us to water."

"How?"

"When night falls. The moon can hide the oasis among the sands. This will illuminate them for us to see." He explained and held up the glowing sunstone and spyglass.

"Don't suppose that's a map?" Magnus asked as he pointed to the stone tablet.

The guide chuckled.

"Even if it was, why would I give it to you? So you can cut my throat now that I have no further use?"

"We can still do that." The Warchief rumbled.

"You could. But while the location of the temple remains ever the same. The path that leads to it never is. The way changes along with the shifting sands. As does the dangers we will face along the way. So even if you killed me, there would be no promise of you reaching your goal even if the Heavens themselves guided you there. This is but a hint of what we might face." The catkin said as he gestured to the tablet that Magnus could see was marked with strange claw like glyphs and had holes in seemingly random places upon it.

"But you know how to navigate these dangers I wager? And are able to translate it?" Magnus asked.

"I do and can. You are fortunate that I do not take the deaths of my kin personally else I might have considered leading you to your deaths."

"Who says you still wont?" Magnus asked skeptically.

The only response from the catkin was a sly smile and a wink.

"Come. The heat dries us while we talk."

With that, the guide continued on. The warhost following not long after. Leaving the strange and possibly ill-fortuned meeting with the lizardfolk, and the drying bodies of their water ants and the nomads, behind them.