“You shadow-walking, knife-eared, daisy-eater, I’m gonna git you!”

The shackled orc’s rage was hotter than the dusty desert air as the sheriff pulled him towards the jail. “Did you hear what I said?” She heard him, but would not give him the satisfaction of a reply. Croom was another in a long list of Daggers’ blow-hard enemies that she would see again. She would cross that bridge when she needed to. The best part of having orcs in such a perilous agreement with the Five Kingdoms is they were less trusted than shadow elves.

When she looked over, she saw all four mercenaries crouched over, their hands restrained tight behind their backs. The sheriff and his deputies assisted the ship’s crew with the detainment, but didn’t bother thanking the drow for their help. I’m sure he’d like to lock us up as well! She thought, locking eyes with the mustached officer.

Air Marshall Bertramm did, however, thank her for turning in the Fire Hog spellslinger. “Every fireball-throwing slinger off of the streets is a blessing.” He said as they pulled the orc mercenaries from the brig of the ship. “Whatever you’re doing here, you best make it quick. Drow don’t arrive at these parts often.”

“So I’ve been told.” She shook his hand. “Fly safe, sir.” Saffron turned to her men, who were already glistening with sweat. “Alright, pick up your bags and let’s go find this tavern.” She hoisted her pack up and glanced back at the Black Dog.

The modern airfield held a sharp contrast to the decrepit sandy town. A single thirty-foot docking tower, the most recent structure in Port Behlego, gleamed in the noon sun, like a beacon in the stark landscape. An exquisite and grand clock faced the town, but gave little purpose. There were two times a day in the desert. Hot and night. Everything in between would happen when it happened. The building was courtesy of the R.H. Brummlefeld Airship Company and the hope was that it would usher in an improved period of prosperity for Port Behlego. For a price, of course, as that was the way of industry.

Thulaeth slung his bag over his shoulder and looked up at the azure sky until his eyes tracked the sun, which wasn’t hard to miss. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to block the light. “It’s too bright here! There’s nary a cloud to shade that infernal sun!” He lifted his leather hood to protect him from the harsh rays, which helped a little. “Why is this place called ‘Port Behlego’? There’s no water for miles!”

“Once upon a time, there was.” Maarko pointed to the bordering rim of a massive canyon they’d seen from the sky. 200 feet of sheer tan rock led to the bottom. Ancient sun-bleached wooden piers dangled over the edge like skeletal fingers stretching to the pit. Rotten mooring ropes hung from giant unused bollards and peeling red paint threatened to fall to the sand, cracked from the heat. Several hundred feet of crimson fencing, complete with warning signs, sat along the dangerous precipice. “That gorge used to have water a couple of centuries ago. This town was three times the size and was a prosperous fishing port. The ocean southwest of here fed the inlet all the way here.”

“So, what happened?” Dayne inquired of their resident historian. “Where did the water go?”

Maarko tossed his hands up in the air. “I don’t know. It was there one day and gone the next. There wasn’t a drop remaining. To make matters stranger, there were no fish or anything left. Everything just upped and vanished except for the rocks at the bottom. King Arioford ordered the inlet opened back up, but any water that flows to the canyon disappears. A curious thing indeed.” He stepped over to join his leader, his bag over his shoulder. “The water dried up, so did the town. At least until people discovered the magical riverium lines.”

“Alright, enough history lessons.” Saffron started walking down the dusty street towards the scattering of buildings. “Let’s find that saloon before my skin dries out.”

Each agreed that Port Behlego must have been more important in its heyday than what they see today. Rotting abandoned buildings and shops lined both sides of the principal thoroughfare. Magic curio stores and bookstores replaced stores that once contained fishing goods. The only other industry that supported this “blink” of a town was glass making. Artisans used Samhir desert sand for creating and importing glass to all reaches of Tamrien, since it surrounded them. A massive foundry sat behind a row of old wood structures. Workers moved in and around the brick building that belched smoke into the air. This had kept the small hamlet alive for the past 200 years and its people were thankful for it.

Glistening among the sands were immense ponds on the outskirts of town. Sheets of dried, cracked leather stretched over the pools to keep the sun off them. Moisture would collect on the underside and drip into reservoirs. The pools supplied the village with fresh water while the Bergerac Water Company would trek from the south to refill them when they got low. The remains of an ambitious but abandoned aqueduct project stood in the distance. The desert reclaimed the lengthy stone troughs that would have carried water to the port village.

Besides the Aeroport, another modern building sat at the end of the dusty main road. Constructed from clay and sandstone, The Academie Magicka sat on the convergence of the riverium lines. A blue and white structure, it served as a library and research lab for pilgrim mages. Day or night, robed wizards studied and perfected their spells for the annual Compendium Lottery. Several figures loomed around the arched door that led inside, but Saffron couldn’t see what they were doing. Probably performing a strange wizard ritual or something. She presumed.

Required by law, all magicians will present created spells to the Cabinet for an annual lottery. The members would choose one spell for the compendium and give a monetary prize. Uncatalogued magicks were illegal and those practicing could face prosecution. The Cabinet had final say on magic included in the catalog. Ambitious mages came here to perfect innovative sorcery to change the world. They hoped the Cabinet would acknowledge their efforts and reward them with fame and riches. Especially riches.

The unit traipsed down the desert street, studying the townspeople who tried to go about their day, but distracted by the dark quartet of strangers. Wisps of sand drifted over their boots and around their bodies. Saffron halted in front of a thin man who approached. His drenched, sweaty clothes matched the bitter odor radiating from his body. A sword rattled and dangled from his hip. She noticed a dingy tin badge gleaming against his chest. He must be the law in this town. Wide chestnut eyes peered from beneath his enormous sweat-stained hat. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Excuse me, can you tell me where ‘The Entitled Mage’ is?”

His mouth opened, and he ejected a massive hunk of tobacco juice onto the sand. She glanced down at the gooey, brown mess, then back at him. “Depends. We have a lot of ‘em here. Which one you lookin’ fer?”

Confused, she shook her head. “Huh? No, I mean the cantina.”

The scruffy man drew a filthy gingham handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from the rear of his neck. “Oh, yeah. Of course. The cantina is a little further up the road a piece. Look for it on the other side of Bernthal’s Mercantile and Dry Goods.” He examined her from head to toe and looked at the others. His brow arched. “You here for trouble? We don’t see much of yer kind here, but mind your business and you’ll fit right in just fine.”

The Inspector pulled a silver coin from the black pouch on her hip. “Thanks, friend.”

He waved his hand at her and tapped his bronze badge with the end of a small club. “Keep yer coin, ma’am. Just doing my civic duty, y’know?”

A few townsfolk on the main street stopped to gawk at the dark leathered outsiders. Drow rarely travels this far south. Shadow elves were reluctant to visit a place where heat and sunshine were abundant. Dust and blowing sand dried their mouths, giving them a thick gummy sensation of forced saliva. A saloon would be a haven at this point for their parched tongues.

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As the only dry goods store for a hundred miles, Bernthal’s Mercantile appeared as a hub of activity. They neared the giant white brick building with a matching wooden porch that offered a bit of shade on this hot day. Laborers busied themselves by unloading crates and boxes from the huge transport caravans parked nearby. A husky, bearded man stepped from the wagon, his eyes narrowed from the sun. After wiping the sweat from his brow, he sauntered towards the unit of strangers. Like many others in this desert wasteland, his shirt was dark with sweat and sand. Two scrawny men followed, their filthy hands brushed against their grimy clothes.

“Hey!” He attempted to get their attention as he trudged through the sand toward them. “I’m talking to you, rock-crawlers!”

Saffron has heard every insult imaginable. Daisy-eaters, rock-crawlers, shadow-skins, and lurkers. The list could go on and on. Most often, shadow elves would snap when called derogatory names, but Saffron isn’t your average drow. They’ve lived and worked in this world of men for a long time. To survive well, you’ve had to develop thick skin over the years and humans were the worst at testing other races. Dwarves would give a passing glance, shrug, and move forward with their day. Odd as it seemed, humans felt like anything that didn’t look like them was trespassing. “Just keep walking.” She whispered.

The bearded man paced with them as he spoke. “What are ya’ll doing here?”

“We are minding our business friend. Suggest you do the same.” She kept her eyes forward, avoiding him with the satisfaction of eye-to-eye contact.

This infuriated the man even more. Another trait of humans was their false sense of disrespect if a person didn’t want to converse with them. “Perhaps your business is my business, lurker.” A thick, calloused hand grabbed her shoulder to stop her.

Blazing fire erupted in her mind. Primal instinct raged in her gut and spread to her limbs, which ached to act on his violation. For the single moment that his hands were on her, a thousand emotions flooded her thoughts. In her previous days, she would grab those thick sausage fingers and break them one by one, despite his strength. Her instructor had often told her that the big ones always go down the hardest. She was correct. Most important was that Saffron took gratification in bringing down the big ones. It sent a message to others. This wasn’t the old days. Today was different.

She ground to a halt as she noticed his crusty hands grabbed her uniform. When she looked up at him, his brutish features contorted in rage. Her bright emerald eyes narrowed and twinkled as they met his. His bloodshot stare widened when he realized he’d made a critical error. An inherent magical ability of hers, her skill, was being able to charm weaker minds. Easiest when dealing with less intelligent people. “Let go of my uniform, scrub-farmer.”

The man’s fingers relaxed, and he drew back his hand. Suddenly, a wave of embarrassment flushed his pockmarked, filthy face, and his mind twisted with confusion. He hated drow with a passion, but couldn’t remember why. His eyes darted around and a feeling of understanding overcame him, and he took a step away from her. “I’m...uh...sorry, ma’am. I thought you were somebody else.”

“And would that make it any more ok?” She peeled his fingers away from her leather.

“No. I s’pose not.” Shame filled his tone, his head lowered.

“Don’t bother us again or you’ll pull a stump back instead of a hand. Is that clear?”

“Of course.” He turned and gathered his friends to go back to their work. They looked at him, confused at the events that had transpired.

Thulaeth asked her. “What did you do to him?”

“Just turned on the charm, is all.” She grinned.

They stopped in front of the following building past the mercantile. The sign above the door was peeling paint, but the words “The Entitled Mage” were still visible in bold red script. Mixed with the loud ramblings of the patrons inside, piano music and gleeful singing filled the air. Like most taverns, drunks, gamblers, and prostitutes collected there to prey upon newcomers. When they would walk in, Saffron expected the music would stop and everyone will stare at them. They were recent arrivals in town. They were also drow, staying in a sunny desert village in the middle of nowhere.

“Best behavior, boys. No trouble, understand. I don’t care how deserving someone may be, you will back down. We aren’t here to fight.”

In unison, “Yes mistress.”

Saffron pushed open the swinging half-doors. Her keen elven eyesight adjusted to the dark interior and their long shadows stretched across the dusty floor. Clouds of thick cigar and pipe smoke hung in the air and stung their eyes for a moment. Each corner of the substantial bar hall brimmed with the odor of tobacco spit and sweat. The music screeched to a halt, as predicted. Everyone turned to see what darkened the saloon doorway.

Townies and robed mages who had been laughing and cavorting with each other moments earlier stopped their partying. Every suspicious eye was on the quartet of dark-elves standing in the narrow doorway. Other than the crunch of peanut shells and sawdust under their feet, silence filled the room. After a few seconds, the crowd returned to their drinks and conversation.

The barkeep, a dwarven woman, threw a towel over her broad shoulder and waved the group over. “Lookee! Don’t see much of yer kind through here!” Her thick dwarven accent poured over them like a stout whiskey. “So, new-faces, what canna get you?”

Saffron reached into her breast pocket for the card Tetathay had given her. “I was told to give it to you, and you’d know what to do with it.” She handed it to the bartender, who accepted it in her tiny, thick hands.

After a glance, she said, “Park yerself right here.” She climbed down her step stool and disappeared into a darkened corner of the saloon. A few patrons turned their heads back at the drow, but it didn’t seem to bother them much.

After a few minutes, she came back, climbed back up to her step and said, “Go over there. He’ll see ‘ya, but you gotta buy somethin’.”

Saffron looked to the corner and saw a shadow of a man sitting alone at a table. She raised four fingers to the barkeep. “Ales. Please send them to that table.” On the scratched wooden countertop, she placed four silver eagles, tip included.

“Awright then.” The bartender scooped up the coins without bothering to count them.

Conversations and drinking continued as the team made their way towards the back of the bar. The corner was in a quieter area, which suited them well. As they closed in, the features of the man they were there to meet became more apparent. A slender older man sat by himself, watching them. His discernible feature was his short blond hair and matching blonde bushy mustache. Pink and red scars covered the left side of his face. He wore a green and black padded leather armor vest with a white shirt underneath. Eyeing the group, he stood, towering over the elves, except for Dayne.

“Saffron DeGuerro? I’m Jarl Brecchian. Have a seat.”

She nodded. “It’s a joy to meet you, Mr. Brecchian. Director Thangalier speaks highly of you.”

“Jarl, please.” He settled into his creaking chair. “She’s a wonderful woman. How is she?”

“Doing well. Busy with the construction of Drowchard.”

“I bet. That’s an ambitious project, but I’m sure Empress Adellakara will make as beautiful as your homeland.” He motioned to the chairs. “Please, have a seat.” She and her men pulled chairs over and sat.

“You’ve been to Capranio’DuChamp?” She brushed the sand from the chair.

“Once, a long time ago. Not very welcoming for humans, but it was lovely.” He leaned in towards the group. “She said little about your mission other than you were looking for someone.”

“Yes, his name is Marcrumm Dial. He’s a mage and engineer. She believes he’s connected to a string of drow disappearances that have been hitting recently.”

“I’ve heard his name before, but not for a while. He created The Dialspeak, I believe.”

A serving wench arrived and placed four frosty mugs of dark ale on the table. Thick caps of foam dripped from the side, melting a thin layer of frost which dribbled down the mug. The smell of hops tantalized their senses. Saffron hefted the chilled pint, eager to take a drink, but noticed the Zeroam was sipping a glass of pale red milk. This struck her as peculiar. “No ale for you?”

“No, just strawberry milk. I gave up the hard stuff years ago.” His answer was short enough Saffron didn’t pry.

His curious response satisfied her, and she moved on. “The Magistrate was sure that you could help us locate him? Or at least where he was last seen.”

“I have a friend, a seer that specializes in doing that kind of thing. My friend can’t tell you where he is, but where he has been. Is he your villain?”

“Magistrate Thangalier doesn’t think so. She told us there is a connection there, but he’s not our bad guy.”

“Alright then. Give me the night and I’ll talk to my contacts and see what I can dig up. You said he was a mage, yeah? Where did he go to school?”

“Aire Nexbridge and Nexbridge Prime in Marchenne, but he hasn’t been there for months.”

“Well, I’ll start there and see what I can find out. Meet me back here in-” A booming voice filled the hall.

“Hey! Well, what do we have here?” A huge human man in a tan shirt with the sleeves cut off approached them. The clicks of his worn heels stomped hard on the wooden planks. Grimy smudges of dirt mixed with a sheen of greasy sweat covered his tattooed arms. Two smaller men flanked and encouraged him with derogatory ramblings and giggles.

The crowd fell silent while some even scooted their chairs away. Dayne felt a pounding in his skull while his vision turned red. His combat skill told him danger approached, but not for them.

Jarl looked at the men, then back at Saffron. “This boy’s right on time.”