Beneath the unrelenting rays of an angry red sun, a long line of wagons rumbled down a barren road. The road, paved with blue stones the color of a cloudless sky, stretched toward the horizon where the first hints of civilization could be seen in the distance. The sight came as a relief to the mercenaries and merchants that had been traveling with the caravan for months. The stress of weaving their way through this desert of rusty red rock, while avoiding the bottomless rifts crisscrossing the landscape, melted away like wax beneath a warm flame.
As news spread down the line of covered wagons, a buzz of eagerness seemed to permeate the dry air. Guards sat a bit higher in their saddles and wagon drivers urged the oxen to pick up the pace. Everywhere you looked, there were smiles and more than a few flasks produced as merchants toasted the success of another trip across the Searing Sands.
Most of the convoy was celebrating. A small contingent remained unmoved by the sight of the distant city. One man felt as if he were duty-bound to change their dour demeanor.
Dalthan truly believed he’d handled the culture shock of being transported to the Hub with admirable aplomb. Despite growing up in a cosmopolitan metropolis, it’d been a challenge to broaden his worldview to add goblins and orcs to his list of people. To say nothing of the more monstrous denizens residing in the mecca of evil. Nevertheless, being the open-minded and morally flexible sort, Dal had risen to the task and quickly learned to suppress his urge to flee in fear every time he saw a beholder or a leathery-winged demon.
This realm, creatively called The Red Wastes, was proving to be similarly difficult to adjust to. Not because of the inescapable heat or the irritating sand that got everywhere. Not because of the strange lizard-birds that had zero issues relieving themselves wherever they happened to be standing. No, as difficult as those things were to brush off, there was one problem that dwarfed those issues like a whale overshadowing an underfed trout.
The bugs. Not the familiar stinging, biting kind that choked the streets of Low Town in the sweltering summer heat like a buzzing fog. The bugs Dal referred to were man-sized killing machines with black, bulbous compound eyes and serrated mandibles that could snap through his neck like a tailor’s scissors shearing through a loose thread. They used two of their six limbs to walk upright, leaving them four arms that ended in murderously sharp claws. That they hadn’t killed anyone, yet, only drew more attention to the truly alien thing about this new species known as Thri-kreen.
They had no appreciation for his charm.
“So then,” Dalthan said, his volume raised to a performative pitch so the half dozen Thri-kreen gathered could easily hear him, “I said, “That’s not the fish that you’re smelling!’”
The [Rogue]’s emerald eyes quickly flickered across his audience, desperate to see some sign of a reaction. Some of the human contingents of the caravan’s escort had drifted over to him during his story. They chuckled at the punchline, all smiles and shaking heads. The Thri-kreen, however, remained as silent as a battalion of statues. Marching ever forward, the mantis-like insects didn’t so much as spare the thief a glance, much less a well-deserved laugh.
Tossing his hands up in defeat, he turned toward his party for support. Shale was as quiet as the Thri-kreen and so was Zap, though the former had a satisfied smirk written across his thin lips that immediately put Dalthan on guard. His concern proved to be justified when his roaming eyes found the two women in their group. Keysha and Sylvia had rarely agreed on anything since their introduction, but by the way, the [Sharpshooter] and the [Druid] glowered at him, the two had finally managed to unite for the sake of a common cause.
The beads of sweat that suddenly clung to the back of his neck had nothing to do with the heat.
“That was an embellishment,” Dalthan said as he stepped away from the group of oversized bugs to move toward the two frowning women. “Sometimes you need to exaggerate the details. For entertainment purposes.” Sylvia and Keysha did not appear to be entertained. The two remained silent, never slowing their determined march alongside one of the wagons. The thief winced inwardly at their reaction but his lips curled into an infectious smile that could have drawn a grin from a condemned man standing on a gallows.
“Did you see that one Thri-kreen wiggle its antennae? I’m sure that’s its way of laughing.” Dalthan had no evidence to back up his claim aside from the undeniable knowledge that anyone with ears to hear would laugh at his jokes.
Keysha immediately challenged his entire worldview. “Or, maybe, it was mad because it had to listen to your awful fucking joke. Next time you might want to try something actually funny.”
With a gasp, Dal placed a palm to his chest as if the archer had just shot him in the heart. “You don’t mean that. That’s just the heat and the sand talking.”
“She’s right.” Sylvia’s normally sensual tone had been replaced by an angry vibrato that reminded him of a swarm of angry bees. The traitorous nymph narrowed her amber eyes, directing a frosty glare Dalthan’s way. “You weren’t funny when we first met and you’re even less funny now. I’ll never understand how you survived a meeting with the [Witch-Queen].”
“You two have a lack of appreciation for the sophisticated art of comedy.” Dalthan sniffed. “While I was entertaining our hosts, did either of you manage to find out anything about this Sweet Water place?”
With a defeated sigh the nymph broke rank with the archer to fall into step beside the thief. “I managed to get one of Kleko’s men to chat with me while you were wasting time. He spent most of his time staring at my tits, but you do the same thing and I put up with you.” Sylvia ignored Dalthan’s offended look as she continued. “We’ll arrive in the town in about an hour at the pace we’re moving. Sweet Water itself is little more than a trading outpost that serves as a last stop for travelers before they venture into the Quartz Valley.”
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The [Druid] took on a lecturing tone as the entire party drifted closer to her as she relayed the information she’d gathered. “Quartz Valley is a contested land claimed by the Thri-kreen that live in Sweet Water and a group of lizardfolk that live in the valley. Most of the fighting takes place in and around a military bastion called the Fortress of Scorched Stone. Since the only trade route that runs through the badlands passes through the shadow of the fortress, whoever controls it is the de facto ruler of the entire region.”
“The guard I spoke to hasn’t been in Sweet Water in months, so we’ll have to check in on the situation once we arrive in town.” Sylvia paused then, glancing around at their gathered team before she continued in a quieter tone that was pitched for their ears alone. “The last time he was here, the fortress was under the control of a lizardfolk warlord by the name of Blightclaw. The bulk of the goods being transported by the caravan are supplies to help the local Thri-kreen keep up their war against the lizards.”
“Wait,” Keysha said, her steely gray eyes suddenly sharpening to a razor’s edge. “You’re telling me that this is an arms delivery?”
Sylvia tilted her head quizzically. “Not everything is for the war effort. There are some textiles and grains mixed into the convoy. At least, that’s what I was told.”
“But the bulk of the goods are weaponry,” Keysha urged as she unslung the massive bow she carried over her shoulder.
“Yes?” The nymph’s eyes flickered away from the archer to seek support from Dalthan. “Why does that matter?”
“Because tactics matter,” Keysha said as she turned to put her back to the party. The huntress began scanning the rocky, chasm-filled wasteland while she spoke. “If I were a raider, and I wanted to stop gear from being delivered to my enemies, this is when I’d strike. You let them think they’ve won. You give them time to drop their guard. Then you slip your dagger between their ribs.”
“Where would they come from?” Sylvia’s voice held an unmistakable note of exasperation. “Look around you. We can see for miles in every direction. If we were about to be set upon by bandits, I think we’d be able to see them coming.”
“The chasms,” Dalthan said, his dagger suddenly appearing in his hand. “They’re hiding in the fucking rifts. We need to-”
A low, droning sound that vibrated through his bones clawed its way across the badlands like a peal of wounded thunder.
The sound’s effect on the Thri-kreen was both immediate and devastating. Every bug that Dalthan could see clutched at their head and sank to the ground. Some of the wagons were forced to stop to avoid trampling the paralyzed warriors, leading to a chain reaction of teamsters shouting and oxen braying in distress. By the time the single bass note faded into the distance, most of the caravan had come to an uneasy halt.
Dalthan would have admired the sheer efficiency of the attack if he hadn’t been more than a little worried about surviving the ensuing violence.
Violence was rapidly approaching. With the aid of the claws on their feet and hands, the lizardfolk streamed over the lip of three nearby chasms in a tide of bloodthirsty warriors. From what Dalthan could see, their weaponry was crude and unsophisticated. Many were armed with no more than their natural weaponry. The few that chose to arm themselves beyond their deadly claws carried weapons made of bone. Clubs and spears seemed to be the most common choice among the reddish-brown lizardfolk, though Dal did catch the light reflecting off a handful of metal weapons. If there was a saving grace, it was the fact that the approaching force appeared to be very lightly armored. Most wore little more than tattered loincloths and necklaces of small bones.
At least there’d be nothing to prevent him from stabbing a few before they tore him apart like a pack of feral dogs grabbing hold of a chicken.
“Can we reason with them?” Dalthan’s voice was urgent as he and his companions tightened rank. All around them, the Thri-kreen were beginning to rise shakily to their feet while the mounted guards tried to form a defensive line. The thief doubted it would be enough to repel the assault, but he couldn’t blame them for trying.
“Of course, we can,” Zaplixel said drily. “Run out there and ask to speak to their leader. We’ll be waiting for you right here.”
While the mercenaries struggled to salvage the situation, the merchants they were charged to defend had descended into complete chaos. Whips cracked as some of the drivers urged their wagons off the road in an attempt to pass the stalled convoy and make a run toward the distant town. The plan might have worked, if there were only a few wagons breaking away from the caravan. Unfortunately, nearly half the convoy tried to slip free. The ensuing jumble of confused oxen and desperate drivers would prevent all but a lucky few from making their escape.
“You’re not fucking helping, Zap.” Keysha hissed like a viper as she lifted her bow and nocked an arrow. “Are we fighting or are we fleeing?”
“There’s no way we’re outrunning them unless we steal some of the dinosaurs that the guards are riding on.” Sylvia stepped back, making room for Shale to place itself at the head of their formation.
“What the hell is a dinosaur?” Dalthan asked as he tore his gaze from the approaching tide of lizardmen to look toward the agitated [Druid].
“Not now, Dal.” Sylvia snapped, brandishing the staff in her hands as if she intended to brain the thief to death before the lizardmen arrived.
“Fight or flee?” Keysha asked through gritted teeth as she drew her arrow back and sighted down the length of its massive shaft.
“Fight, fight, fight!” Vex’s eager gurgle rose from Dal’s shadow, leaving no question about how the bloodthirsty abomination would prefer to handle the situation.
The scores of lizardmen descending toward the caravan in a rolling tide released a screech of feral glee as they grew near enough to smell the fear wafting from the merchants in waves. Some of the civilians had abandoned their cargo in favor of making a mad dash toward Sweet Water.
Even the most fleet-footed merchants wouldn’t be fast enough to escape. They knew it. And so did the lizardmen.
“You heard the slaad!” Dalthan twirled the dagger in his hand as he moved forward to stand beside Shale. A manic grin split his lips, matching the fierce gleam of his emerald eyes.
The [Rogue] decided to share rule twenty-five of the Thief’s Handbook.
“Sometimes,” Dalthan said, “the only reasonable solution to violence is more of it.”