The caravan set out with a great blaring of horns, starting with the two massive ones mounted on Diarisa’s flag vehicle. Cars and skiffs big and small arranged themselves into a standard defensive formation, and a few of Diarisa’s specially marked vehicles spread themselves evenly around to manage things.

Anyone not at the lead or the fringes was quickly caught up in a gigantic dust cloud and were forced to rely on displays, and those in open vehicles were forced to rely on masks as well. Marek kept careful track of Hannoer’s armoured car, as well as the battered but sleek one of his evident allies. Staying well away from one in the formation would have been easy enough, but two made things trickier, especially since they each kept in separate halves of the caravan.

Between two evils, Marek elected to stay closer to the smaller, more vulnerable car, but did his best to keep other vehicles between them. A game like this was often a matter of long-term strategy, like one of those table games he’d never seen the appeal of. The road didn’t stay one way or the other, and so shifts in landscape and the caravan itself presented opportunities to cut someone off or move behind them, if one had taken care to prepare the moment in advance.

The White Crew, as Marek’s mind randomly named them, were decent at the game, but he overall found himself to be the better. He knew this road and its upcoming changes, and getting ordered about by Diarisa’s managers was predictable enough to fit into his strategies. By the time the mass of cars started changing into a longer, thinner stream Marek managed to find himself well behind the Whites.

“The mountains,” Marek said and pointed to a screen. “The whole reason this is a skull road. Two mountain ranges with a corridor between them. Plenty of valleys and holes for raiders to eke out a living, and issue forth on travellers.”

“I wish I could see them,” Jesop commented, with a sudden dreaminess in his voice.

“You might, in a few seconds,” Marek told him, as a bend approached.

As they entered it there was a moment when the dust did indeed clear and they had an unobstructed view. Visible on their right were the eastern mountains, sharp, craggy and majestic in a foreboding kind of way. And visible on the edge of the corridor was an enormous shape in the rock, heavily sanded and deformed by time, but still recognisable as a person.

“That…” Jesop pointed, but the dust returned. “That was… that’s the biggest damn statue I’ve ever seen!”

“This planet has a history,” Marek said. “In the same way that it has water; it’s just slowly baking away.”

They passed by the giant form, and its twin on the other edge, and Diarisa’s convoy was in the corridor. From that point on it was a simple and rather unchanging charge forward. Marek did not entirely take his mind off the table game, but raider territory was no place to carry out blood feuds, and so he wasn’t overly worried.

Until, that is, the sky began darkening to a significant degree, and Diarisa’s managers let everyone know that there would be a rest during the night. It made sense, of course. They were close to a good defensive position, and the bigger kinds of cars needed more maintenance.

Marek checked his screen for the White Crew.

Let’s see how this plays out.

# # #

Three hours later he was creeping through the dark with the blade in his hand. He would have preferred the boltgun. But while getting spotted with a knife in his grip would earn suspicion, getting caught with a gun would earn hostility. So for now it was the blade.

Diarisa arranged everything into a standard defensive fortress. The biggest fighting vehicles formed a circle, the valuable cargo and equipment vessels were at the centre, and everyone else was in between the two.

Much as in the valley, people were either solitary or gathered their cars into small groups. It was through the dead space between those groups that Marek wove, looking for either of his pursuers. A subtle bit of sabotage could mean the difference between life and death, so why not see if it was at least an option? He knew there was little point in seeking out Hannoer’s car; the man was savvy enough to have a guard kept, but Marek was less sure about the White Crew. It was worth a check.

The binoculars hung around his neck, and he took another peek through them with the night vision mode activated. His sight passed over cars, tents, wagons, the silhouettes of night-time guards, mounted weapons, and a few quiet outdoor gatherings. With all of the biggest vehicles either encircling the camp or at the heart of it, there were only so many angles that could hide a decent-sized war wagon. He did his best to estimate the most efficient route through the dead space, then kept on going.

What with observation and stealth being equally important it was a slow process. He finished winding his way past several buggies in a row and a four-person late-night dinner on a big mat before he brought the binocs up again. A rather large housecar was partially blocking his view, but just barely visible beyond it was a tail end that very much resembled that of Hannoer’s vehicle.

There was a minor rise in the landscape that somehow had survived centuries of traffic, and so Marek used it for cover as he crouched his way into a better position. There was no reason not to assume Hannoer’s guards would have night vision of their own.

He waited a moment as he reached the right spot, to look around. He was surrounded by more mildly uneven landscape, which meant the nearest cars were a bit farther apart than in most places.

Feeling a bit assured, he lifted the binocs again and looked.

It was Hannoer’s wagon, alright. Marek’s mind automatically noted its weapons, armour and general qualities, but that all went into the background. The more immediate issue was that it was being guarded… by a couple of those white-clad people.

Marek ducked fully out of sight of the car and took Hilda’s special radio in hand.

“Jesop,” he whispered as he held in a button. “Move the car to the perimeter. By that really fat truck with all the scratches.”

“We’re leaving early?” his partner asked on the other end.

“It might be for the best,” Marek replied. “Just don’t get any ideas about taking off on your own. I have a system in place. It-”

He heard a sound. Marek whipped around and put the knife up as his other hand put the radio back. Three figures had approached him, faintly backlit by a light glowing on a distant skiff.

Hannoer was savvy, after all.

One stood back, on top of another rise and barely visible on the edge of the light. The other two were Hannoer and the man who’d been by his side in the bar. And they, too, had opted for blades.

“Found you, crack-worm,” the leader said with soft evil.

They were close enough to Marek that going for either of his guns would just mean giving them a great opening. Especially Hannoer, with those quick feet of his. So instead, Marek adjusted his fighting pose. If that half-visible fellow drew a gun he would have to dive down and go for his own. But the two men closer were the immediate problem.

“Ah, yes,” Hannoer added with some mockery. “The junk knife.”

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Marek kept the stained, ugly weapon at the ready, as well as his body. One of them would be the first to move. Which one it was would decide this.

“This is for Genner,” the Rock Snake leader sneered. “You-”

Marek heard a familiar sound; wetness, accompanied by the whistle of escaping air. The man up on the rise pitched forward with a choked gargle, and visible for just a moment in the skiff’s light was a spray of blood.

You didn’t see them until they slit your throat, after all.

As the man hit the ground there was a faint scream somewhere off in the camp, and the two foes before Marek looked to their comrade for a moment. Marek darted forward, going for Hannoer. The leader had the reflexes to hop further back, so Marek shifted to the other one. The fine keramak blade, carefully disguised with fake rust, punctured right through the armoured suit without slowing down.

There was another scream from another direction, and Hannoer did another hop away as he went for his sidearm. There were at least two silhouettes moving in the dark, as silent as whispers on the sand, and that was all Marek saw before he broke into a run.

“Night People!” someone shouted from a third direction. “Weapons! Wea-”

The voice was cut off, replaced by the sounds of gunfire from yet another direction. The ancient natives were out to play.

There was no keeping his gear silent during a full-on sprint, but he disregarded that fact. This particular game was about speed.

A light went on in his peripheral vision, quickly followed by another, as caravaners sought to deny the Night People their signature advantage, but that of course made Marek visible as well.

“They’re behind me, they’re behind me!” Marek shouted to the people he knew were up ahead, hoping to avoid death due to misidentification. Someone was indeed aiming a gun his way as he sped past, but no shot came.

There were more shouts of danger, screams of fear, and shrieks of pain. Someone fired an ultra-large flare up into the sky and it cast down a darker version of Nepil’s daylight. The fizzles and spurts made the display dazzling and uneven, casting everything into dizzying flashes; rapid-fire images of a camp waking up to danger. Engines started firing up, and the screams lost any sense of direction and simply became a universal din.

And the light changed. As Marek hurried between two covered wagons he started noticing it. The red started shifting towards a more purple hue. And this light did not come from above. It came more as a smoke, either from the ground or simply moving about on its own like a living thing; he could not tell.

There were the noises that haunted the worst of his dreams. And the shapes. The unfathomable shapes writhing about in that deep, glowing colour, either bringing it or coming through it. Marek felt a very unique sort of terror grip his spine, and he tried not to look too deeply into what was now an eye-hurting magenta. But the light would not be denied. It closed around him from every direction, overwhelming the entire camp.

To his left a woman was plucked out of a covered skiff. She was too deep in the magenta for Marek to see any details, but the tearing and screaming were both loud enough, though strangely garbled.

“Jesop!” he said into the radio. “Stay in the car! You hear me? Stay in the car!”

The magenta was confusing. There was something about the hue, the vibrancy, the way it seemed to meld with everything. Distances didn’t make sense. He stumbled. Sounds were distorted, and thoughts and sensations were getting harder to tell apart. Marek ran to what he thought was a gap between two wagons, then stopped as he thought it might be one long piece. Behind him something made a terrible sound, and he plunged on ahead. He did continue on without slamming into anything, and on the other side he saw his car.

“Come in!” Jesop shouted, waving him on from the driver’s seat window.

But he had just enough awareness left to realise that this was the wrong spot. This wasn’t where he’d left the car, nor the place he’d told Jesop to bring it to.

The sight faded fully into the magenta, and Marek ran on as something chased him. Noises were coming from every damn direction. The colour felt alive with booms and strange crackles. Some of it was surely fighting, but some of it was also something else entirely.

The thing on his heels was getting closer. It didn’t pant or scream or growl, but one small aspect of the dizzying cacophony was definitely gaining on him. Marek sheathed the blade and drew the Thunderer. He forced himself to a quick, painful stop and dug his foot in as he turned. Marek gripped his right wrist with his left hand and aimed. Nearly on him was an aspect of the magenta, given just enough of a vague form and definition to be visible. It was huge and terrible and radiated violence.

Marek fired from the right barrel. The Thunderer let out a sharp, awful bang; a single moment of clarity in all the confused madness. The kickback hurt his entire arm as the bulky weapon blasted out a cloud of metal. The magenta was hit and its movements faltered.

Marek continued running. He’d only taken a few steps when he felt the thing continue its pursuit. But now a new sound cut through it all, one familiar enough that he could recognise it through the distortion of his mind and senses alike. It was the horn of his car.

He took a sharp turn to the left, and after a number of seconds he would never be able to guess at his vehicle came into view. Its dark, solid bulk stood out against the cloying haze, and somehow the priest’s markings did so as well, in spite of the gloom and the blinding colour.

Now Jesop actually was peeking out the window, his rifle in hand and a wild look in his eyes.

“Jesop!” Marek shouted. “Stay inside!”

“What is happening?!” his partner shouted back, with the force of shocked nerves.

“Move! Passenger seat!”

The frenzied-looking man caught on just in time for Marek to reach the driver’s side door and hurry inside without delay. He slammed the door shut and looked to the left.

The thing came out of the magenta and reached, threatening to bring its terrible strength to bear… but then it shrank back.

“What are they?!” Jesop shouted. “I tried shooting, but... ah!”

There was another one on the passenger side and the man tried to bring his rifle up. Marek grabbed the stock before he could.

“No!” he said. “Plasma’s no good. And don’t wreck my window. They can’t get at us.”

“Then drive, man!”

Marek put his hand on the wheel and was about to do just that. Then the priest’s words came back to him. There had been a deal.

“Aw, Hell!” he shouted, and banged his palms on the wheel.

“What?!”

“Just a moment.”

He reached for the chainsaw, found it, and then flung the door open.

“Marek!”

“Just a moment!”

He stuck the blade outside and started it up before he dared hop from the seat. The thing wasted no time.

Marek had no name for the extension that came his way, but he did have the reflexes to dart to the side. Another equally strange appendage tried to get him, but he swung the chainsaw and cut through it. The thing had more appendages to spare than Marek had seconds, and so he followed with an all-or-nothing attack aimed at its middle.

The blade met with something solid. And though it was far tougher than that armoured raider, Marek pushed with all his strength and a roar of battle, and the chainsaw started its passage through. It wasn’t a scream that emanated from the thing, nor was it liquid that spewed out as it was cut in half. But there was definitely something. Marek thought of substance-fuelled nightmares. He thought of extremes of despair and anger, his own failures and tragedies, hatred and self-loathing and for a moment he saw into the darkest pits of his own soul.

Then the blade finished going all the way through, and the thing fell backwards and was fully swallowed by the colour.

Marek shut off the chainsaw. The other one was coming around the car and readied an attack just before he made it back inside the car. He slammed the door again and threw the chainsaw aside.

There’s your blow, priest, he thought. There’s your finger in the eye of darkness. You spoke in the singular, so we’re square.

He hit acceleration, and managed to keep from hitting max right away. They passed through a different kind of dreamland, one made of confusion and nightmares and grasping things reaching for a prize they could not have. Then Marek saw one of the massive trucks that formed the outer perimeter, and headed right until he found the gap. He hurried on through it, and with that they were back out into the wilderness.

The magenta faded from sight and mind alike, and for a moment Marek wondered if he’d been dreaming. But the sweat dripping from his face was very real, as was the ache in his right arm and the smell of spent powder. And right next to him was Jesop, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Marek… what… what was that?” the man asked, his voice down from a shout to a terrified stillness.

“The Night People have tricks,” Marek replied in a hiss, and sought to focus his mind entirely on driving. “Friends. Servants. Or masters. I don’t know which it is.”

There was no immediate response. Marek glanced at the man’s reflection in the windshield.

“Just do what I do,” he said. “Get drunk as soon as you’re in a town, and leave it there. Don’t…”

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

“Don’t let the darkness gain a hold on you. Just let it slide off.”

Before him was the skull road, and the final stretch of this job, and he found his focus.

“Slide off…” he whispered.