As night approached, the mercenaries made camp for the night. Moonlight danced in the air as if it was a fleeting mirage.

Revealing three sand wagons, each pulled by a group of four kyr. The group of mercenaries had begun to roast some left over salted blood ox meat.

Flames flickered as sparks were swallowed by the darkness.

The men no longer wore their black steel mail, if one saw the group from a distance they would think of them as nothing more than a mere caravan headed for valros.

Inside one of the sand wagons, the wood slowly squeaked from the pressure of the armor, inside bound by ropes was a young adolescent.

Soundly asleep, it had been this way for the last three days.

As the flames danced to the tunes of the abyss.

A scowl could be seen on the face of a man no more than thirty years of age black muffled hair covering his left eye, with but one look you could tell he was a man of battle, a man of death.

Scars of a battle long passed littered his arms, crisscrossing their way up his torso. A single scar could be seen over his right eye as the blueish color seemed to emit a fierce light of defiance.

Slowly he reached into his pocket of the worn out pair of trousers, pulling out a slightly brown cloth, he bent down to unsheathe his blade with one hand, he laid the blade on his lap and began to slowly rub the cloth on the blade.

As the flame flickered in the darkness time continued to dwindle.

Prior he had told his men he would take the night watch. The abyss of night did not cause fear of any kind in the man, instead it allowed him to relax.

As the moonlight continued to dance among the air, he glanced towards a sand wagon, quite the well built things he thought, made of a iron bark wood found in the Wildfire Plains. They had wheels that would detach when you approached a desert like the desert of the forgotten one, it was common to put on the black steel skee’s as they made traveling amongst the dunes fairly comfortable.

As his mind drifted, he found himself admiring the golden inlay on his sword.

Gifted to him by the founder of the Red Gorge Mercenaries, Roke Lightfault. A man of few words, but without a doubt one of the strongest in the continent.

The battle that caused him to be awarded with the blade almost took his life and along with his mens.

It was suppose to be but a mere guarding mission, but it went south, fast.

The fiefdom of Kal’re in the northern corner of the Aseriul Empire, was a farming land with rich and abundant grounds. The surrounding forests also provided a wide range of game that brought wealth to the nobles in charge.

They were guarding the western portion of the estate of the nobles who ruled the Kal’re fiefdom, the Am’er family which roots could be dated back to the last war against the forests of the ancients, over five hundred years ago.

The mission for the most part was unsatisfying, it was given to me for disobeying an order from a superior when he told me to torch a town of civilians near the borders of the forest of the ancients, apparently they had been consorting with the elves.

But I couldn't bring myself to do it, thus I ended up with this guarding mission as punishment.

It was quite boring honestly, until the third night a sudden howl could be heard. Suddenly the grunts of thousands and the beating of beast skin drums could be heard.

“Fuck!” I had realized what the sounds were instantly the plague of Versa’al, the Orcs.

Quickly the alarm was raised, but not quickly enough the fiends came from the north and east, torching the estate.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The Am’er family had little time to salvage the ancestorially relics of their family, forced to flee to the town square.

As the breath of night showed no release from the nightmare. Shouts and screams could be heard off in the distance, there wasn’t enough time, not enough.

I quickly recalled my men to guard the Am’er family as we approached the square of the town, The Orc warriors charged blindly towards us as if their lives meant little to them.

Three sudden shots.

Three orcs fell to the floor dead, Josha might be shit at everything but he is one hell of a scout, his usage of the bow is something else. Breath taking almost. Almost.

Grabbing the chunk of iron strapped to my side I strode into the Melee while issuing out orders to my men.

Countless Orcs descended on us, before the arrival of the morning light broke the abyss of night, bodies littered the floor, men, orcs, women and children as the ground was dyed with a mixture of green and red.

Orcs blood, nasty stuff, it was a vile green color that emitted a stench that would make the most hearty veteran quiver at the knees.

The outcome of the fight resulted in three hundred human casualties, mostly civilians that were unable to flee fast enough, and fifty five of my own squadron of a hundred.

The orcs fared no better, of their original attacking force of a thousand, nearly seven hundred of them had fell before they sounded the retreat.

Most of the fiefdom lied in ruins.

The flickering flame seemed to swallow everything within it, darkness, thoughts, fear.

It was a miracle that allowed mankind freedom from the fear of night.

Or was it a simple ploy by the gods to pull us towards the light it emits.

Light, slowly broke on the horizon as the multi color sun rise brought forth a new day.

Slowly the cold of night was replaced by a blistering heat. Sweat, slowly working it’s way from your brow to your feet, nothing left unscathed.

It would take another fifty seven nights to reach the Wildfire plains.

As if stirred by the light, a small figure lightly moved within the sand wagon.

Hands bound by rope, as the irritated skin shone red in anger.

Light slowly flickered past the eyes of the figure as the blurry figures around him came into shape.

“Where am i?” the words sounded hoarse.

A thirst unlike he had ever experienced overtook him as he laid bound by the ropes.

Helpless.

As the sun greeted the desert with it’s full embrace. The encampment began to move.

Slowly packing the pitched tents, pulling the fabric off before thoroughly shaking the excess sand off.

Sand.

It never ceases to amaze, it gets into everything.

This was one lesson bitterly learned by the Group of Mercenaries unaccustomed to the desert.

A few of the men walked over to feed the Kyr’s as their scales shined in the sunlight, emerald green light danced on the top of the sand.

The golden inlays of his sword shone even brighter underneath the onslaught of light.

“Josha, keep a look out, I'm off to bed.”

The man who looked towards the source of the sound replied with a firm nod.

Approaching the sand wagon he heard the shuffling of movement within.

Armor pieces banging against shields.

A smile crept onto his dreary face.

“Looks like sleeping beauty woke up.”