The first light of dawn barely touches the dunes when you and your guide slip away from the mercenary camp. The fires have died to embers behind you, and the silhouettes of the Death Squad’s sentries stand like statues against the pale horizon. You whisper to your camel, coaxing it forward with the lightest tug, careful not to draw attention.
Your guide rides ahead, tense but composed. Every so often he glances back, his eyes darting across the sleeping camp. The risk is enormous. If even one of the mercenaries stirs—
A shout cracks the silence.
—They’re moving!— your guide hisses.
You kick your camel hard. The beast lurches forward as another shout rings out, louder this time.
—Riders! To the south!
The camp explodes into motion behind you—men scrambling for weapons, camels grunting and bucking as riders scramble onto saddles.
—Go!— your guide barks.
You race across the sand, gripping your reins tight, heart hammering in your chest. The first arrows sail overhead, whistling through the morning air.
Your guide swerves hard left, aiming for a narrow passage between the dunes. You follow close, feeling the wind tear at your cloak as hooves pound behind you. A spear thuds into the sand inches from your mount’s feet.
Suddenly, you hear a grunt behind you.
You glance back—your guide is slumped forward, blood staining his side. One of the arrows found him.
—Keep riding!— he gasps.
The pursuit doesn’t slow. The Death Squad is relentless. Sand kicks up in thick plumes behind you, turning the rising sun into a haze of fire. The cries of the mercenaries echo in your ears.
You crest a dune and find a sharp decline on the other side—almost vertical. There’s no time to hesitate. You drive your camel over the edge, sliding and slipping as the sand cascades in a roaring avalanche. Your guide follows, barely clinging to his saddle, teeth clenched in pain.
The steep drop buys you precious seconds. You reach the bottom and keep riding, weaving between tall ridges of stone that rise like jagged spines from the desert floor. The Death Squad doesn’t follow immediately—they’ll have to circle around. It’s enough.
For now.
Finally, after what feels like hours, you slow your mount behind a crumbled rock outcrop. The silence falls heavy again, broken only by your guide’s ragged breathing. He slides down from his saddle, landing on shaky legs before collapsing to his knees.
You rush to him.
—Let me see.
The wound is deep—low on his ribs, bleeding steadily—but the arrowhead passed clean through. You tear a strip from your sleeve, pressing it against the wound.
—Hold still, damn you.
He winces but doesn’t protest.
—It’s not mortal. If we keep moving. But if we don’t…
His words fade as his head lolls briefly. He slaps his cheek lightly, forcing himself awake.
— Maybe we should rest. —You say in an interrogative tone.
—The mercenaries will find your trail soon. They’re experts at it. Rest is a luxury you can’t afford.
The vast dunes stretch endlessly. You scan the horizon, but you recognize nothing. No markers, no paths. The desert is a spinning wheel of sand, disorienting and vast.
—We’re lost,— you whisper, throat raw from dust.
The guide’s lips are pale.
—The sun. Use the sun.
—But to where? Moravice lies north, but this— you gesture around helplessly —this is nowhere.
His grip tightens on the saddle horn.
—Straight ahead. North by east. We will find the old trade pass.
You ride for hours more, the sun climbing, burning, merciless. By midday, the guide slumps, and then collapses against you.
He moans.
—I’m—just—tired
But you feel the heat radiating from his body. The wound festers. Infection is setting in.
You dismount and half-carry him beneath a narrow outcrop of stone for shade. His skin is hot as embers. His eyes flutter open briefly.
You get him back onto his camel, and together you ride again—slower now, but still moving. The sun climbs higher, baking the desert, making the sand shimmer like molten glass.
By midday, the landscape begins to change. The dunes flatten somewhat, giving way to jagged stone formations—the remnants of ancient seabeds. The heat is brutal. Your guide leans forward, barely conscious. His strength is waning fast.
Then you see it—tracks. Faint, fresh.
Your guide’s eyes flicker open and follow your gaze.
—Predators,— he whispers. —Hyenas. We’re not alone.
You grip your sword instinctively, scanning the ridges.
A low growl answers you.
From the shadows of a leaning rock, the first hyena emerges. Its eyes gleam, ribs sharp beneath filthy fur. Another follows, and then a third. The pack fans out, cutting off your path forward.
—If we run, we’ll lose the camels,— your guide whispers hoarsely. —If we stay still, they’ll circle in. They know we’re weak.
The lead hyena edges closer, baring its yellowed teeth.
You glance at your guide. His face is pale, his breathing shallow. He can’t fight like this.
The hyenas snarl, sensing your hesitation.
You have moments to act.
You abandon your wounded guide and gallop away, using the camels’ speed to escape while the hyenas are distracted by easier prey.
You dismount, draw your blade, and fight the hyenas together—one last stand to defend your injured companion.
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