Desert Blood

By Brian Young

The Dolus invasion rolled over the unassuming Kingdom of Larista leaving ghost towns in its wake. It brought death and destruction in abundance and left the people of Larista without their king or his heirs. It left the kingdom reeling with the realization that they weren’t alone on their isolated side of the Maker’s Mountain but instead part of a world that desperately wanted and needed the life giving water they took for granted.

One of the king’s sons, the Prisoner Prince Alexander, is still alive but held captive on the unexplored eastern side of the Maker’s Mountain known as the Wasteland. The man that holds him is the Emperor of the Free Cities, Jameson. His quest for vengeance and conquest has stirred up the other nations of the Wasteland and made them aware of the riches of Larista.

Alexander’s lifelong friends, Percival and Maximus must set out on individual journeys to find their friend, their king and themselves. But they will face a litany of foes along their paths. A horde of Beleick soldiers led by the Dictact threaten to sweep over the land sending everything into chaos while the Sisters of Gnaritas and the Death Stalker assassins weave their own intricate schemes for control of the Wasteland and the water that might flow from Larista.

Amongst so many people blood thirsty for power can Alexander find his way to the Maker’s Path or will he succumb to his own demons and find the Wraith’s Den in Oblivion...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rogue Phoenix Press
• Release date: Aug 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781624200694

Brian Young

Author and filmmaker Brian Young is an enrolled member of the Navajo Nation. He grew up on the Navajo reservation in Arizona. Brian earned his BA in film studies at Yale University and his MFA in creative writing at Columbia University. Brian currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Book preview

Prologue

The Wasteland

The hot wind whipped around the old colonel, pelting his skin with sand and grit; its howl deafening. The only good thing about a sand storm was it partially blocked the burning sun; yet, his clothes were still soaked with sweat from the blistering heat and his efforts to cross the dune. He could barely see through his goggles and, despite the wool wrapped about his head, he constantly coughed up sand from his burning lungs with every breath.

Just when he thought he might collapse from exhaustion, the rope, one of many strung between the various buildings in the desert camp for just this purpose, ended and his hand came in contact with the metal wall where it was attached. The sand storms were impossible to predict and sometimes it wasn't feasible to wait for them to pass in order to go about business that needed done. The rope guides helped to assure no one would get lost while trying to move from one shelter to the next.

He groped around until he found the seam of the door and the attached handle, but he was interrupted before he could pull it open.

Colonel. The hail came through his earpiece clear and sharp. Usually a sand storm would fill the airwaves with static and make any communication impossible, but the new radios were ten times more efficient. The upgraded technology combined with the tower at the center of the camp made communication possible even with the workers deep in the tunnels. There was a faint click signifying the transmission was over.

This is Colonel Gerth, he answered.

This is Lieutenant Miles. We found another one, Sir, in grid seventeen.

What's the condition like?

Exceptional, Sir. It might be the best one we've found yet.

Very good, Lieutenant. I think I'll take a look.

Yes, Sir.

Colonel Gerth removed his hand from the mess hall door and his respite from the desert conditions with only a little resignation. He turned his back on the shelter and trudged into the storm. He hated the south. The northern lands he hailed from were no less barren than the area around Pallington, the capitol of the Free Cities, but there was less sand and heat in the north. And of course he wasn't in Pallington or even Desert Crossing; he was out in the middle of the desert with no walls or natural geography to prevent a storm from cropping up at any time.

He had spent the last few years in the little town of Desert Crossing to the east of Pallington. It was the last city before heading out into the deep desert and was surrounded with rocks and plateaus that kept sand storms like this one from forming.

The Colonel's legs began to burn from the effort of moving through the sand, but he kept his hands on the green rope leading from one building to the next and plowed on. Eventually, he came to his destination and shoved the heavy metal door open with only a small grunt. The metal was warm to the touch but not searing like it would have usually been from the midday sun.

He stumbled into the shelter and started to lose his balance when a strong hand gripped his arm. He regained his footing and the hand disappeared. The door slammed shut behind him. The silence was startling. Colonel Gerth tore the wrap and goggles from his face then took in a cool lung full of stale but clean gritless air. Once he got a look at his greeter, he allowed himself to slump against the relatively cold stone wall. I'm getting too old for this shit, Doctor.

He looked up at his friend's features, which were in sharp contrast to his own. The doctor's squat broad frame combined with his rugged facial features and pale blue eyes clearly declared him from the north. His long hair was thinning and quickly fading from blonde to white. Colonel Gerth on the other hand was tall and skinny. His eyes were a bright green, a color rarely found in the Northern Shield, and his neatly cropped hair and mustache suggested a refinement many would deny he possessed. If it weren't for the doctor's wrinkled lab coat and the colonel's pressed uniform hidden beneath the layers of sand gear, it would be hard to tell who followed which profession.

The only man at the dig site older than Gerth simply arched an eyebrow at him. Too old for what, Colonel?

Take your pick; leading digs out in the Wasteland, fighting Feral, ordering about men half my age...

Fighting through sandstorms.

Fighting through sandstorms. Exactly. If any man besides Lord Starvok had asked me to take this post, I would have laughed at his face.

Even his Eminence?

Even the bastard emperor himself.

Damn it, Havel. You should know better than to talk like that. I want to go home to the north as well, but I'd like you to come with me, old friend. Not get ratted out by some spy and hung for defiling the emperor's name.

There are no spies here! Amongst Lord Starvock's own men? Preposterous! He couldn't keep the indignation off his face. Besides, Jameson wouldn't touch me. He can't risk losing Lord Starvok. Grateful that Doctor Mitchell Greysten had waited patiently as he caught his breath, Havel pushed off the wall and headed down the stone steps into the bunker.

Mitchell followed closely behind him. Do you remember when you first met Lord Starvok?

Havel couldn't keep the smile off his face. Yes. I had just won the marksman championship in Bulwark.

Emperor Penderthgard was there, if I remember correctly, said Mitchell.

He was. He offered me a position in the Royal Guard after I hit nine of ten bull's-eyes with my father's old pistol. The rest of the field was using Marksman's rifles from the Marksman's shop itself.

That's right. You did miss one. I had forgotten.

The emperor's ass you forgot. There was a gust of wind right as I fired, caught the bullet.

And carried it right over the target. How embarrassing for you to hit nine bull's-eyes then miss the target completely on your final shot. You never gave that lame excuse to Lord Starvok, did you?

It was the wind, Havel grumbled.

Well, did you?

Havel returned his friend's mocking smile with a silent stare.

Well fine. If you don't want to answer, just say so. Anyway, what happened after that?

Lord Starvok told the emperor he couldn't have me because I had already sworn a northern oath.

And that my friend is why you are here and not too old for this. Lord Starvok claimed you from the emperor himself.

This time Havel did smile. He was furious when he learned I wasn't sixteen and ineligible for the contest or the guard. Resentment returned to his voice. Jameson undermines everything Penderthgard and Starvok worked for. I won't kiss his ass like everyone else does.

Yet, you are in the most danger since you work in such proximity to the emperor and are isolated from the other northern nobles and military forces. Our Lord's power wanes everyday as the other ones capitulate to the emperor's demands. You know this and so does Lord Starvok.

But Lord Starvok's people are loyal to him not the emperor. Jameson isn't strong enough to take the North Shield.

Not now, but he will be soon.

Bitterness ate through Havel's thoughts, but he let the conversation drop as they entered the dig chamber, where the newest artifact had been unearthed and others came within hearing. Despite his bluster, Havel knew better than to speak openly of such things even around his own men, Lord Starvok's men.

Lieutenant Miles spotted them entering the chamber and saluted smartly. The young man was tall, thickly muscled and had a mane full of blonde hair he barely managed to keep regulation length. He was smart, and Havel imagined he would make a very good officer.

That brings our total up to thirty five. Correct? Havel asked the young Lieutenant.

Miles only hesitated for a second before answering. Yes, Sir.

Excellent work, Lieutenant. Emperor Jameson will be pleased.

Thank you, Sir.

Greysten shuffled his feet as he managed not to look completely horrified at the subterfuge this time.

Is this one fit enough for spare parts?

Actually, sir, this one might be the best specimen yet. We won't be sure until we get the lower section uncovered, but the torso and head don't show anything except superficial damage.

Carry on.

Havel returned the lieutenant's salute and the man resumed his work. This part of the bunker complex had seen some of the worst damage. Collapses in almost every tunnel had taken weeks to clear. It was surprising to find anything buried in the rubble let alone the best sample to date.

The head, or cockpit, appeared to only have scratches on in. It was the first one with an intact window. They had assumed the windows were glass like many of the other prewar vehicles, but after a little examination it became clear they were plastic. A material the scientists were familiar with but unable to reproduce so far. A detached but intact one had been found; the others would be nearly impossible to replace. The cockpit actually took up most of the torso as well and it had both arms attached.

Emperor's bastard! Miles should have had me look at this one before he brought the workers in. It would have been perfect for the lord. Maybe I can get it swapped out still.

Dust fell from the ceiling and the cavern shook. Havel had to dive out of the way as a large part collapsed in the spot where he had been standing. More dust fell from the ceiling and he covered his head as rocks dropped all around him. Static burst in his ear.

Say again, you're breaking up. Havel yelled over the sound of the tunnel caving in around him.

I repeat, we're under attack! Beleick troops have entered the base. Beleick troops have... Static replaced words then cut off abruptly with a loud pop.

Did you say Beleick? Repeat! Was that Beleick? Silence was his only answer. No, no, no, no. It's too early, damn it! We aren't ready.

The ceiling seemed to have stopped falling, so Havel climbed to his feet and scanned the room through the haze of dust to take stock of the rest of the occupants. Lieutenant Miles seemed fine as he was walking the room checking on the workers.

Miles! Get to the top of the tunnel and find out what in the name of the wraith is going on up there.

Sir! The young man bounded up the staircase in a fashion that made Havel a little jealous.

He finally found who he had been looking for. Mitch! Mitch! Are you okay? The doctor managed to prop himself up against the wall and didn't appear to be injured.

I'm fine. Just a little out of breath. Go. I'll be fine.

I'll be back to get you. Stay here until I do.

I don't take orders from you, Colonel.

Knowing he would get no other response, Havel followed the lieutenant up to the surface. As he got closer to the exit, he could make out the sound of weapons fire, which meant at the very least the storm had stopped. Much worse was the fact the attackers were early.

The lights above him swayed back and forth then flickered and went dead when an explosion rocked the stairwell, sending dust raining down on him. Havel cursed and picked up his pace. He rounded a corner and could see light coming from the doorway. He slipped as he was rushing up the stairway and his chin bounced off the concrete steps, sending lancing pain to the back of his skull. The floor was wet with something and he thought he must have cut his lip, as he tasted blood in his mouth. He struggled to his feet and made it the last few feet to the open door. He covered his eyes from the hot sun, and the dried sweat on his forehead gave way to the heat as new beads formed.

Lieutenant Miles' body blocked the entrance, and the bullet hole in his head was draining blood down the steps. Havel felt his mouth and spat when he realized he hadn't cut his lip after all.

The sound of battle came pouring through the open door. With his side arm in one hand and his knife in the other, Havel peeked out of the doorway and ducked back just in time to miss the blade that ricocheted off the doorframe. Sparks showered down on him as he fell on his back and blindly fired several rounds at his attacker. The man pitched backwards from the force of the bullets and lay unmoving.

His heart pounding in his chest, Havel struggled back to his feet. Emperor's bones, this is the shit I'm too old for Mitchell, he muttered to himself.

His attacker was definitely a Beleick soldier. The tanned brigandine and armored skirts weren't used by anyone else. The long sword was unique to the Beleick as well. Any faction from within the Free Cities would be armed with nothing larger than the dagger Havel carried. The tattoo on his forehead was the most worrisome aspect of the man. Havel rubbed his thumb over the tattoo and felt his heart sink. He had hoped the ink would smear. It didn't and confirmed what Miles' corpse had already strongly suggested. The planned attack wasn't early. These were real Beleick.

Havel stepped into the light and saw the waves of Beleick soldiers overwhelming the camp. Their hover bikes swept over the dunes, filling the air with gunfire and crimson splashes as blades found their mark.

The radio tower lay on its side with sparking wires dancing in the sand. They must have snuck into the camp under the cover of the sandstorm. Without the cover, the savages never should have gotten within spitting distance of the camp without being decimated by the automated defenses. Havel's men had fallen back to the command center and were making a worthy attempt at holding off the hordes of Beleick circling the structure. It didn't look like the defenders were faring well. Only small smatterings of cover fire responded to the Beleick's relentless attack, but as the tides of battle were known to do, the tide swung quickly. Suddenly, a massive barrage of automatic fire rang out. Hover bikes that were hit swerved into their companions and the enemy fell in droves. One of the vehicles exploded, sending a fireball shooting into the air and the riders around it scattered in all directions.

The defenders used the momentary lapse to wheel out an automated turret. They must have pulled it from the other end of camp. The turret would give them a decisive advantage with its steel casing, computer target locking system and automatic fire. Its presence at the camp signified how important the project was to the emperor. The fact there were four of them was unprecedented and showed why Lord Starvok was interested in the dig as well.

The Beleick caught on quickly though. A host of pointing and shouting by one of the enemy officers was getting attention, and the retreating Beleick started to wheel around. The engineers drilled away furiously at the turret's base, trying to get it locked into the concrete. If they weren't able to get it in place, it could only fire short bursts without knocking itself over.

They won't get the turret set in time. Blast! Havel leveled his pistol at the officer, an impossible shot from this distance, and fired.

The shot struck the man in the chest and crimson gore splashed over the nearest riders. He wheeled away and fell from his bike. His body contorted and imploded as the hover bike's gravitational pulses washed over him. Several other riders spotted Havel silhouetted against the dark gray of the tunnel entrance and turned their bikes to bear down on him.

Havel dove for the entrance as shots zipped past him. One found its mark and pain shot through his leg like a spreading fire. He scrambled on his hands and knees through the doorway, cursing as he moved. Once inside, he pulled himself upwards and heaved on the door. It didn't budge. Panic set in and he pulled furiously at it as more bullets pinged off the metal frame and the door. He tore his gaze away from the closing bikes to look at the door, and, for the first time, remembered the sword stuck in it. It was jammed in the hinge. Havel reached for the sword. The sound of the bikes was deafening. The gunfire stopped. He looked up to see the broken teeth in the Beleick's smile as his bike closed furiously fast. Havel's assailant raised his sword to strike.

A new sound sang out, the sweetest thing Havel had heard all day, as the rapid rat-tat-tat-tat of the defense turret came to life. Havel threw up his arms in hopeless defense. The bike exploded. The shockwave sent him hurtling down the stairwell and the corner concrete broke his fall. Havel could taste the blood in his mouth and this time knew it was his own. As his thoughts faded into unconsciousness and blackness crept into the corners of his vision, the only thing he could think of was Emperor Jameson was going to be livid.

Maximus

East of Pallington

Gravel bit at his face and the palms of his hands; it tore at his light shirt as well, causing pain to sear across his chest and elbows and mixing his blood with the grit and dirt of the road. Being thrown from a moving vehicle wasn't something Maximus had ever intended to experience. Until a couple of months ago, I hadn't even seen one in working condition. The thoughts managed to penetrate the turmoil of his current circumstances.

The frayed ropes that had bound his hands together snapped from the impact of his fall. Once he skidded to a stop, Maximus tore the rough sack off his head. Light from a high and hot, late day sun forced his eyes half shut, and he started to cough as the corrosive grit swirling in the air invaded his lungs. He forced himself to suck in more of the dreadful stuff along with the oxygen mixed with it and painfully made his way to his feet.

The choppers, as the locals affectionately called them, circled around him. Their riders hooted and jeered over the rattling engine noise that provided the bikes with their name. They were makeshift versions of the motorcycles high-priced couriers possessed and cobbled together from whatever spare parts their riders could scrounge up. Tires spit more sand at him and added to the growing cloud of dust. He turned circles, in vain, attempting to follow the dancing mob and make an accurate head count. After a moment, he realized it was pointless as not only was the sun hampering his vision, but his sight was slightly blurry as well. He didn't remember hitting his head when he was thrown from the chopper, but it throbbed nonetheless.

He did notice an abandoned building that loomed in the distance beyond the motorcycles; it was distorted from the dust swirling in the air and heat waves radiating from the ground. Its broken windows and sagging roof weren't very promising, but it would be better than standing out in the open. The only problem was getting to it. He doubted he'd get more than a few steps in any direction before being run down by one of the gangers. And that was definitely all they were. Despite his foreign status, Maximus had spent enough time in the military to tell the difference between a professional unit and a bunch of testosterone teeming punks.

It's worth a try. He sprinted towards it and made it all the way to the ring of riders before realizing he would never get through them. The idea of trying to dive past them and hope his luck held out crossed his mind, but his instincts took over. He skidded to a stop and one of the passing riders gave him a boot to the chest. The rider's momentum was jarring and Maximus fell on his back hard enough to send the wind rushing from his lungs.

He looked up to see the rider who had kicked him wobble out of line before his bike tipped over and spilled him to the ground. A howl of laughter loud enough to be heard over the other riders was aimed at their fallen brethren. He responded with muttered cursing and a show of rude gestures. Maximus pulled himself to his feet for the second time in as many minutes.

Motion caught his attention and Maximus tried to focus his gaze on one of the riders who broke from the pack. The man sped to mere feet in front of Maximus before slipping his rear wheel to the side and coming to a skidding stop, spraying more sand into the air. Maximus didn't flinch from the display of showmanship; he only closed his eyes and tilted his head aside to avoid the worst of the grit.

The stunt actually reminded him a lot of Percival except with none of the jovial attitude. The thought of his friend brought a wave of emotion over Maximus. First, sorrow at not knowing his friend's fate, and second, anger at the circumstances that led to Percival's injury and ultimately Maximus' journey over the mountains.

Maximus and Percival had spent weeks searching for their prince, Alexander, after the sudden Dolus invasion had nearly wiped Larista from the map. The ensuing chaos had resulted in the deaths of Alexander's father and brother, the king and his heir to the throne. With unexpected help from the Sisters of Gnaritas and Briah, they had managed to find Alexander and sneak their way into the occupied capital only for Percival to be severely injured and Alexander taken prisoner again. Maximus had to leave Percival and Briah at the sister's mountain monastery to enter the Wasteland and begin his search for Alexander before the trail grew cold.

His thoughts returned to the biker and any trace of sorrow disappeared from Maximus' face as the ganger sneered in his direction and sauntered over to stand before him.

More anger seared up inside him as Maximus realized he might not be able to complete his mission. Failure closed in on him and thoughts of Alexander locked in some foreign dungeon filled his mind. The repeat situation might have been comical if it weren't so dire. He only hoped he had bought the necessary time to successfully lay the groundwork for others. As a soldier, Maximus had long ago resigned himself to dying a violent death, but he hadn't planned on it being so soon, or alone, or in failure. He felt amazingly empty without his fellow squad mates surrounding him.

The biker stopped his approach and slowly circled Maximus in a more subdued version of what the others were doing behind him. He stopped in front of Maximus out of arm's reach and spat a fluid as dark as night at Maximus' feet. The ganger's raspy voice could barely be heard over the roar of the choppers' engines and his breath stunk of booze. With that black hair and those browns eyes, you look a little like the empress. A little like a Beleick 'cept taller. What's your name?

They were the first words any of these people had spoken to Maximus since they had abducted him.

Why did you attack me and drag me out here? Maximus countered. He wasn't about to let this ruffian interrogate him. It turned out to be a bad idea.

The man was fast but Maximus was still able to block the backhand swing aimed at his face. His fatigue and surprise kept him from intercepting the knee aimed at his groin though. He hadn't anticipated such a violent response to a simple question. The blow connected with a sickening crunch, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air; again, all he got was dust. It coated the inside of his mouth, and Maximus tried to spit to clear it out, but his mouth was too dry from the heat and sand.

The man grabbed Maximus' hair and pulled his head so far back Maximus thought his neck might snap. The man's eyes burned with anger. I'm asking the questions here. I won't repeat myself again. What's your name?

Maximus Rex, Captain, His Majesty's royal guard. It came out sounding more like a growl than words. It was apparently enough. His head was released and he fell to his hands and knees, shaking slightly. He tried to catch his breath, but his deep inhalations brought in mostly sand which he promptly hacked up.

There, that wasn't so hard, was it? The man continued to circle him. Quite an impressive title. Though, the only majesty around here is Emperor Jameson and that just wouldn't make no sense at all.

That confirms what I already knew, I suppose. I must have gotten sloppy with my questions. Maximus didn't respond but managed to regain his feet. He half expected to be struck again, but the blow never came.

When he didn't offer anything more, his interrogator continued. Good, you're learning. Maximus is a strange name. I've never heard it before.

I'm not from around here.

Where are you from?

Larista.

I' ain't never heard of Larista before neither.

I'm not surprised. It's a long way from here, Maximus responded. He didn't know whether or not the people of the Free Cities knew about the other side of the mountains, but he doubted an attempted explanation would do him any good. He left out the remark on the tip of his tongue about how much Maximus expected the ganger to know. And I'm thinking you're probably not part of the Dolus Royal Guard neither.

Why is that?

The man finally stopped circling him. His gaze wandered past Maximus into the distance and he placed his hands firmly on his hips. You've been asking a lot of questions, Maximus. Maybe where you come from this is common, but round here it ain't a good idea, especially where Jameson is concerned. He don't like people involving themselves in his business. I suggest you quit doing that, real quick. I can assure you that you wouldn't be able to handle any more of my attention nor Jameson's. It is fact.

I'll make a note.

The biker snorted and said, You've got balls. I'll give you that. I don't think the desert will appreciate them, however, nor the Wastelanders. The Feral neither. The delight in the man's voice when he said the word Feral sent a shiver down Maximus' spine.

Good luck finding your way back to the city. The man spun on his heels and the sound of gravel crunching beneath his feet slowly faded into the background. He kick started his bike and the rest of the gangers followed him onto the main road heading back in the direction they had come. Their bikes howled as they sped away.

He watched them for a moment but their dust clouds obstructed his view before they disappeared completely into the distant heat waves. When he was sure they weren't returning, Maximus let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For a few long moments all he could do was stand there in shock. Eventually, something inside him snapped. Maximus fell to his knees and burst into laughter. He laughed hysterically, and, despite his dehydration, tears flowed freely from his eyes. If any native had seen it, they would have killed him just for wasting the water.

After what seemed like ages to Maximus, painful coughs racked his body and he forced himself to stop laughing. Some subconscious form of his mind took over; perhaps the animal part, perhaps the years of soldiering. Regardless, Maximus struggled to his feet and limped towards the small building on the side of the road. He could barely believe they hadn't killed him. Luck will only take you so far, you poor bastard. Get moving.

His senses slowly returned, and Maximus took a good look at the building in front of him. Despite the fact the gangers had left him alive, he was still in a grave amount of danger. In the desert, alone, with no water and with night not far off, he would need to find suitable shelter from the weather, among other things. Why the gangers had left him next to a passable dwelling, Maximus could only guess.

The building had clearly been there for hundreds of years, before the end and before the Great War. It looked like it had been used more recently though. Sections of the stone wall and tin roof had been replaced not too long ago with newer materials creating a patchwork of browns and grays. There was an overhang covering several rows of tall rectangular boxes sticking vertically out of the ground. They had hoses attached to them and old numerical digits filled the displays. Maximus tapped the glass in contemplation, but he had no idea what they could have been for. A big white tank off to the side of the main building read 'flammable' and had a fresh coat of paint that stood out from the rest of the peeled and rusted equipment scattered about.

Despite the signs of recent work on the exterior, the inside was a disaster with broken glass scattered over the floor and spilled shelves. Merchandise littered the ground. As Maximus shuffled through the rows of shelves, a dark shape caught his eye, and he noticed something had crawled into one of the corners to die. Maximus wasn't sure what it had been, but he didn't really care since it didn't smell anymore.

There were several empty machines lining the walls. Through their glass windows he could see rows of empty coils inside their box frames; one had a picture of a giant bottle on the front. Like any other abandoned building, the shelves were all bare, having long ago been stripped of anything useful. He checked the bathrooms, and though he was disappointed, he wasn't surprised when the sinks turned out to be dry. His cracked lips hurt and he was hot enough to be sweating buckets yet he wasn't. He'd been prepared for many things when he set out over the mountain, but the lack of drinkable water hadn't been one of them.

Back outside the sun was sinking. Maximus knew he would have to try to make the trek back to the town he had come from, but he couldn't do it at night. The desert moon was as cold as the sun was hot during the day. The thought of searching the building for some kind of weapon or light crossed his mind, but he shrugged it aside. In his brief time in the Wasteland, he had heard plenty of stories to know that staying in shelter, if he had the choice, would be much wiser than braving the desert darkness. As if cued by his thoughts, some kind of animal howled in the distance and was answered from several different directions. It sounded a bit like a wolf's call from the forests in Larista. The next sound was unlike anything he had heard before. It sounded like several deep growls from a very large animal. A shiver ran up his back.

There was a small blanket in one of the back rooms and it was anything but clean; nevertheless, Maximus found a place on the floor and wrapped himself in it. For the hundredth time since making the crossing from Larista, he wished he could have talked Lord Bran into letting him bring a battalion with him, or at least a company. For the thousandth time, despair started to creep into his thoughts as he sat alone, hungry and thirsty. He was sure death waited for him around the next corner, but this time was a little different. He had finally asked enough questions of the right people. Maximus pulled out the tracking device tuned to the receivers implanted in Alexander by Lady Wieven, the mistress of the Sisters of Gnaritas. They had stopped broadcasting long ago but not before Maximus had located the fortress where the prince was being held. This time a faint glimmer of hope lit up the night. As his weariness washed over him, there was a slight hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He had found his lost king.

Willks

Pallington

The sounds of cards shuffling and money changing hands filled the bar; raucous laughter and shouts came from the various betting games around the room as small fortunes were lost and won. Smoke saturated the walls, the food and even the drinks; it hung in the air obscuring every corner of the dimly lit bar, reminding him of the fog in the forests of Larista. Despite his dislike of smoke, drink and gambling, all of these things suited Specialist Daniel Willks just fine. They helped him hide at his table, concealed by the shadows of the bar. His duster overcoat and desperado hat hid his boyish features; hairless chin and dimpled cheeks to go along with blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. They also let him blend in with the rest of the Wasteland rovers and drifters that braved the outskirts of the city. They exchanged security for distance from Jameson, his enforcers and his inquisitors.

Former Specialist, I suppose. No Captain, no King and no way home. I doubt I'll ever see another member of the Laristan army again. Damn you, Klivos, for letting that Death Stalker shank you. I could sure use your help.

Things had quickly gone from bad to worse as soon as Maximus and Willks had arrived in Pallington. All their inquiries had been met with resentment or silence. More dead ends had led to more overt attempts at finding Alexander until they had found themselves in even more trouble. Their last contact had been a setup and Willks had barely managed to escape. The pain of leaving Maximus behind had been debilitating at first. It still hurt but Willks knew he would have to move on if he was going to help Maximus or Alexander. He finally had found someone who claimed to know something, and Willks just hoped it went better than the last meeting with Maximus.

The sound of the glass hitting the table broke through his thoughts.

Here's your whiskey, drifter. Anything else? The waitress stood with her hands on her hips, an air of impatience radiated from her. Her white teeth, clear eyes and smooth skin made her seem as much out of place as he felt.

Despite his distaste for the stuff, he couldn't afford the water and the questionable drink that came from a seedy bar like this could only loosely be called water. Besides seeing the water come from an official government spigot, the only way to get a sanitary drink was to make sure it