Chapter 2

Negotiations with the local Vorox had gone sufficiently well once Malum had established his superiority. As a show of good faith, the clan had offered the traveler several of their own to serve as guides in the lands to the north. The exile had declined, preferring to keep his own translator.

It seemed the rivalry between this particular tribe of Vorox on the outskirts of Creep Canyon and the regional Bone Hunters ran especially deep. For thousands of years, the two clans had feuded over territory, a series of conflicts that stretched back to the Shattering itself for reasons no living Vorox could discern. Having taken shelter from the intense desert heat in a number of caves during his time in exile, Malum had experienced frequent Bone Hunter attacks and lost a number of his supplies to their raiding parties, chief among which was the ceremonial sword he had carried in the arena. As such, he too nursed a deep hatred for the scavengers, a common ground that had ultimately won him the allegiance of a great many pack leaders.

Eventually, Malum had found himself entering the same cave as a small Vorox colony. Forced out by the pack leader, the Glatorian had trained for some time, learning their language and behaviors before returning and killing the leader, thereby assuming command over the tribe. Under his leadership, he had equipped the Vorox with weapons and Thornax Launchers and taught his followers the art of ambushing Bone Hunter patrols. After three months of painstaking negotiations and challenging regional leaders, an approximate forty Vorox and Zesk now marched to his banner, recognizing the exiled Glatorian as their champion as though he were a Great Being reincarnated.

Thinking back, Malum felt his present circumstances to be absurd and dreamlike. The Wastelands were no place for a Glatorian of his talents to reside. Perhaps he could someday return to Vulcanus, face the Agori, surrender his weapons, and wait for whatever punishment was dealt him? Many times over the past months he considered the prospect, but whenever he thought of it, he found himself eternally waiting for the fatal moment he would hear Ackar and a crowd of warriors charging their Sand Stalkers in pursuit of him. All at once, a great hate welled up in him, and he went on with clenched teeth, planting his feet in the sand with steely determination.

The pair did not have to travel far to the north to see the camp that had been growing on the edge of the exile Glatorian’s awareness. A large canyon ran the whole length of the plateau, marking the end of Vorox territory, as though a great wound had been inflicted on the blistering surface of the planet.

As they drew closer, the Glatorian began to hear noises and spotted the bleached remains of Vorox, littering the desert as testament to the 100,000 year feud. Creeping towards the edge of the chasm, Malum and his aide peered down into the depths to observe what lay within, all too aware that sound traveled in both directions.

Bone Hunters.

The reptilian warriors moved about like insects in a colony. Spartan in nature, the camp boasted all the essentials for survival, with a holding pen for Rock Steeds and what appeared to be a series of dwellings grafted into the walls of the canyon. What they were seeing was no work of nature, however. This was a colony on a grand scale, and the Bone Hunters tending to it were plainly visible. Everywhere Malum turned his eyes there were more of them, repairing armor and engaged in conversation. For a moment, he considered how few outsiders had actually been in his position and observed the fledgling culture of the rogues.

Complex structures were nestled along the walls of the canyon, no doubt fashioned from dwellings abandoned by the Sand Tribe Agori in the years of the Core War and since commandeered by their latest occupants. It was no small wonder why the Vorox of this region warred against the Bone Hunters with such eager disposition.

“What Raanu wouldn’t give to know the location of this place…” chuckled Malum aloud. His translator remained quiet, for her beady eyes had spotted movement below.

The exile watched until he saw three Bone Hunters looming on the hill against the skyline, making their way into the canyon. One was mounted upon his steed. The other two were seated at the reins of a captured transport caravan, drawn by a pair of Sand Stalkers. They were cantering and they rode close together, like a tireless pack of Wasteland Wolves. There was a rush of hoofbeats and the creatures came to a halt with braced legs. Their arrival was greeted with barbaric applause and guttural cheers before the scavengers descended upon the wagon. The glimmer of Exsidian ore could be seen exchanging hands as the Sand Stalkers were wrangled by their new masters.

Curiously, however, the metal was tossed to the sand. With no means to fashion it, the Bone Hunters had no need of the precious resource that the tribes of Bara Magna fought over. Malum figured they would gather it in surplus and ransom it back to the Agori in exchange for more of the wagon’s primary contents: Thornax Fruit.

Grown past the point of ripeness, the yield glowed a rich gold in the desert sunlight, indicating the fruit had matured to its final stage where the exterior grew hard and the roots jagged enough to pierce armor when thrown at a high velocity. While fresh Thornax could be boiled into a grueling broth, their main use was in the arena, where they had been employed as a formidable projectile.

Amidst the jeering of his new captors, an Agori in crimson armor was hoisted from the exterior of the caravan, his hands bound behind his back. Recognizing the lone caravan escort as a citizen of the Fire Tribe, Malum regarded the Agori with a stony expression, his keen mind considering the deeper issue at hand.

Vulcanus was roughly south of his current position. Historically, the victorious tribe of an arena match did not concern itself with transport of the spoils. With only one Prime Glatorian left in the Fire Tribe, the fact that a single Agori was accompanying the trade caravan could only mean that Ackar had been bested in the arena, a feat previously held only by the likes of Tarix and Certavus.

But where was the caravan bound for? Iconox was perhaps the most obvious choice this far north, but Strakk lacked the metal to cross swords and win against Vulcanus’ finest, and to date Gelu had been unable to best him. Moreover, a caravan departing Vulcanus would have been better traveling due west, skirting past the safety of Atero. No, traveling due north could mean only that the Skrall of Roxtus had triumphed over his old mentor.

Returning his focus to the structure of the camp, the Glatorian made a mental note of the location in relation to Freak Canyon. Agori treasure-seekers often spoke of a Bone Hunter outpost around Skrall River, though its precise location continued to change like the landscape of the Wastelands owing to the nomadic nature of its occupants. Few Tribes had the resources to spend searching for such temporary footholds and instead were content to deal with the occasional raid. But if information about a current Bone Hunter stronghold was to reach the right ears…

“That Agori,” grunted Malum reluctantly. “I need him.”

The Vorox let out a noise that sounded unmistakably like a snort. There was no need to translate.

‘Leave him,’ she snarled. ‘They are enemies of the Vorox and traitors who cast you to the Great Barren. Loyalties to your old tribe are a weakness.’

“That may be, but I need the information he carries,” snapped the Glatorian. “If I am to have my revenge, I must know what has transpired in Vulcanus.”

Weighing his words, the Vorox inclined her head towards him in an expression of equal parts submission and disgust.

‘I cannot be seen to be aiding you,’ she articulated through frantic grunts and gestures. ‘The alliance between the Bone Hunters and my people is tentative at best, but necessary. I cannot jeopardize it.’

“You need no longer rely on the charity of sellswords and thieves, for there is a new warrior who will fight on your behalf,” assured the scarlet Glatorian, rising to his full height. “For I am Malum… Glatorian of the Sand Tribe.”