Chapter 6

The pack set off before the sun had truly breached the sky. Nocturnal hunters by nature, the Vorox grumbled to themselves that they should have been walking at night all along, when the air was cool and clear, rather than saving their work for the heat of the day. They did not dare voice their qualms within earshot of their champion, however.

As they began to leave the ruins, Malum kept to the center of the pack, his eyes trained on his immediate surroundings. Though his body had adjusted somewhat to the heat and harsh conditions, his mind continued to race with paranoia. Again, he felt painfully conspicuous out in the open desert. While the Vorox and Zesk had the natural advantage of camouflage, his crimson armor made him far too visible. In such an empty, desolate place, there was nowhere to hide.

Abruptly, one the Vorox at the rear halted the march with a rapid chittering of his mandibles, his gaze locked on the north. Intrigued, Malum watched through the morning light until he too spotted six loosely-packed silhouettes of a Skrall patrol against the skyline, heading for the ruins they had just emerged from. The figures cantered in the distance and eventually drew close enough to be observed, like a tireless pack of Wasteland Wolves on the prowl. They had ridden their Sand Stalkers mercilessly through the night. Even over the swirling of the morning sand, he could hear the heavy pounding of their exhausted steeds.

‘We attack,’ ordered the exile, his vocal cords matching the dialect closely. ‘Leave no Skrall standing.’

Eagerly, the Vorox clutched their spears tighter and started scurrying back towards the ruins. They seemed to glide across the sand at a pace Malum could not hope to match. As he charged after his warriors, he saw the attack unfolding.

The Skrall were close now, their pebbled armor shifting in the direction of the attackers. The closest Vorox sidestepped the feet of a Rock Steed and swiped her stinger tail at the folds of the creature’s neck. The creature dodged sideways, anticipating the attack and opening its mouth to reveal rows of serrated teeth. Ducking forwards, the Vorox jabbed her spear deep into the underbelly, making her target screech. The Skrall mount fell with his steed with a startled cry, right into the clutches of more Vorox. The remaining five riders swerved to avoid him, with one of their number breaking off in retreat.

Malum let out a furious roar from deep within his chest, drawing from a rage that still spurned from the Core War. Mingled in an ecstasy of emotion, there was fear, hate, grief, and joy in that scream, but it froze his very insides to hear it, for blind rage was driving him now. He had made a name for himself brawling in Vulcanus arena, slashing and swiping at opponents until he had earned his title. Frustration fueled him, giving his muscles strength and hardening his resolve.

Unlimbering his Flame Claws, the former Glatorian thundered into battle, vaulting up over the edge of the dune. Before he had even reached the ground, Malum fired a Thornax from his shoulder-mounted launcher, spooking the retreating Rock Steed and dislodging the rider.

Weary from their long travel and caught off-guard by the attackers, the remaining Skrall were slow to arms. When they finally dropped to the ground, Malum had caught up with his warriors and was distinguishable from them only in the color of his armor.

Twisting and swirling with the force of a whirlwind, the champion of the Vorox slashed at the closest Skrall with his full might, his grip tightening around the edge of a Tribal Design Blade. Before long, Malum’s Flame Claws met the resistance of a Saw Shield and the exasperated cries began to subside. Orders were barked between the patrol as some semblance of a strategy was formed, leaving an unfortunate few to contend with the Vorox while their leader began lassoing at the attackers with nets and chains. Feeling metal loop around his left arm, the exile cursed and swung with the fury of a caged Spikit until he had regained his freedom. Yanking on the chain with his full might, the exile tore the warrior from the back of his Rock Steed, leaving him to sprawl in the sand.

Malum of the Sand Tribe would not be shackled.

“Give it up, Glatorian,” challenged one of the Skrall, wrestling for leverage. “You cannot hope to succeed. We fight. We win. We take. We—”

“—Talk too much.”

Tearing the Saw Shield clean from his adversary’s grasp, Malum plunged his Flame Claws deep into the midsection of the Skrall, dealing his first lethal blow in the skirmish. The warrior’s eyes widened, his face racked with pain and fear, making a sound halfway between a shout and a blubber as he clutched his chest and raised his Tribal Design Blade in defense.

“But… how?” he gasped in confusion, falling to one knee in the blinding white alkaline dust and clutching his waist as blood trickled into the sand. “You Glatorian… you do not fight to kill…”

Malum watched without a word as the Skrall unfurled and lay limp with a terminal stillness. Raising his head and turning once more to the broader battlefield, he saw that the Vorox had utterly destroyed the patrol, with four of the Rock Steeds now scarpering for cover. The skirmish had been quick but brutal. His tribesmen had taken no damage, and it was deemed a great victory. Nodding to himself, the exile turned to address his aide, who approached him cautiously for instruction.

‘Collect their supplies,’ he ordered, admiring the fresh, scarlet coating of his Flame Claws. ‘Strip the Rock Steeds for meat. Gather their waterskins and Thornax.’

Still nursing her injured arm, the aide growled in acknowledgement. The wound remained swollen, with jagged, purple lines running the length of her arm where she had been bitten. Noticing his gaze, she swiftly covered the arm and gestured broadly to the farthest side of the battlefield.

‘They traveled with an Agori,’ she chittered, gnashing her teeth with something close to disgust, stinger tail swishing in frantic apprehension.

Casting a glance at the second Agori prisoner he had taken in three days, Malum’s insides turned at the sight of the Rock Tribe villager. Scores of names had been mentioned to him by chance acquaintances of the road and he recognized the villager as Atakus, an assistant and liaison between Roxtus and the other settlements of Bara Magna. Showing leniency towards Kyry and allowing him the chance to return to Vulcanus had betrayed weakness in the eyes of his followers. With the expedition already highlighting how poorly-equipped he was for life in the open Wastelands, he could afford to show no further mercy.

‘What use is he?’ he grunted in response, remarking how closely the captured Agori resembled his Bone Hunter kinsmen.

‘He was carrying these,’ answered another of the Vorox, brandishing a handsome pair of ebony shortswords. As Malum drew closer to investigate the tools, he remarked that the blades bore arcane symbols rooted in Rock Tribe culture and Great Being technology. They were a curious find to say the least.

Looming over his quarry, the exile regarded his prisoner with healthy suspicion, a habit that had become natural to him half a lifetime ago. Atakus was heavily muscled for an Agori, with a thick neck, big arms and small, hollow eyes.

“I know who you are,” grunted the captive, his voice deep and the words half swallowed by a heavy chest. “You are Malum of the Fire Tribe. Even in Roxtus we have heard rumblings of Vulcanus’ exile living off scraps among the Vorox. I wonder, then, if there is value on your head?”

Picking up on the Agori’s tone, the Vorox began to snarl an unspoken warning of aggression. Allowing the jab to land, Malum instead motioned for his warriors to back off.

“Better fighters have tried to claim that bounty,” he taunted with a sly grin on his features, motioning towards the broken bodies of the Skrall around him. “Now tell me, for what purpose do you encroach upon my domain?”

“Your domain?” Atakus repeated silkily. “There is much land that the Skrall do not see fit to conquer. I cannot tell where it ends and your borders begin.”

Another bold slight, which the exile chose again to ignore. His grin only grew wider, his interest piqued. There was a shrewd and almost imperceptible quality about this Agori. His motives were anything but one-dimensional.

“We’re past that stage now, Agori,” he said with a dangerous smile, his eyes drawn to the dilapidated structures and the distant horizon, beyond which lay the Dark Falls. “Out here among the dunes, your sharp tongue won’t win you water, and you’re at least a day’s ride away from Roxtus. Now might be the time to appeal to my more generous nature and tell me what business the Skrall have this far east.”

Atakus smiled, but there was no warmth in his expression. His eyes met Malum’s as a challenge.

“I come seeking territory to claim for the glorious Skrall Empire, in the name of the Mighty Tuma,” he proclaimed simply, gesturing to the Saw Blade embedded in the sand. “If you wish to dispute our discovery then I invite you to challenge Stronius in Roxtus Arena.”

The exile’s smile grew hungry as he turned to address the Vorox, who had now finished ransacking the Rock Steed harnesses. One of the warriors approached him - the female who had dealt the first blow - and handed over a yellowed scroll, undoubtedly a map of the region. Unraveling the timeworn paper, Malum studied the topography of the valley he now found himself in.

“You travel in search of trinkets left behind by the Great Beings,” he snorted, noting the markings delineating various landmarks unseen since the Shattering. “I hope you brought a spade.”

Though his expression remained the same, Atakus’ eyes narrowed in frustration. He had been rumbled.

“So where do we go from here?” he finally asked, eyeing the Vorox with a dispassionate glance.

“That depends entirely on what you have to offer,” answered Malum, who was still weighing up exactly what information he wished to extract against the relative bargaining power of what he was prepared to offer the Agori in return. “You know of these ruins and others like them.”

As if to reiterate the urgency of his circumstance, the Vorox began to growl impatiently, moving closer to encircle the prisoner. Slowly, the smile returned to the Agori’s face.

“Take a domestic Sand Fox into the wilderness and he learns to live like a Wasteland Wolf quickly enough,” he murmured fondly with a slow nod. “I am little more than a servant of the Skrall. I act as courier and guide to the warrior classes, seeking out terrain and resources that may be of interest to the Skrall Empire. It just so happens that the remnants left behind by our forebears are the only prizes to be won in this southern arena.”

“It strikes me you know a great deal more than you let on about the Great Beings, Atakus of the Rock Tribe,” Malum said in careful response, searching between the words for weakness. “But I wonder which set of secrets you are more willing to part with in exchange for your life?”

The Agori remained silent, but this time the daring smile was absent from his features. In the late morning glimmer of Solis Magna, his expression appeared pallid and his beady eyes piercing. The threat hung in the air.

“It is true, I travel across Bara Magna in search of the Great Beings,” he finally conceded, a quiet resentment now tangible in his voice as well as a slither of delight at the prospect. “Imagine the countless weapons, machines, philosophies, and technologies that Agori and Skrall alike have invented only to be relegated to obscurity because some treasure-seeker unearthed the older, superior method of achieving the same end. Who knows what heights we might have been attained had we not been so eager to recreate the follies of our ancestors?”

“And what is it that you hope to find at the end of this trail?” murmured Malum in an attitude of pensive contemplation over his own goals.

“I come in search of the Citadel of the Great Beings, which I believe to be beyond the confines of Creep Canyon,” answered Atakus, gesturing south with a vague flick of his wrist. “I believe that solutions to the problems plaguing our world lie in the wreckage of their civilization. If they still exist to be found, then they will reside in their Citadel…”

If Malum was moved by the Rock Agori’s words his expression did not betray any hint of fondness. While he harbored no love for the Great Beings in his heart, he knew of no other tribe that had returned from beyond the Great Barren with news of the outside world. Glancing over the points of the map once again, he now saw a series of detailed contours and structures printed in the alien alphabet used by the legendary scientists. Satisfied with the information, he raised a hand and signaled his followers to relent.

‘Leave him to the Wastelands,’ he ordered in the tongue of the Vorox, before rolling the map up and turning to address Atakus. “Keep your weapons and get out of my sight. If you are fortunate, you will make a fine meal for a Sand Bat. If you are not… then perhaps you will discover firsthand just how forgiving this Mighty Tuma is in matters of lost Skrall and failure.”

Before the Agori could give voice to a retort, the exile turned to depart, plucking up the nearest Saw Shield as a trophy admiring the intricate pattern. Leaving Atakus amongst the bodies of his comrades, the pack followed after their champion - onward to their destiny.