The Loathed Desert held great rewards, as well as great risks. He was the guardian of the Goddess’ Relics, and as guardian, he had his weapons. The first one Lyon suffered from was the heat. A popular saying was that the mildest of nights there was like a spring noon anywhere else. The dryness of the air made the heat feel even more raw and brutal. The wynser’s silvery skin barely held out thanks to some fine, cool clothing that Little Horn was kind enough to lend him. They were characteristic clothing of the people who, against all odds, called The Loathed their home. The uroaiser ponchos would surely serve a similar function.

Of course, Lyon had brought plenty of food and water for the trip, and had bought a couple of small casks of wine, just in case, though he would have to ration anyway. One less problem.

The second weapon the Desert had tried to use against the caravan was sandust storms, much more frequent inside than outside the Desert, though normal winds also tended to carry some of that annoying stuff. The sandust had a bad habit of dispersing with the wind until it touched almost anything that was no longer dust, then it dissolved into an even finer powder that clung to things. If left undisturbed for too long, that dust would interlock and form layers of sediment, which became progressively harder to break up as they piled up on top of each other. Hygiene dictated that the sediment had to be removed with a flat, rough stone called sandpaper, which was usually imported from The Rifts of The Claw, or from the northeastern islands. Of course there were cheaper alternatives, but they required more effort. The big problem was not the sandust itself, but that the storms would pile up several layers of sediment in a single pass, causing the caravan to have to stop and clean up before it could move on. Many uroaiser were surprised to see Lyon helping with the maintenance of the wheels and hinges of the animal cages. Although they took it for granted that they would indeed receive help from Rhandligh, who for his part had opted instead to clean the animals. Both of Lyon’s gransteeds, Lychen and Warrior, as well as the merchants’ nameless donkeys.

They had been advancing for three days now, stopping only to rest at night or to clean up after a storm during the day. They had seen ruins, but next to all of them was a monolith of pebblestone, the only surface besides glass and obsidian to which the sandust could not adhere. Well, not counting the sandust itself, and things too wet like eyes or lips.

That monolith had a map in bas-relief, along with a symbol that, according to Ih’trr, meant that the ruin had been explored and plundered to exhaustion. All the nomads of the desert maintained the unspoken custom of keeping the record of the exploration of the ruins on those monoliths, and even the bandits respected that in their own way, not vandalizing those monoliths. After all, the ruins were the last hope of the desperate.

It was already the seventh time they had seen a monolith with the same symbol. Lyon was about to let out his canteen tongue when he heard Little Horn shouting to stop the caravan.

– What the sands is going on? – asked the wynser.

– There is one. – Said the strange elleserech, without raising his voice too much. Lyon knew immediately what he meant.

A khaimerixer. The third and most lethal weapon of The Loathed against invaders.

Lyon rose from the seat in his wagon to look ahead and caught a glimpse of the beast. It was walking on all fours, but he could not see where it touched the ground, there was a light that did not let him see well.

– It looks like a cat, but… It’s huge. – Rhandligh affirmed.

– Like a lion? But it doesn’t look like the one on my emblem. It’s missing its mane, and it has black stripes in its fur. Plus it has a lot of things on it that a lion shouldn’t have.

Lyon was referring to those three pairs of huge, scaly, wairyx-like wings. And two tails that were obviously extra.

– Better not try to discern what those things are. – warned Nellvan, who Lyon couldn’t help thinking of as “Little Horn” – They’re always a mishmash of some normal things and others out of legends. And they always attack to kill.

– And what do you do when you see one? – Lyon asked, although he could see the answer before he got it. The whole caravan was taking up arms.

Meanwhile, the khaimerixer creature rushed in the direction of the caravan.

– Vanguard! Don’t let it get near the wares! A single basket is worth more than five of you! – Nellvan shouted.

Lyon turned his back and gestured to Rhandligh that they were leaving.

– DeFyr! You will take your sword and go to the front. – The elleserech ordered.

The wynser was already turning around, but stopped. Or rather, something made him stop. It was a feeling he didn’t know how to fathom. But he did know who was behind it.

– We have a deal, DeFyr. Your Goddess and Your Words.

– Rhandligh… – His willpower gave way like paper in the rain, and he held out his arm. – …my sword, please.

– Sir, with all due respect, what is wrong with you?

– My sword, Rhandligh. Give it to me. We’ll talk later.

– It has to do with him. – Rhandligh muttered. Lyon found himself in agreement with that statement.

Did that guy have any relics? If so, he could use it without even letting it be seen. Without producing even a glimmer of violet light.

Rhandligh understood, handed him the sword, and as Lyon began to head to the front, he walked beside him. If his master died, he would die too.

– Good. You will go with Ih’trr. – Nellvan said.