Reynard rolls to his stomach in order to push himself to his knees. “I’ve got to discover a way to defeat the Sandmen.” He rubs his fingers through the hole of his shirt. Dried burnt skin flakes off his chest. “Look, Eymaxin, I’m lost. Where I am?” A direct, honest approach. I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t want a man to stop and ask for directions.
“No one travels a Death Road by mistake.”
“A Sandman brought me here. Why he didn’t just suck out my brains, I don’t know, but I’ve got to find a way to get back to my people.”
“I haven’t the power to help you.”
“Is this where you tell me there’s a wizard who can give me a way to protect my brain?” Reynard washes away the dead skin. The burn left no scar.
“The Thaumaturge is the master of many conjurers.” Eymaxin wraps her belt around her waist.
“Sister, you’ve got the wrong Dorothy. I’m not from Kansas.” He cups his hand to drink from the stream, spitting out the vomit taste.
“You speak in such a strange, incomprehensible manner.” She mounts her white steed.
“I speak funny…Look, I don’t see any yellow brick roads around here, so how do I find this wizard?”
“The Thaumaturge doesn’t assist strangers. Not those brought as gifts to the greater Sandmen.”
“What has been following me?”
“There’re other creatures on this world. The Sandmen are just one of the horrors awaiting you. It’s safer to travel with a conjurer. I’ll accompany you to the next town.”
Knife-stabbing pain tears at his stomach. The change in her demeanor sparked a warning—No one here should be trusted. He draws his sword over his pant leg to dry the water from the blade before sheathing it.
“You must never let your guard down. It only takes a Sandman a moment to tear the back of your skull open.”
He places his left boot into the stirrup and throws his right leg over the saddle, landing in the seat as if he were John Wayne. “Where we going?”
She spurs her white steed with her heels and they wade into the water. “We’ll follow the river downstream until the Village of Tilel. The Sandmen rarely patrol the rivers. They like hunting their prey on the Death Roads.”
From the darker trail’s trees burst scrubby troll-like creatures. They run on the knuckles of their elongated fingers.
Eymaxin blasts one of them. Blue flame fires the beast.
A Sandman hovers over the river behind Reynard.
Lightning reflexes puts the magnum sights level with Reynard’s eye. Two of the troll creatures’ heads disintegrate. More monsters rush Eymaxin’s mount.
The Sandman floats closer, touching its skeletal fingers to Reynard’s skull. Before Reynard reacts the Sandman phases from reality and slips inside his brain.
THE TUB WATER provides little comfort for Nytalyan’s dehydrated epidermis even after she submerges herself completely. The Shalenotun atmosphere dries her outer covering. Her skin’s not like an Osirian’s, nor is it true fish scales. Once she transmits the information to UCP she must transfer back to the orbital command station. It will prevent further interaction with Saltāl, keeping their infidelities a secret.
Since their arrival on Shalenotun VII she’s had little contact with him. Anyone monitoring their movements wouldn’t consider them partners. His avoidance might be best for their protection, but his constant presence at command central was comforting after the loss of her spawn.
She bolts up.
Water splashes from the tub.
The door chimes again.
She did hear the bell despite being underwater. She pulls the plug drain before allowing the air to dry her skin. The brown scales provide camouflage at the bottom of the ocean, evolved to help her conceal her eggs from predators. She tosses a dry towel into the retreating water.
Saltāl and an unknown Shalenotun wait on the other side of the door. She steps back, allowing them to enter.
“Nytalyan, did you forget something?” Saltāl inquires.
“I was keeping as much moisture on my skin as possible. This planet dries me out.”
“You should still dress for our guest,” Saltāl suggests.
Unlike sapiens, humanoids with protruding mammaries, she has no such glands to give her figure curves. “I need the moisture. If I embarrass him with my lack of bulges, then exit my quarters.”
“The site of an unclothed Aequipinatus has no mortification to my comfort.” He has no inflection in his words, not even a monotone drawl.
Unsure of whether she should broach her relationship with Saltāl before this stranger, Nytalyan berates him instead. “It’s taken you five days to meet with me.”
“I didn’t want to put you at risk. The Mokarran security appears lax despite the increasing riots. I felt it was a trap.”
She questions if this male accompanying Saltāl may be trusted enough to know they conspire against the Mokarran. She keeps her admissions to a less incriminating discussion.
“They don’t have control here. The riots. Half the city is burning. I’m more scared on Shalenotun than I was at command when we uncovered—”
Saltāl cuts her off. “Did you scan for snoopers?”
“Nothing inside my room.”
The alien man opens a scanner, waving it up and down as he paces the room.
Saltāl pulls her shades, glancing at black smoke billowing into a haze that darkens the city in the afternoon. “They should relocate all command personnel to security quarters.” He taps the glass. “These apartments don’t even have reinforced windows.”
Nytalyan retrieves the towel from the drained tub. The dampness cools her skin.
“The room’s clean,” the alien says.
“Is this male a specialist in communications?”
“No, he’s part of the growing resistance.”
Nytalyan considers protesting, but she trusts Saltāl. He did save her life. Resistance fighters should have access to off-world transmissions. “Is it not a risk to bring him here?”
“I was part of Micah Donkor’s security staff. The Mokarran have yet to remove our clearances. Until they do I use my position to funnel information.”
The building shudders.
“If the demonstrators turn violent, the Mokarran will triple security.” Nytalyan reaches for the curtain.
Saltāl presses hard against her
