The first indication something was wrong was the prickling of his skin. The second one was the embers mixed in the sand and dust of the raging storm. It gave Sigismund enough time to push Sonya back into the building they had just left. The wave of fire came a moment later, washing over the town and setting alight everything that could burn.

The blond knight thanked his limited gift and his instincts that he was not caught in the open. It was not enough for him to be considered as an apprentice, let alone a true mage, however, it was enough to prevent him from learning the secrets of the shamans. At least Sarduk had said as much when he had approached him. This placed Sigismund in a rather precarious position, where he was neither. He wasn’t a mage, and he wasn’t a shaman but was treated as such by those who had no grasp on how the gifts worked. Even as a knight he was no match for the likes of Martell and Calder. And yet, he was considered a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield.

A man without a place, but one who was a part of the Twenty, and there were no people more loyal to each other than the Slayers. That’s who Sigismund was, and because of that, he had placed Sonya’s safety above his. The emotionless archer was quick to return the favour by dozing off the flames that had caught his back. The back of his head was painful to the touch and he could smell the stench of burned hair.

“Is it bad?” Sigismund asked gingerly.

“Everything is burning…” The response came from Sonya in the usual emotionless voice.

“I know that much. I was talking about my hair.” He offered a crooked smile as he got up.

“Are you serious?” The dead stare he received was irritating. “Are you a whore or something?”

“Shut it, doll-face. Some of us care how they look.” He eyed her from head to toe. “I mean; take a bath, do something about that nest on your head. And I might put a bone inside of you.”

That last remark earned him a swift punch in the stomach. If she was willing to go so far, the damage done to the back of his head had to be superficial. Still, Sigismund made a note to seek out Till once their task was done.

Without a word, the archer made her way to the charred remains of the door and notched an arrow. The string, made of human sinew sung, and Sonya’s lips twisted into an imitation of a smile.

“No more sneaking.” She remarked as she notched another arrow. “They are out and about. Like hunting a flock of quills.”

“Fuck…” Sigismund grabbed his sword. “This will be bloody.”

The pandemonium of whatever spell was used had lasted only seconds, but it had been enough to reshape the entire town. There was nothing remaining as proof that Scoria-Tria had been a thriving settlement. At this moment, it resembled the first of the Three Hells, depicted in the sermons of the clerics from his home city of Radvas. Fires raged in many a house, while the locals ran without direction or purpose in the smoke-choked streets, ignoring the deadly sand storm that would kill many of them before the mercenaries could.

It was a chilling sight to behold. However, at the same time, Sigismund could think of no better battlefield for the Slayers, for himself. The knight charged into the raging storm. With a single thought he ignited his two-hander and sliced the first native he came across. The plan had been simple enough, but they knew it was only a matter of time before all hell broke loose. This was what he craved – a proper fight. Every swing - a kill. Every step ignited fear and terror in his victims. He enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed being liked for his good looks.

Martell cursed for the thousandth time. Whatever that magic had been, it had ruined their plans. Now the Slayers were forced to hunt the people of Scoria-Tria through the streets. To make matters worse, the storm showed no indication of stopping. The throbbing pain at the side of his head only further fuelled his anger.

The Second dislodged his blade from the guard and took a moment to find Calder. The veteran was as efficient in his killing as ever. Not a motion wasted. There was a lot he could teach the others if they ever bothered to listen. Only Regis had spent some time under the tutelage of the former soldier and pirate. He would have made a good Second if not for his short temper.

“Remember, Mar! If you stop, you die!” The veteran shouted over the screaming wind.

Martell grunted and sprinted at the foolish guard who had been sneaking behind Calder. It showed how truly inexperienced those people were. Instead of using his shield to bloke the blade, he just stared as half of meter of steel pierced his belly.

“Pathari Saar…” The guard spat, showering the Second’s face with blood.

“Your gods cannot help you, fool.” The warrior kicked the dying guard.

It had been one of the first things the Slayers had learned in the tongue of Scoria, Pathari Saar – the Hollow Gods. Their hold on these people was rivalled only by that of the One God of the dwarves. Even in death, they cursed the mercenaries. However, Martell had learned the lesson a long time ago. The gods couldn’t be bothered with mortals. They were too busy lording over the world and each other for such trivial things to occupy their attention.

He allowed his mind to wander off as a group of terrified men and women come from between the buildings on his left. The Second knew that Calder would be by his side. The veteran might be flirting too close with madness, but he was one of the few people, Martell could trust without question.

Not before long, they had lost track of how many lives they had taken. It was a monotonous task of mindless slaughter. Kill, spit out the dust and move to the next street or house. After what could have been a few hours, the storm finally ended. And with it, it took the last of the fires that had consumed the better part of the town. As the last gust of wind screamed over the ruined houses, the stars could be seen above in the dark night sky. The pale light of the twin moons far above was not enough for them to see further than a few steps.

Martell finally snapped to attention, when his blade met Sigismund’s burning sword. The former knight looked haggard. His blonde hair was singed and he was covered by a mix of blood and sand. In the darkness, he could almost pass as one of the natives.

“Blood and gold!” Both men shouted at the same time.

The phrase was an indication for those behind them to refrain from engaging in a fight. It had been the motto of the Slayers way back in the day. After a few incidents in Mardaar, Regis had enforced its use to prevent the mercenaries from fighting one another by mistake.

“I could hear you from the other side of the building Second,” Sigismund smiled as he lowered his blade.

“Almost took you for one of these savages. That sword of yours can be mistaken for a torch…” Martell spat the dust on his lips and sheathed his weapon.

“Spare me the lecture Mar. I have Sonya, Till and Dominique with me.” The knight gestured at the other side of the clay corner.

“Calder…” The Second looked over his shoulder to make sure the veteran was close by his side.

To his surprise, he saw Os, Little Uhr and Big Uhr close behind. The giant cradled Nadene’s limp body in his arms. And his smaller counterpart lurked close to his side. The weasel-faced man’s eyes scanned the buildings and streets around them. They all looked as awful as Sigismund. Bodies covered in a mixture of sand and blood, exposed skin blasted raw by the fierce storm and eyes almost as devoid of emotion as Sonya’s. When had they joined up with him and the veteran? Martell cursed himself for a fool. He had allowed his mind to wander too much.

And with that realisation, the sensation of pain returned to his tired body. Martell didn’t have to look to know that he was as pitiful sight as any of the other Slayers. His own skin stinging at the slightest motion; however, he couldn’t allow them to see his suffering. Exhaling slowly, the Second hid his emotions behind a scowl as he stared at the former soldier.

“You heard the boss. Gather up!” Calder boomed the order, aiding the Second in preserving his dignity and status amongst the mercenaries.

The veteran flashed him a savage green and dusted his short braids from the sand as the others walked past him. It spoke more than simple words could convey. Calder understood perfectly that now was not the time for the other Slayers to start harbour doubts about those in charge. Martell observed the battered men as they gathered with Sigismund’s group, exchanging stories of kills and disappointment. The natives hadn’t put much of a resistance. Through it all, Till kept quiet and examined Nadene.

“How is she?” The Second asked quietly.

“Sleeping.” The old apothecary answered without lifting his bald head. “No wounds. My guess – magic.” By the tone of his voice, Martell could guess there was more to it.

“You’ll discuss it with Sarduk, once we find him,” Martell nodded and then turned to Big Uhr. “Nothing is to happen to her. Do you understand?”

“I get it, boss.” The hulking beast of a man nodded and smiled like a child with a new toy.

Big Uhr might not be the smartest person out there, but he was single-minded and stubborn, following orders to the letter. He scooped up the mage into one large muscled arm as delicately as one would pluck a crystal flower in the Bleak and cradled her to his chest. The petite woman was almost lost in his embrace.

“Prepare to move out.” The Second commanded. “We go for the Temple.”

“What about the town?” Little Urh asked with narrowed eyes.

“We are done here. There is no one left to oppose us.” Martell stretched out his arms hoping to alleviate some of the growing stiffness. “Look around. This is a tomb now. A burned tomb.”

“It will be as you say, Second.” Calder cut in a loud stern voice, preventing any further discussion on the matter.

They moved in silence. There was no other sound than the one made by their footsteps. It took the group a lot longer to reach the Temple in the middle of the town. The streets were clogged with dunes of fresh dust and fogged by the smouldering wooden roofs of the buildings, and the stench of charred flesh sticking to them like mud.

Martell motioned for Sonya to scout ahead and sent Os and Sigismund at the back. Even if they were in a dead town now, he was not taking any chances. As they neared their goal, a strange hum stirred the silence. It was like the buzz of crickets, but there were no crickets in Scoria. He could see that the others were becoming agitated and realised he had tightened his grip on his sword.

An arrow landed close to his feet and the Second snapped his head in the direction it had come from. He was about to shout the order for the group to attack when Inney emerged from the shadow of a ruined building. Her leather hood and vest were coated in a thin layer of dust. As she had been, standing still, there was no chance anyone could have seen her. But once she moved it was hard to mistake the two-meter-tall elf for anyone else. Which could only mean that the man, moving in the shadows behind her, was no other than Seth.

“You are lucky it is night, Mar.” The elf hissed at him. “What has happened here?”

“Regis’ plan.” He answered with a cold voice. “And a powerful spell.”

“And, where is he?” The elf demanded. There was clear anger in her voice.

“It is not your place to speak to me in such a way, Inney!” Martell roared at her. “I am the Second! I am in charge when he is not here!”

“Perhaps it is time this changed.” The elf’s moss green eyes screamed murder as her hand darted towards the dagger at her belt.

“Enough!” Regis’ booming voice froze the two in place.

The commander of the Slayers emerged a step behind Sonya from the cloud of smoke obscuring the street ahead. What caught everyone’s attention was that their leader was bare-chested. He never removed his armour unless the fighting was over. However, he still carried his sword in his arm, which in turn meant there was still more killing to be done.

Martell was ready to snap at the man, but his anger evaporated and changed to horror as Regis came closer. The right side of his face, breast and shoulder were a burned mess. The flesh was blackened and cracked and small streams of glistening blood oozed from the wounds.

“Regis…” The words barely escaped Inney’s lips.

“Shut it! All of you!” The man roared. “I do not want to hear a single word out of you…”

A click from Sonya’s tongue stopped the leader of the Slayers. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before speaking again.

“The buzzing… It is a spell or something like that. What is left of the worshipers of the Hollowed Gods are in the Temple. They are behind it.”

Without saying anything more he turned and walked away. It was expected that the others would follow him. It took Martell a moment to reign in his anger and motion for the group to move. With a gesture, he stopped Till, who was about to rush after their leader. The old apothecary was the only one, who’s face did not radiate violence. Perhaps age did change a man a lot, the Second thought as he walked.

The Temple was not much to look at. There was no grand building, just a few two-story-high clay and brick houses grouped together behind a small wall. What was remarkable, however, was the fact that nothing inside those walls had been touched by the burning winds or the damned sand. Martell could not tare his eyes away from this sight. Until he saw Cylin.

The girl lay in the dust-covered in blood and ash. She was as still as a corpse, her skin so pale it almost looked like his. Sarduk sat, meditating, by her side. Each tattoo on the shaman’s body glowed in a faint green light. Before Martell could move, Lilly grabbed him and shoved a small bone fetish in his chest. At once his mind cleared and the buzzing stopped.

“Put Nadene next to them,” Regis commanded Big Uhr. “I’ll deal with those two and the mess they made, once they wake up.”

There was no trace of the anger that had coloured his words just a few minutes ago. He motioned for the others to take a similar bone fetish from a pile near the shaman. Only once every one of the Slayers had placed the item on their armour did he speak again.

“These will counter the major effects of the spell coming from the Temple. Any of you so much as comes near Sarduk, I will fucking skin you. No exceptions.” He fixed the Second for a moment.

“Till, Lilly and Big Uhr will stay with the mages.” There was hatred in Regis’ voice as he said the last word.

He recognised the need for their powers, but he was never one fond of using such methods, to begin with. It was one of the few things that remained from their commander’s past life as a member of the Ferrex clan.

“The rest of you are coming with me. The followers of the Hollow Gods will not see their work finished. They all die. Before dawn comes, we will be immortals!” The leader of the mercenaries released a savage battle cry and charged the solid wooden door of the Temple.

The Slayers howled their challenges and fury as one. But all Martell heard was the madness and insanity in their leader’s, his friend’s voice. Regis’ obsession had spread like a diesis. How had he been so blind to the signs? No, he had known it all along. Martell had simply ignored it. From the very start, he had known coming to Scoria had been a mistake. But he had also been infected with the temptation of immortality. And after that, his attention was directed only to Cylin, distracting him from seeing the truth.

The Second reached out with his hand, willing his voice to work. He had to put a stop to this. His every instinct screamed that going inside the Temple would be a mistake…

The world around him exploded. He was surrounded by blinding light and deafening noise. His head spun and the contents of his stomach demanded release. Slowly and painfully his vision cleared and the sound subsided to a low squill in his ears. Martell had fallen on the spot where he had stood, the same as the other Slayers. They lay in a hip just a few steps in front of him. Some even made attempts to stand, but their unsteady hands and feet would not permit it.

Five dark figures loomed over the mercenaries. They were terrifying. Over three meters in height and hunched. Thin like noon shadows, with skin as grey as river stones. Four ice-blue eyes decorated each misshapen face. Rows of black sharp teeth glistened like glass where the mouth should have been and thin red vines pierced the back of the creatures’ elongated heads.

“For so long we have waited for suitable test subjects. For so long we had to contain ourselves with these meagre creatures.” The one in the middle spoke.

Its voice hollow and distant sent chills down Martell’s spine. Thick mist drifted from its claw-like fingers and his vision began to swim once more. The last he heard was the creature’s horrible joyful proclamation.

“Rejoice savages! We are the Pathari Saar and we welcome your sacrifice in the name of our salvation.”