There was an uneasy silence as the remainder of the carts began their trek over the terrain that had been marked as the hunting ground for the Sandworms.

It was understandable. The remainder of the caravan consisted of the merchants who had lost friends and family, and injured sellswords that were either too fearful or resigned to what may happen. The magic of the Oasis had mended the worst of the wounds, but they were still in no condition to defend themselves if the monstrous Jackals came back.

That was why they were taking such a dangerous route in the first place.

As far as the monk could grasp, these Sandworms were the apex predators of the region. And though he hadn’t crossed one as of yet, he could understand why upon gazing from the driver seat of his own cart with a nervous maui’en driver as the camel strode toward at a lazy pace. The terrain until then had been dry, the ground hard-packed with the occasional shrubbery and loose stone.

But now sand reigned supreme. Hard and dry earth had been reduced to fine grains that seemingly blanketed the surrounding land like a curtain that glimmered beneath the midday sun and writhed when a sweeping wind billowed. There were only scarce traces of stable, solid stone that were outcropped from the earthen grains.

Nature itself was to be what determined what benefited from its splendor. But these creatures had shaped the land around them, no doubt making it easier for them to prey on those who walked the surface. Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to think that they were a part of nature’s domain, and thus could be perceived how it shaped itself?

TWEEEEEET! TWEEEEET!

A whistle rang out. Their attention shifted from the sands towards the cart that was a further distance away. The caravan had spread out to avoid losing more than one cart if they should one come under attack. The whistle-blower was the ranger, rigid as her ears were angled towards the perceived threat.

The monk strained his eyes to peer off into the distance where he spotted what appeared to be a dust cloud hovering just above the sand, running a straight path seemingly towards them. It was far enough away that it could have easily been mistaken to be due to the stress of the situation. But to err on the side of caution, the carts all came to a halt—they could afford to wait until the dust cloud dissipated or the creature treaded onwards.

“…watch over me…” Muttering from the driver pulled the monk’s gaze from the sands and towards the man. He seemed to catch himself and apologized. “Forgive me, I was saying a quick prayer. The last few days have been… trying, you understand. Never thought I would look back on the days when the Crimson Claws were running around as being wistful.”

“Crimson Claws?” he asked.

“The most prevalent group of bandits that roamed the sands,” the driver explained. “A ruthless bunch they were. Used to terrorize all the travel lanes for merchants through the area. They were the reason mercenaries like yourself were in high demand until they made a mistake and went after the wrong caravan.”

“What happened?”

“The caravan contained people from a wealthy, powerful place,” he explained even as the camel shifted its footing uncomfortably. “They sent word back and the next thing we knew a large number of foreign mercenaries came, tracked down their base, and exterminated them down to the man—no court, no mercy, all to the sword. Rumor has it some of the other brigands fed them information to make it all easier to get rid of the competition. No honor among thieves, I suppose. Now we’ve got beasts like those man-eating jackals running around and have to trek through Sandworm territory just t—”

His voice died as the earth erupted.

It happened in an instant.

The world beneath the monk gave way with a sense of pressure and force. Wood splintered. Camels cried. Then there was a sense of weightlessness and suffocation as the sand that had billowed up swallowed him until he felt the impact of the ground and the world flashed.

His head rang. The weight of the sand crashing down on him threatened to crush him. Memories of the lake in the mountain left him to flail with his breath held. Desperation gnawed at his lungs with burning, unrelenting heat until he felt the surface. Then he breached it with the urgency of a trout jumping from the gray waters of the lake.

Instinct filled his lungs with coarse air. Reason beneath the ringing in his skull left him to huddle over with his tunic to his mouth while remaining still as the world beneath him trembled. To move was to die, no matter how desperate he was to escape the dust cloud.

His mind raced beneath pulses of pain. The last thing he recalled was the discussion with the driver. How long ago had it been? Had it been five seconds? A minute? Was the driver still alive? There was no way to know as the sand finished its cascade from above and the desert wind picked up, offering a chance to draw a fresh breath of air.

His vision swam from the confusion of the world tilting, the sands kicked up by the wind and the creature turning into a veil obscuring the world beyond a certain distance. The rumbling from the sands around him drowned out any sounds that might have told him where the others were, leaving him isolated while on the hunting grounds of the beast.

Then his vision began to tunnel as half the world turned red. He felt something wet and sticky rolling down his left cheek and only registered the scent of iron moments before he saw crimson splashing in the sand below. He had suffered a wound to the head at some point, though he couldn’t be certain if it was from the debris of the cart he had been riding on or if it had been when he hit the ground.

How much blood had he lost?

His mind struggled to cobble together an answer as every pulse of pain seemed to drive a stake further into his skull. Everything was churning in his vision, and the dust lingering in the air made it impossible to tell the direction. He doubted he would remain conscious for much longer, and if he didn’t do something he likely wouldn’t wake up…

The monk reached out to the land once more.

Having already swallowed his pride once before meant there was little hesitation. He had already realized he lacked the ability to survive on his own in these lands, which only served to prove his inexperience. Thus, he accepted the need to throw away his self-imposed restriction to see his task through as the regret from failure would be even worse.

Nature responded.

Vitality surged within him. The pain vanished as a cool, soothing sensation washed it away. Clarity of mind returned as she felt the movement through the ground. The Sandworm was still searching for prey and thus he was sitting within its hunting grounds.

Not to mention the sand lingering in the air. The dusty veil obscured all sight and gnawed away at his vision. It clawed at his throat as it went down his lungs with every breath he took. It naturally left him to want to escape the sand but that would only attract attention and bring about his death.

He had no choice but to wait it out.

With slow motions that were spaced out to not risk drawing the distant attention, he found his waterskin and doused part of his tunic before dragging it over his head to act as a filter. Then he curled up in his cloak, becoming a tight ball that restricted his movements before he took slow and steady breaths.

Dormancy—a state where the body fell into torpor to become dormant and unmoving. He had seen it with the bears in how they got through the winter, but also in the summer with the hedgehogs. It was a means of avoiding dehydration and desiccation, she had told him.

Slow your breathing. Slow your heart. Mire your mind.

It had been advice to help him sleep when the voices of nature kept reaching out to him until he could shut them out. But he clung to it now as he was, lost in sands with no method of escape. Imitating that slumbering bear whose remains hung around his neck, he allowed the desire to sleep to take him…

00000

What stirred him awake was the chill of the desert evening that foretold of the coming night.

His head breached the makeshift shelter he made from his clothes and peered out to see that the sun had fallen by the time he came out of his torpor. The rumbling of the apex predators that roamed beneath the surface was nowhere to be felt and the sand had stilled. The hunt had ended.

Thirst made itself known first. Hunger followed. He knew the canister still bore dried fruits, but when he swished around the contents of his waterskin there was only a faint sloshing within—he would not survive beyond the night with so little.

He sighed before partaking in both.

Then he rose to his feet to take in the full scope of his surroundings. The sands had obscured everything while he had been huddled up with the broken bits that had escaped being swallowed by the faintest of margins. And even that was mostly buried—the only reason he found his staff was because of the magic imbued within it prickling his senses.

He did not know if the others had been attacked after he fell into his torpor. He suspected being native to these lands they would have reacted appropriately but would not linger. Most likely those who survived the assault would have moved on when it was safe rather than attempt to search for those who would be lost.

If only he could find which direction they went, he could at least have a chance of escaping before the sands claimed him. But any tracks that would have been left had long vanished. Even now the wind stirred and the soft sands rippled every so slightly to further wash over indents in the surface…

That was when he saw something fluttering not too far from his whereabouts.

He approached it to see that it was a torn piece of a cloak, cut by a blade into a strip. The strip was tied to the shaft of an arrow that had been fired into and pinned down to one of the outcropped rocks. It moved in erratic motions that naturally drew the eyes and the blowing wind revealed more in the distance.

A path, he realized. It was a trail that marked a taken path that had been hidden away by the desert sands. For a moment he wondered why they would make the effort when his cart had been at the center of the attack and all chances of survival were minimal.

But then he recalled that the caravan leader had mentioned the maui’en ranger having some trauma related to this place. Had she suffered the same in the past, lost and confused with those she cared for taken by these harsh sands and the beasts within? If so, would she be willing to allow another to suffer the same fate when she felt indebted to them?

No, she would not. The monk tightened his grasp on his staff at the realization. It was the same as the obligation that brought him this far even if the circumstances were different. Consider our debt settled then.

He walked the path to where it would lead, following the fading sunlight that turned the horizon an amber color.