The line of soldiers that Lucius led dragged behind him in the sinking sunlight. Under his orders, they had accumulated a wagon train, laden it with supplies, and set off north even without sight of Medorosa. The work had been slow and indignant, but as they set out and put reins to the donkeys, scouts returned with confirmation. The Cynizia were marching to Red Spire.

Escaping north took them away from water though, the sea nothing more than a glimmer of color on the horizon that could have been mistaken for a mirage. Even with half the carts dedicated to pots of water, filled from the temple wells and sealed, a fear had set in. The soldiers feared collapsing in the sand never to rise. They feared that the only thing between them and mummification would be the feasting of scarabs on their withered flesh.

For this malaise of the mind, Lucius chose to put himself at the front and march on foot.(1) He let Tyrion keep his horse, but used the lieutenant to circle around the line and fix problems. “We’re close,” Lucius said when the lieutenant rode back up to him. A waterskin was tossed to him and he caught it. After wetting his throat, he gestured at the Medini prisoner who nodded glumly. “If we keep pace, we should arrive by sunset.”

“And then what? We attack?” the leader of the voluntaries asked.

“Yes, but first we will eat. Time is not our friend until we have some walls around us.”

Tyrion turned his head south. The lighthouse could no longer be seen; a sand cloud from their own marching obscured it and perhaps hinted at a second cloud further on. “The Canta boy would have to march double to catch us. We should have time.”

“We’ll have to hope he doesn’t know of better roads than us. Our heading can easily be tracked.”

“I’d be worried if the Medini had been able to turn them into a cavalry force, but there are precious few horses in these lands,” Tyrion said, rubbing his hand along the thick neck of his steed.

Lucius grinned. The march had taken a toll on him in the heat, as it had everyone. Within his armor, his gambeson stuck to his skin, heavy with trapped sweat. The unwashed smell of men was carried by every gust of wind, and he knew well enough what that could mean. “Horses are a risky investment here.”

Tyrion sidled the horse up alongside him, hooves clopping the sandstone. “More so than anywhere else? And why is that?”

“Predators,” Lucius said, and surveyed the hills of sand that flanked them. Only the most insignificant of insects and lizards moved within his sight. There was more to the sand than what chose to reveal itself however.

Hours later, when the train of soldiers pulled together to make a temporary camp, they circled the wagons and broke into the salted meats. So close to their destination, they could light no fires, so the cereal crops could not be cooked. Their conscripted guide came to him with a bold request. He had seemed a dandy while in Red Spire, but the days march through the heat could reduce anyone to fatigued tatters. Curly hair laid flat to his head, and the sun had burned his cheeks red. The impression would have ruined anyone’s reputation in a tavern or at a festival, but as a prisoner made him pitiable.

“Might I borrow a sword?”

Lucius at the time had been sitting with a squad of auxiliaries, two of which pointed their spears at the Giordanan man. He stopped them with a hand. “Do you not understand your position here?”

Their guide, who had fared much better in the heat as he wore only a linen shirt, wrung his hands. “I do, Sir. You don’t need to give me the sword. Someone else may do it just as easy. Your… chefs are not very keen on the idea of feeding me just as they feed everyone else. It seems I am to go hungry. As such, I would simply like one of the sabaar cut down for me.”

Out of curiosity more than anything, Lucius ordered one of the auxiliaries to help the man out. He watched as the two approached the stubby mass of flesh and thorns that the local called a sabaar plant. The auxiliary gave it a tentative chop, and when he found his sword bit into it easily and without chipping, he set about lopping off a limb. Cool juices sprang from the wound and it crashed to the sand so loud that they had begun to draw a crowd.

Many in the voluntaries already knew of the secret of the defensive plant of the desert, but hearing of it and seeing it first hand were very different things. Seeing the soldier dig his knife in through the rind of the branch invigorated a curiosity. I should note that the flavor of sabaar is always disappointing. It can sate a thirst, but leaves little in the stomach. Certain brewers can make excellent wine liqueur from the insides however.

Only Lucius kept his wits about him as this went on. So when he ripped a spear from a soldier's hand, the men panicked. They shouted and threw themselves to the sand or drew their own weapons. He was the one that took three steps forward, hefting it over his shoulder, and launched it into sand beyond the sabaar. The metal tip sliced through the sand and stuck fast.

The guide and soldier didn’t have the time to shout at him, for at once, the creature burst out from hiding. Sand blew into the air. “Move!” Lucius bellowed. Claws and fangs emerged from the cloud of sand. The thing had to clamber off the spear, landing just short of the Medini man.

“Sand snake!” He scrambled away, kicking up dust as he flailed his feet.

The creature swung a slender head through the air, blinking alternate sets of eyelids over night-black eyes. Built like a salamander, but the size of a river crocodile, the sand snake could have ripped a grown man to the ground and made off with him across the dunes. The potent paralytic in its fangs spelled doom to any prey. Even after centuries of cohabitation with humans, the desert predator had only learned to fear fire, not men with shiny bits of rock in their hands.

Lucius saw that it had set sights not on the Medini guide, but on the auxiliary holding the sabaar. The poor soldier could only grab at his sword and try to pull it free. The sand snake lunged before he could; biting into the flesh of his arm and shredding his skin. The man howled and blood fell to the sand, vanishing beneath him as the predator bulled him over.

Before it could flee, dragging prey like a panther, Lucius was upon it. He bellowed a war cry and down came his sword. Steel smashed into the scales of its articulate neck, and it bit through. The sinew and scale scraped and tore, treating his sword like a saw. He battered the beast's head away, ripping the fangs from the arm of his troop. Such a wound would not be enough to slay a sand snake however; scar tissue took mere moments to clog the blood and restitch the muscle.

He flipped his sword around and planted hand to pommel. The tip was to be a stake to drive through its chest and pierce it through. The beast spun and thrashed, in that peculiar fashion only reptiles can perform. The sand about its feet plumed and liquefied with air. Lucius’ sword slammed down, but did not strike true. Again, he merely grazed the belly of the beast.

The fat swimming tail it had spun about, knocking into his legs and throwing him to the ground. Then it was a blind scramble. Out came his dagger, fighting back against tooth and claw to find purchase within the beast. A hundred slices of pain adorned his body till his clothes were red tatters.

He screamed in defiance.

His men drove spears through it. First one, then two more and they forced it off of him. War cries empowered them as they threw their weight into it. Scales split, bones cracked. Each of them pushed their weapons not just through skin and fat, but through muscle, bone and organ. In the dying spasms of animal life, it struggled and beat the ground with its tail, but all its lifeblood poured out across the sand. It hissed and cracked, pink tongue fluttering in its mouth before the spark of life guttered out.

The relief and gaiety of victory overwhelmed the men, and only after did they realize the venom coursed through their commander’s veins. “Commander Solhart! A hero!” They screamed with tears in their eyes. Some ran to fetch the doctor, but only knowing that the first man had been bitten. They didn’t realize what had come of Lucius for his impulse. The price he paid for saving the life of his underling tightened his muscles stronger than the grip of death just on the cusp of battle with the slave pit.

My pupil, the undying warrior, had fought without fear of death. Even poison and venom posed but momentary setbacks thanks to his stigmata; if he were able to activate his stigmata. The condition to activate his stigmata was to be dying; as which, paralysis did not qualify. A quick knife to his heart could have blasted the malaise from his body, but he could not do it himself. The only person who might have known was Sammy; who had yet to get the details.

The apothecary surgeon arrived with water and bandages and a myriad of pilfered tinctures. With swift orders, both victims were laid out on the sand and treatment began. Lieutenant Tyrion arrived while wounds were still being cleaned and clotted with salves. He didn’t need to ask what had happened; the beast corpse still laid beside them, oozing blood.

“Well then,” the older soldier said with a grin. “A mighty hunt has transpired here. I shall have to hear all about it when we make safe camp. But, it seems that I will have to be the one to lead the attack, now won’t I?”

Lucius couldn't even open his mouth to respond.

The fields of Giordana were not all sand dunes, but more often a dry and unwelcoming loam or exposed rock. The travel is not much easier for it, but it at least alleviated the need to use dromedaries like parts of the wasteland call for.