Dalacroy crouched in the reed bed while flies swarmed around his sweat-
To his knowledge he was the lone survivor of the caravan escort. In their wisdom the caravan masters had hired a local Yakuli guide to lead the merchants through a seldom used and dangerous path.
The guide had betrayed them.
The nomads sprang their ambush, and Dalacroy had seen Captain Nacheev, the escort commander, fall with an arrow through his throat.
The encounter itself was fierce and brutal, Dalacroy spilling his share of blood in the struggle. But it wasn’t long before he’d realized the battle was lost. The mercenary abandoned his mount and sought refuge along the riverbank, cursing the caravan masters. They had gambled on this dangerous route and lost.
Now Dalacroy hid, watching and waiting.
Fifty paces from his concealed position dozens of Yakuli raiders wandered through the scattered remains of the caravan, looting wagons laden with trade goods, rare wines, exotic silks and rich spices.
Twisted corpses of fallen guards and fat merchants lay among the black-
Carrion birds circled lazily in the cloudless sky under a blazing sun. Far below,
the raiders worked slowly and methodically through the bodies, trading shouts, insults
and good-
Dalacroy accepted their fate with a small measure of regret, feeling a special loss
for Captain Nacheev, a man he had come to respect. But, since leaving his father’s
business to become a mercenary, he’d learned that making friends among fellow sell-
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