Sand had found its way into Troian’s mouth again, as the Mercenary pulled his scarf from his face for a moment to take a gulp at his canteen. He spat the gritty granules out and wiped at his tongue with the back of his hand, loosening any sand that may have remained.

     The Khaishee Mercenaries had been travelling through the dunes of Zhadaewae for three days now. Their services had been called upon to the foreign city of Vhorgo, to extend their swords to the reigning Dictator there by the name of Kanra Mortier.

     It was not that Troian Orisena was not used to travelling such lengths between his contracts, but rather, he had never quite gotten used to the taste of sand. He washed his mouth out with as much water as he could spare and screwed the cap of his canteen back on before hiding it away into his backpack. “Tell me again about this man, Kanra.” he said to the figure riding beside him.

     Kholo Izann gave his young comrade a brief glance and replied, “He’s a special client.” the captain began. “A man willing to pay a tremendous, ridiculous even, amount of money to carry out a contract of vital importance for him.”

     “Which is?” Troian asked. He did not like when his captain kept crucial information about contracts a secret, particularly ones concerning ‘special’ clients. When he and his brothers-in-arms had been told the first time they were being called upon by the Dictator of Vhorgo, alarm bells had already gone off in his head. He did not want to admit to Kholo that they still rung in his ears even now. “A noble lord, then?” Troian asked. He kept himself steady on his saddle, fighting against the ever-strengthening sandstorm.

     “What?” Kholo asked. His words were muffled the slightest behind the scarf he had wrapped around his own face.

     “Kanra Mortier is having us kill a noble man, then? Someone of obvious importance. You must tell me, Kholo. My imagination only stretches so far.” Troian said.

     Kholo spurred his horse onwards, yelling for his troupe to pick their paces up behind him. He was in no mood to talk in the sandstorm gathering around himself and the others.

     That only made Troian suspicious. Kholo had no problem telling them every detail about the contracts they received; they were a team. They were brothers in arms. And yet, now he kept his tongue behind his teeth about what it was the Dictator of Vhorgo had called upon them to do. 

     Up ahead, the palace in which the dictator lived stood so silently, Troian had not even realised they had arrived at the city. The people living behind the towering walls crowded the shabby streets, but they were like ghosts. They all kept to themselves, the sellers at their stalls whispering to their customers instead of calling out to them.

     There were not even any children running through the streets, chasing after toys or stray animals of any kind. The city appeared dead. Or perhaps restrained by the dictator who held power over them.

     Troian had heard very little about the city of Vhorgo, but the things he knew were far from pleasant. He heard demons lived there; that they stole children from their beds during the night and drank the blood of young women. He did not think it was true, or at least tried hard not to.

     “What is this place?” Artus Madhan, another mercenary, asked his captain as he swung himself off his horse by the palace steps. He gave the people following them a weary gaze.

     The rest of the mercenaries had not seemed to notice the strange silence of the city, perhaps having not cared to, but it was like a sad song of whispers and shuffling feet which echoed throughout the crowded streets. All whilst Kanra Mortier’s palace stood a cruel overseer to the city and its people.

     Artus approached Troian with near silent steps and leaned in close to his ear. “He’s still refused to say a word about this contract?” he asked him, of which he only got a curt nod in response.

     Troian tucked a loose strand of his black hair behind an ear and risked a glance over his shoulder. He found a group of citizens had gathered at the bottom of the steps with them, watching with their cold and emotionless gazes.

     It was then that the thick iron doors to the palace groaned open, and a soldier stepped out to greet the Khaishee Mercenaries. He looked the part of a nasty brute, with his tremendous height and unnervingly big build.

     The man shook the ground as he walked. His dark skin almost blended in with the black leather of his jacket, thrown over a black tunic and a pair of black breeches. He did not seem to be a fan of colour. The man’s deep red eyes, brown in some lights, darted from one mercenary to another. He paused his sight on Kholo. “Welcome.” he said dramatically, and gave a deep bow to his expected guests. “My Master hopes you have had a pleasant journey, and he bids you all welcome to his fine city. I am Kadira, personal guard to his Lordship, Kanra Mortier.”

     Fine city my arse, Troian could not help but think, as he suppressed the urge to check if the crowd had still gathered behind them. A series of growls and threatening words from Kadira was enough to tell him that the crowd was still there; or at least it had been.

     The people scurried off like rats in a sewer, hoping not to get caught in what they were expecting to be a sudden fit of anger from Kadira. He really was a brute. It was no wonder the city people seemed to tremble even at the words he spoke, let alone the things he could do with those large hands of his. Kadira ran strong fingers through his tangled black beard and gave another dramatic bow, before urging the mercenaries to follow him into the palace.

     How strange. His behaviour was off-putting and suspicious as it was. Now, Troian was not too sure he even wanted to step foot into the palace; for fear of those demons he thought he did not believe in appearing and eating him alive.

     Artus kept close to his comrade’s side, with Kholo in front and the others following behind. He appeared as suspicious as Troian, but both men were wise enough to keep their mouths shut upon entering the palace. The place was as dull and uninviting as both men had expected it to be. Not only was Kadira not a fan of colour, neither was Kanra. Nor windows either, it soon became clear.

     “My master extends his apologies. He cannot see you yet as he is a very busy man, and he already has a schedule he needs to attend to. I will make sure you all settle comfortably into your chambers and will leave you all to do what you will after that. Lord Kanra is not expecting to see you any earlier than dinner.” Kadira said out loud, to no one in particular.

     The corridors leading down to the men’s chambers dragged on for what seemed like an eternity. Every which way they turned, the mercenaries faced the same grey walls and candles, so dimly lit they did not appear to have any real effect on the darkness stretching all around them.

     Troian’s gaze slipped to a heavy set of stairs leading deeper into the belly of the castle. Ironically enough, it seemed far brighter than any of the actual corridors above ground level. He wondered what horrors likely lived down there.

     “That is not for your wandering eyes.” Kadira said to him.

     Troian turned and found the guard had stopped by his side. He had not even realised he had stopped himself, but the way Kadira glared at him was reason enough to not ask questions about that strange set of stairs and what it led down to. The mercenary was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. What worried him most was that fact that Kholo was turning a blind eye to every strange vibe both Troian and Artus seemed to get from Kadira, the entire palace, and the dictator they were yet to meet.