“Chena!” the woman shouted. The hyena instantly rose from gorging itself on the raider’s brains to sprint off in pursuit of the runners. The tall man watched them crest a dune and disappear from view, the hyena doing the same a few seconds later. The screams started soon after.

“Your help is appreciated, but was not required.”

He lowered his gaze to see the woman retrieving a bow and an empty quiver from the sand. Her triple-braided hair had given him a clue to her origins, but the bow confirmed it. The weapon featured a composite stave of ash and buffalo horn affixed to a central grip formed of intricately carved black ivory. This was a beast charmer from the lands bordering the Second Sea.

Far from home, the voice noted, the tone laden with weary irony. What could possibly have brought her here, I wonder?

She looked up at him with a gaze of careful appraisal. He put her age at somewhere past thirty, but it was hard to gauge precisely under the black and white paint that adorned her features. He had some familiarity with the meanings of the myriad facial markings used by her people. The white circle in the centre of her forehead indicated a bereavement, whilst the three black dots beneath her left eye spoke of a purpose as yet unfilled.

A feud to settle? the voice pondered. More likely a prayer she intends to make at the conclusion of a long and perilous journey. Don’t you agree, my liege? He felt the small pulse of pleasure in response to his anger as he returned the sword to its scabbard, choosing to ignore its additional taunt. You know you should kill her. Only one prayer will be answered, after all.

“You have a name?” the woman asked, frowning in bemusement at his continued silence. When he gave no answer she shrugged, shouldering her quiver. “I am…”

“Pilgrims do not share names,” he interrupted, climbing down from the horse to inspect the still-twitching body of the one-armed raider. Like the others he wore a black scarf about his head, his body clad in a patchwork of armour and mail that bespoke a murderous career pursued across many lands. Pulling away the scarf revealed weathered features bronzed by the sun, though not so dark as those born to this region. Also, a silver chain dangling from one ear bore a small medallion of familiar design.

“The Church of the Arisen,” the woman observed, peering over the tall man’s shoulder at the silver teardrop. “Probably an old crusader left behind when the fanatics took to their ships. Many opted for the bandit’s life rather than starve in the desert since no soul within two thousand miles would give them succour.”