I n all, some eighteen souls from the caravan had fallen in the attack along with twelve raiders before the remainder fled into the desert. The outlaws were stripped of all gear and valuables, some subjected to vengeful mutilation, and left to rot by the side of the road. By contrast, the dead caravaners were bound in coarse cloth and prayed over by their kin until dusk. As the sun dipped below the horizon they were borne to the top of the tallest dune and left to be consumed by sand and scavenger.

“The desert demands its due,” the veteran caravaner with the injured leg said as the survivors moved on under the light of the half moon. He rode on the back of his sole remaining camel, his grandson plodding alongside under the weight of a pack laden with salvaged goods. The tall man had offered to carry the burden but the caravaner wouldn’t hear of it. “Whether it’s just the sweat of an untroubled trek, or the blood of those called to join their spirit to the wind, there’s no such thing as a journey with no toll. Best the boy learns that now rather than later.”

By mutual if unspoken agreement, the tall man and the woman kept apart for the remainder of the journey, he scouting the route ahead whilst she guarded the rear. Her hyena could be seen prowling the flanks throughout the two days it took to reach the chapel belonging to the Church of the Absolved.

It proved to be a building of unremarkable size or architecture, a yellow brick rectangle and conical tower perched on the edge of the escarpment overlooking the wasteland known to most as the Execration and to the priests who dwelt here as Alnachim, the Kingdom of the Absolved. He could see minimal signs of habitation, just a few tents pitched in the northward lee of the building and a solitary red-robed priest carrying water from the well to the chapel.

“We never linger here,” the old caravaner said, eyeing the chapel with long-held suspicion. “Even the wind blowing from the Execration is said to carry a curse. The Allied Princes maintain a garrison at the oasis twelve miles on. We’ll rest there.” He watched the tall man climb down from the horse, hefting the pack that contained his few belongings. “You could come with us,” he added, his voice holding more hope than expectation. “Always work for a keen blade and a strong arm on the Valkerin Road.”

“I have business here.” The tall man beckoned the boy closer and placed the stallion’s reins in his hand. It was well known that horses would invariably go mad if forced to traverse the Execration. “He’s yours now.”

“You’ll spoil the little bugger,” the caravaner said, though not without gratitude.