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Dalacroy crouched in the reed bed while flies swarmed around his sweat-soaked body. Nauseated by the stench of decaying plants and rotting wildlife, he gnawed his hand, stifled a cough, mumbled, ?I left the northlands for this?

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 had 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.

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