The first rays of light were only just starting to creep over the great golden dunes of the Istan Desert. The last traces of night were rising, the dark purple of the edges of the sky melting away the rich black, a corner of red touching the horizon. With the darkness fled the crisp, clear, cool desert night, the first warming breezes heralding another day of dry heat, the kind that killed. Over the city of Istan, the last stars slowly faded into the lightening sky.

Captain August Johann Van Eckardt was on his knees of the balcony of the room provided for him at the house he and his men were staying. As the sun rose, he faced the north silently, bringing his hands to his face, kissing them, and placing them on the ground directly in front of him. Bowing his head, he murmured the prayer recited by generations upon generations of worshippers of Otso, the Great Bear of the North.

“Eg nígi tí niður
í bøn til tín, Otso:
Hin heilagi friður
mær falli í lut!
Lat sál mía tváa
sær í tíni dýrd!
So torir hon vága
- av Otsoi væl skírd -
at bera tað merki,
sum eyðkennir verkið,
ið varðveitir Føroyar, mítt land!”

He repeated this thrice, kneeling and kissing the ground, facing the North, his homeland. As the sun finally rose above the city, he stood up, dusting off his uniform and looking into the center of the city. The great sapphire temple in the center of the city was glowing in the sun, and the first natives were walking the streets, heading to work or to play. Business as usual in the desert.

Johann entered his room, looking at the two men asleep on cots next to the table. His unit had arrived only three days ago, hot on the heels of his rival and target. The special squad that they had escorted this far south had already disappeared, leaving the first morning they were there to go about their mission, and he and his men had been left to their own devices. For most of his men, than meant drinking and whoring, and the two men sleeping in the room, both lieutenants in the Duke’s Own Lancers, Black Brigade, were snoring drunkenly, the stench of raw palm wine filling the room. Johann was their Captain, taking a highly illegal detour from his usual patrol routes to accomplish personal ends; a typical practice in the Duchy of Faroyar, north along the Dragonspines, but one that rarely went so far. His family, influential, wealthy, and well-connected in the military, had arranged for another unit to cover his duties, but he couldn’t afford to stay away any longer than absolutely necessary. He walked into his room, a private space with a bed and a desk, and grabbed his riding crop. It was solid leather with a hardwood hilt, designed to inflict maximum pain with minimum damage to the horse. Turning on his heel, he towered over his officers, a hint of madness gleaming in his piercing blue eyes. He raised the crop high over his head, and brought it crashing down on the thighs of the closest officer. The man screamed and rolled off the bed, thrashing around, attempting to full awaken himself. Johann smiled again, and slashed the crop at the other officer’s bare feet. The man literally jumped out of bed, howling and clutching his lacerated soles.

Johann watched them for a moment, enjoying their pain, and then slammed the crop down on the table. The whimpering subsided, and the two men slowly raised themselves to attention. They were obviously in pain, both from the crop and their hangovers. He waited for them to sit down, and opened his mouth the speak.

Before he could say a word, an outcry rose from the city around them. Johann calmly walked to the window, as the lieutenants behind him slumped with relief. Above the city, high in the sky, a dragon flew off towards Taras, coming from the oasis. Johann nodded, and turned back to the officers. There were many dragons in the North. If the locals were not used to them, that was their problem.

“Men, I am getting tired of waiting for the assassins to come back. Come, we are going to rouse the men and have breakfast, then go in search of them.”

That said, he strode out the door.

Dmitri sighed heavily, and sat down, sand rubbing against his back. The oasis was a full day’s journey away from Istan city, and he wasn’t enjoying the walk back. He’d seen the dragon rise from the oasis, and had pushed on at a fast pace for several hours afterwards. It certainly explained the stranger’s arrogance and self-confidence, and he was regretting how rude he’d been to the man. Thankfully, the dragon had flown well past him, and at last glimpse had disappeared over the horizon. After a full night’s march, he was finally within an hour of the gates. He pulled the small vial of rowan berry juice from his coat and took a small sip. The bitter juice puckered his lips, but it soothed his throat, and the vitamins in the juice would keep him from succumbing to illness. It had been cold that past night, though the day was already turning into a scorcher. For not the first time since arriving in the desert, he cursed his black clothing.

He stood back up, clutching his staff, and began walking again. The sun was rising high over the desert, beating down on his back, and by the time Dmitri arrived at the tall gates of the city, he was close to collapse. The gates were just opening for the day, and the glaive-wielding guards checked him quickly and ushered him into the city. He smiled with relief as the first touch of shade fell over him, and he walked into the first tavern he saw.

Sitting at the bar, Dmitri ordered a water for perhaps the first time in his life. The tavern keeper merely nodded, and pulled a few scoopers full from the bucket behind the bar. Dmitri drank greedily, and shook the sand off of his back. He looked around cautiously, and moved to the corner of the room, pulling out the few dates he had saved from the oasis and a handful of the rowan berries he gathered every time he found them. He was hungry, and out of breath, and wanted nothing more than to nap in the chair he sat in. Dmitr probably would have, too, chewing on a date and sitting in the shade, if a band of uniformed men had not entered the tavern.

Johann marched down the steps, the rattling of his saber and the jingling of spurs combining with the thump of his boots falling on loose wood to make music of his march. The two lieutenants, surly and still in pain, marched behind him.

The rest of his troops were quartered on the second floor of the establishment, and all were still asleep. Some had managed to pass out in the hallway, and their Captain spared neither the lash nor the boot in rousing them to attention. By the time the rest of the twenty-man patrol had assembled in the hallway, he had worked himself into a fine fury.

“You lazy bastards aren’t fit to lick the ground beneath a real soldier’s boots! Curs, gather arms and assemble outside, or so help me, I will flay you alive and send you straight to the maw of the Great Bear! ASSEMBLE!”

The men fled into their rooms, buttoning uniforms hastily, gathering arms, and fleeing downstairs to assemble with their horses outside of the tavern. They’d seen the Captain in full rage before, and the unspeakable cruelty he was capable of made him a force to be feared, and not pushed. By the time the Captain finally left the tavern, the men were in perfect rows, horses saddled and prepared, weapons on, uniforms buttoned.

“All right. Lieutenants, take eight men each. One of you, scour the town for our… associates. The other, take your men and patrol the route out to the oasis. We need to find them. The rest of you, follow me.”

The lieutenants hastily divided up the forces, leaving four unfortunates to follow in the Captain’s wake. He marched towards the Eastern gate, a swift step, and by the time they arrived, the hung over and ill troops were out of breath. He stopped in the middle of the street, looked to his left, and motioned for them to enter the bar right next to the gates.

When he followed them in, the Scarred Man was right beside him.