The heat was unbearable.

The trip was too far, he thought as he swallowed anoth

er quart of water in fearless gulps. What would they do when they ran out?
He tried not to think about it as the caravan wound its way through the dunes of
the Akain Desert. The merchant house of the same name was responsible for deli
very of goods and services to the Grand City of Corso. The House of Akain had n
ever missed a delivery until The Fall. Now, forty years later, their record was
again uncompromising.
There were no roads here. Little scrub. Some scorpions had followed them from
the Aravan Hills, though oddly they seemed more curious than dangerous. The cre
atures would pry open crates, steal items, and terrify by pulling open sleeping
eyelids before scurrying away. It's almost as if they do not want them to sleep
.
How can one blame them? Rumors of the Nightland say that all are subject to ter
rifying dreams, thanks to the Dream King who lives on the moon. Nod hangs in th
e sky ahead of us. We are almost to the line.
When we cross over, one of the sleen guards (paid for) cried out in relief. The
snake-folk are generous and wise, however few of them can stand extremes for lo
ng. Their blood runs cool like a stream of water, and when it warms too much, t
hey become tired. They have devised a number of ways of alaying their odd curse,
though they insist before the Divine Age, most creatures were cold blooded like
themselves.
Corso. The city lights could be seen miles away. More people than ten cities c
ould hold, here was the last stop for civilization. A festering wound in a godl
ess land, Corso was technically the only metropolis in the world.
Riders appeared on the hillside, lanterns on poles, armed to the teeth. Soldier
s patrolling the countryside stared at the caravan as it rolls down a sandy incl
ine. The riders steady their steeds while one barks, "Welcome to Corso, I hope
you have your travelers fee."
"Of course, you have our passage secured?" The small sack of coins jingled in t
he night air as they passed from a bare hand to a gloved one.
A quick nod from a surly face and the caravan continues to roll by. The other m
ounted guards gazed through metal helmets at our cargo. Then at our Sleen, an u
nfriendly look, one of frustration and fear.
The Sleen, named Orson, gripped his mount with a serpantine hand. "He bites," w
as all the caravan master, Joc, said as Orson's tongue pursed his lips lightly a
t the guards. They back up from where they were to provide a wider berth for th
e rolling carts.
Corso's streetlamps were hanging alongside the road leading to the gate. Amber
light illuminated the path as the caravan continued at a steady pace.