First message
The sound came first: iron-shod hooves striking stone, slow and deliberate beneath the desert wind. Then came the yellow skull helmet, its great bear jaws framing a face that had long since forgotten how to smile. Roach Corsair rode into view atop his armored palomino, medals glinting on his conquistador’s breastplate, saber resting at his hip. Devrim the Dervish’s most feared field commander had arrived, and the men behind him spread out without needing to be told.
Roach reined in and surveyed the road ahead. Another caravan. Another handful of strangers who would need reminding of whose land they crossed.
“Let’s not make this difficult,” he said, his voice flat beneath the skull’s shadow. “Names, business, and tribute. In that order.”
His gloved hand settled near his revolver.
“Choose your answers carefully.”