Dusk settled, the haze of sand in the air bathing the city in a red glow. Mortis sat in Atma's bar, finishing the last of his ale. He found it bitter compared to the liqueur Zac once had in his cabinet, a stash that had been accumulated from a life of thieving from well-to-do merchants. But it was refreshing none the less.

The bar was almost empty now, save for two men in the corner. He recognised them both: Greiz, the Captain of the Guard and Greglash, a retired mercenary. They had spoken earlier, casual small talk about the west and its happenings. Now the two men were in a deep conversation of their own.

"I tell ya, it's not right! The Sultan can't just go pulling men out of me ranks without telling me the purpose." Greiz was a hardened veteran, and expected discipline and organization in all things to do with his guards. "He can't keep me in the bloody dark like that."

"I know -ic- whatsh ya mean. It'sh a consprishy! That'sh what it is... aaaallll pawnsh in the bigger... scheme... of things." Greglash had been retired for fifteen years after receiving a crippling belly blow. It didn't deter him from filling it with grog first chance he got.

"Oh... shut it, Greglash," Greiz snorted. "You and your crazy ideas. Being retired's just given you too much time to think. Drink up and kill a few more brain cells."

"Don't mind -ic-... if I do... but I'm telling you! The Sultan'sh... up to something..."

Something clicked in his mind, and Mortis realised the old mercenary was closer to the truth then the Captain wished to believe. Glancing around quickly to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder, Mortis closed his eyes and called in the new contract. He looked around one more time; Atma out the back somewhere, the two men still in drunken conversation. He unfolded the letter and began to read through Braca's familiar bold print:

"Contract 2 – Sultan of Lut Gholein

There are currently two ruling Sultans of the desert city, Lut Gholein: Abdullah Hassani the 33rd, and his son, Jerhyn Hassani, next in line to the throne.

The Hassani bloodline has been known for its vast wealth and political power since the foundation of the city, and no one has ever tried to usurp their rule. They are also known for their great greed and selfishness. As each new ruler steps up to the throne, he becomes more heartless and self-servient then the last. Abdullah is no exception.

Under his rule, taxes have increased 27, and care for the city and its inhabitants has diminished almost to the point where they are now fending for themselves while making their fat leader wealthier. Abdullah is more partial to spending his gold on Harem girls and personal slaves, which brings us to the reason for this contract.

Hassani the 33rd has a fetish for the 'exotic', and is entertained by foreign women far more then his own. Likewise he prefers foreign male slaves, as he finds it challenging to 'break' their strong spirits. Also, if one should go missing in a fit of the Sultans rage, there are no friends or family to ask questions on their whereabouts.

To keep his supply of 'exotic' staff fresh, Abdullah has year-quarterly arrangements with a notorious kidnapper's guild. This guild travels the lands in large caravans, known as 'Human Zoos', where foreign subjects – mostly young so they can be broken and controlled easily – are sold to the highest bidders.

While my employers would prefer to eradicate the leader of these 'zoos', his location is, so far, still hidden. The best we can do his eliminate the collaborators, starting with Hassani.

Your goal: one hour after midnight, the Sultan plans to ride out with a formidable contingent of loyal guards and meet his suppliers beyond the canyons that lead to the Desert Oasis.
Ambush him in the canyon and dispose of this vile man. It is preferable that you also dispose of the body; fewer questions will be asked if he disappears altogether then if his mangled remains are found.

The guards... they know of the Sultans wicked business deals, and make no attempt to stop him. Do with them as you will.

My employers understand you have a close connection to the people of Lut Gholein, so they implore you to be as discreet as possible. Know also that Abdullahs son, Jerhyn, is a noble man who shows no sign of the hereditary greed... yet. He still considers his people the highest priority, and they will do far better under his rule.

Remove the Sultan, make way for a better leader, and eliminate a buyer for the Human Zoo's at the same time. People who have such little respect for their fellow man have no place in this world.

Braca

P.S. You are not the only one who wants the Sultan dead. Keep your eyes open, and don't -"

"Letter from home?" Atma inquired from behind the bar.

Mortis jumped. How long has she been there? He closed his eyes to vanish the paper, and discovered his hands already empty. In his shock he had done it automatically. That had never happened before.

"Hardly," he said, "The demons of Hell don't even know how to write, let alone use paper. Blood and pentagrams are about all they can manage."

"Oh... so what was it?" she replied, before quickly adding; "If you don't mind me asking.

Mortis smiled.

"It's a thank you letter from an employer."

Atma knew better then to probe further. She'd been a young girl when she'd first met him, but the Dune Hunter's legacy stretched back far further then that. Bandits were rare occurrences in the desert these days, though once it had been rife with them. Caravans could only travel with a large force of guards for protection, and sometimes even that wouldn't deter them.

Then a dark stranger, one not from this world, had come offering his services. It had been dangerous to trust him, but the people had no other choice. They agreed to his fee... and the desert Bandits were no more. One by one they simply vanished from Aranoch, leaving empty caves and hushed rumours in their passing.

Elzix's band had been the last, and tales of the carnage had become whispered bed time tales for the children of the next generation – almost certainly ensuring they would want to grow up respectable, law abiding citizens.

Mortis pushed his glass over the bar and stood up, nodding politely in Atma's direction.

"Thank you for the free drink." He headed for the door.

"You're not... doing anything tonight... are you Mortis?"

He paused. She knew better then that; for her own safety she should have. Then why did she still ask? Women.

"Goodbye Atma."

It felt more final then he wanted it too.

The sun had set by the time he left the tavern. It was that murky half-light; the twilight that came before total darkness. The time that reminded him most of Hell.
The palace tower was a tear shaped shadow, high above all else. He passed through the market on his way towards it empty now, aside from a few homeless still scrounging in the garbage heaps.

Braca had lied to him on the first contract. He had a plausible reason and story, but that still didn't make up for the fact that Mortis's trust in his employer had been betrayed. This time, he was going to be certain of the contracts authenticity. This time he was going to make sure the target was what he was made out to be. He was going to see the Sultan.

Though he was in good stead with the people of Lut Gholein, the Sultans had never opted to meet him. Every Sultan that had ever come to power during the time Mortis had walked the sands neither acknowledged nor praised his accomplishments for the city. They considered themselves too pure to consort with a demon, so to this day he had yet to see one of the great Hassani's with his own eyes.

Two guards stood in the entrance of the palace, supposedly alert and on watch. In reality, one leaned heavily on his spear, dozing, while the other picked nonchalantly at his uniform. Mortis nearly climbed the stairs to their feet before he was noticed.

"Halt!" cried the uniform-picking guard. He brought his spear out in front, ready to skewer. "You may not pass."

The other guard jerked awake with a snort and looked sleepily around."'Ere, what's all the noise about, Kaelen? Can't a man get some peace for a few minutes, it's been a twelve hour-"

He stopped when he saw Mortis before them.
"Oh... careful lad, that's the Dune Hunter. You don't want to mess with him."

Kaelan eyed the intruder with deepening suspicion."He is forbidden from entering the palace, Treval, you know that." He thrust the tip of his spear almost up Mortis's nose, "What do you want, demon?"

Mortis raised his hands.

"Easy there: I've come to see the Sultan. I mean no harm." He took the sharpened tip in his hand and pushed it slowly away.

Treval stepped forward.

"Mortis, now look: I got nothing against you, and neither does Kaelen here. Hell, you kept my ancestors from going destitute by wiping out those bandits raiding our caravans, same as you did for everyone else's grandmothers and fathers." He leaned in, excluding Kaelan but by no means hiding his words.

"But try to understand. If we let you into the palace the Sultan will literally have our heads. We can't afford to do that to our families. It's just not worth it, I'm sorry."

Mortis was silent, his wings flapping back and forth lazily.

"You're really struggling, aren't you?" he said grimly.

Treval hung his head.

"You'd know better then anyone. Every new Sultan that comes along jacks up the taxes even more. It's a struggle for everyone to survive, not just us guards."

Mortis closed his eyes and concentrated. Two bags, bulging and heavy, appeared in his hands. It was only a small percentage of the reward Braca had given him, but still a generous amount for the average commoner.

"In exchange for entry into the palace, I offer you both this small token of my good will. And," he raised his hand in a flat palmed oath; "my word that I will cause no trouble that could be linked back to you two. I have come to see the Sultan... nothing more."

The two guards looked at each other, the various consequences that could result from their actions turning over in their heads. Then they slowly reached out to take the gold from Mortis's hands.

"We didn't see nothing, right Kaelen?"

Kaelan was uneasy, but finally nodded in agreement.

"Didn't see a thing."

Mortis crept down the spiral staircase, senses so alert he would have jumped at a moth's flight. He could hear everything below; guard's armour clinking as they walked, women's soft, melodious voices. And somewhere in the distance, a deep, stomach laugh boomed. He honed in on that laugh as he reached the bottom of the stairs and headed towards it, further into the Harem.

The place was considerably larger then he imagined, and extravagantly decorated. Plush bedrooms filled with the finest silks and softest, down-filled pillows. Hand woven carpets that would have taken years to complete, lying on floors made of polished marble.
Mortis gritted his teeth; it was nice to see the people's taxes going to such charitable causes.

Another roar of laughter, closer now, made him dart into a corridor and then back again; a second before the guard he'd brushed against turned to wonder where that breeze had come from.
Mortis held his breath, pressed against the wall, until the man shrugged and started to patrol to the other end. Too close, far too close.

He glanced to his left and right, making sure he wasn't going to be surprised by anyone else, and dashed into the opposing room. This room, small, most likely just a place to walk through or sit, led into a ludicrously large area filled with cushions and hanging incense burners. Even a small fountain. At one end, sitting on a bed so soft he practically sank to the floor, was Abdullah Hassani himself.

He was a stocky man, some would even say fat, and his large, twirly moustache gave him an almost comical appearance. He was smiling and clapping as a small group of attractive and lithe women danced for his entertainment in the centre of the floor. On his left sat a young, fit man dressed in fine blue and white robes. Undoubtedly the Sultans son, his head rested in one hand, finger covering his mouth. He looked thoroughly bored.

The Sultan, on the other hand, couldn't have been any more excited. He was bouncing and clapping on his bed, so much so that the servant holding his food tray had to step back. For a man of his size and social stature, Mortis found Abdullah's behaviour highly inappropriate.

At last the dance ended, and the girls fell to the floor in a panting heap. The Sultan sat up in his bed and applauded loudly.

"Bravo! Bravo! Magnificent!" He slapped his son on the shoulder so hard the lad squinted. "Don't you think? Applaud them, my boy!"

Jerhyn smiled weakly and clapped. The Sultan saw his troubled look.

"What's the matter, girls not to your liking?"

His son flinched. It was obvious Jerhyn feared his father, even if he respected him at the same time.

"Oh... no, they're fine dancers. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Just... well, I don't enjoy watching women do this, knowing they've been forced into it."

The room was quiet now; the tambourines and pipe instruments accompanying the girls dancing were beginning to leave the room with their players. The silence only emphasized the change that came over Abdullah.

"What do you mean 'forced', boy?"No longer was he the bumbling, almost childish character Mortis had witnessed only seconds earlier. Now he was something dark, something more powerful and sinister. He was a dictator, a ruler, ready to smash the will of all those who opposed him. And it was obvious his son knew this ruler well.

"Nothing, father!" Jerhyn cried, "They're wonderful. Simply wonderful."

But the Sultan wasn't ready to let this drop yet.

"Those girls have the blessing of living in the palace. They have food, comfortable beds, clothing fit for queens. Do you think it is not our right, as their providers, protectors, and caretakers, to be indulged with some entertainment every once in awhile? They have everything they could ever need right here; what more could they want?"

"How about to return home?" The look in Jerhyns eyes was icy now. Mortis knew that look well; he had experienced it himself many times. The boy was on the edge, and if pushed hard enough there may be no going back.

When his father didn't answer, only turned a darker shade of red, Jerhyn continued:
"How about to know their families? Not to be forced to lie down next to you or any of your infernal guards whenever you desire it?" He was standing now, hands clenched.

'Easy boy' Mortis thought, 'Step back now. Don't do anything you'll regret. That's my job.'

"And the servants," Jerhyn yelled, "I'm sure they would have liked to know they could father children in the future, know they could have a family and life of their own. But no, I'm sure you are the one who is right. The girls dance for you out of gratitude, and always have."

His father exploded, Abdullah's rage so fierce he could only speak through spit and gurgles.

"We own them! They acknowledge that, they dance of their own free will!"

"The same free will that brought them to this place?" Jerhyns voice was flat and emotionless. He had said what he wanted to say.

Abdullah finally found his voice.

"Get out! Get out your ingrate; you spawn of your mother's womb. I'll see you join her in Hell before you sit on my throne. Get out!"

Jerhyn obeyed without another word. The Sultan went about unleashing his fury on every object he could get his hands on; tearing pillows, smashing incense burners, throwing ceramics. Mortis could have watched the temper tantrum all day.

But the princes words had reminded him of the reason he'd come down here. He quickly scanned over the Sultans servants that sat cowering or standing in the room:

Two slaves, each holding a massive peacock feather, fanned over the Sultans bed. Their skin was tanned dark brown, almost black, and Mortis recognised them as natives of Kehjistan found mainly around the jungle city of Kurast. They were visibly frightened by Abdullah's wrath, but dared not stop their work.

The women on the floor huddled together in fear. So thin and pale, Mortis could see the beauty hidden beneath their long black hair and emerald eyes. With shock he realised they were witches from the east; young and therefore most likely unaware of their abilities, but powerful none the less.
Mortis imagined them, snatched from their families under the cover of night, thrown into the moving cages and beaten until they were quiet. It enraged him. It brought him to the edge.

But he controlled it for now. The last servant was the man holding the food tray. A Barbarian, there was no doubt, but not like the ones Mortis had met. His body was lean and face fair, almost feminine. And he had just become the Sultans next target.

"Ignorant fool!" he bellowed, and slapped the tray from his servant's hand. "He doesn't know how good he has it. I don't know why I waste my time and wealth on him; he's his mother's son and always will be. And you!" he pointed at the young Barbarian for a long time, enjoying watching him quiver;
"Clean up this mess immediately," he said at last.

"At once, Sultan. My apologies." As he got down and began to pick up the food, Mortis hung his head. The boy had been broken.

He could hear it in his voice, see it in his features. The fire and aggressiveness that was the trait mark of his heritage was gone, given way to a meek, sub-servient being. He had been broken, subjected to an operation that not only robbed him of his zeal for life but his masculinity and ability to sire children in the future.
Mortis boiled.

Abdullah's own rage was burning down now, and he was beginning to run out of things to destroy. As well as breath.

"All of you out," he huffed, "I have business to prepare for."

The slaves began to file out of the room, the sadness in their eyes told Mortis they already knew what business the Sultan was going to attend. He had seen what he had come to see; Abdullah had done an impressive job at sealing his own fate. The contract was rightly placed.

Mortis slunk back out into the corridor, now surprisingly empty of guards. It was possible the Sultan was preparing for his meeting with the kidnappers already, and if that was the case he would have to head to the canyon fast. He wanted to fly on ahead and meet the Zoo Keepers for himself, welcome them to the desert the Dune Hunter way -

'Mortis'

He stopped dead in his tracks. Had he really just heard that? He had, but not out loud. It had been whispered to him from within his mind. And it came from the room he just passed.

Cautiously, he crept back to the doorway and peered in. It was a weapons room, filled with the most exquisite items the Hassani family had bought - or acquired through other means - during their long rule. In the centre of the room, resting upon a frame of gold, sat a sword. It was forged of long, polished steel, its hilt jewel encrusted.

It pulsed with power. It lured. It called. Mortis stepped into the room, mesmerised. It was so... perfect. He strode up to it, feeling it whispering to him, but not in words.

He reached for it. He wanted it, desired it with all his soul. All he would have to do is take it. He could sneak it past the guards, they never need know. And they wouldn't... be blamed... for its disappearance. Better still, he could vanish it. Then it'd be his forever, locked away in his mind.

But this thought caused confusion. Something was conflicting with the spell the sword was weaving. A memory from long ago. He struggled to think, focus on either thought and clear his mind.

And then the memory won.