Three days later, the caravan was approaching the halfway point of their journey, the oasis known as the Inn of the Southern Star. Some of the leatherworkers had boiled down the skull of the vrak Gavram had killed and presented it to him. He mounted it on a pole above the driver's station. Arvid was as efficient as always, making sure the teams of haura were ready to pull the heavy loads of the wagons, but he seemed to Gavram to be much quieter than he'd been on the first leg of the trip. Small wonder, he thought. A vrak raid is enough to curl the short hairs of even a seasoned warrior.
The haura of Gavram's wagons lurched forward heroically, moving the multi-ton wagons slowly at first, then at a steady mile-devouring pace. One of the haura had recently given birth and Gavam had taken her out of the traces, roping her to the side of the lead wagon along with the calf. The mother, a shaggy, four-legged beast eight feet high at the shoulder and twelve long, butted the calf gently with her massive curled horns when it started to lag or veer off course. Gavram watched it carefully, wary of any injury. He could sell the calf off at the Inn as partial payment for a night there.
The Inn of the Southern Star was legendary in the lands of the Merchant Republics, not only for its hospitality but for its hot baths, powered by remnant Old Time technology. As the caravan rattled along, Arvid glanced over at his uncle. "I need one of those hot baths," he said, as if reading Gavram's mind.
"You and me both, boy. How, uh, how is everything? Doing all right?" Silver-tongued in his mercantile dealings, he was often at a loss when speaking with family.
Arvid sighed. "It... isn't what I expected. I mean, I knew what to expect, but the reality is a lot... more."
Gavram looked sidelong at him. "Life often is." Arvid propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands and stared out at the desert.
A few hours later, dusk was drawing in, and the caravan was only a few miles south of the Inn. Gavram was resting in his cabin when he heard Arvid shouting excitedly for him. Bursting through the small door that connected the main cabin with the driver's station, he looked around frantically. "What? What?"
"Look!" Arvid said, and pointed towards a trio of weathered pillars leaning out of the sand. At their base, a rumpled figure clothed in black and red was waving at them feebly, slumped against one of the pillars.
"Gods," Gavram muttered. "Doris! Get up here and take the reins for a minute!" Matteo's wife Doris was their company cook and along with Matteo, shared the cabin of the main wagon with Gavram and Arvid. She hustled forward and crowded in between them, smelling of dough and rock beets. When she saw the figure on the sand, she clucked and grabbed the reins. "Well go then," she said. "Find out who it is."
The two clambered down the ladder and stumbled off; one didn't stop the wagons without a good excuse, and this didn't qualify as one. They could always get Matteo to come out with a mount and pick them up. When the reached the figure, now seemingly unconscious, Arvid gasped. "A- A Tallman!" Gavram frowned down at the man. "Aye. And not just any Tallman, either."
"What does that mean?"
"Never mind right now. Help me get him up."
Between the two of them, the managed to support the man. He was a full two feet taller than either of them, with dark, almost black skin. His bald head was crusted with oozing, half-healed wounds, and his black robes were ripped and torn. Around his waist was a wide scarlet sash and hanging from it were a series of small leather pouches. He was half-conscious at best as they staggered back to the wagon. Matteo was coming towards them on a slow-ambling haura, a riding platform secured to it's back, but Gavram waved him off. "Keep a good lookout! This one has vrak wounds!"
"Aye, right you are, boss," Matteo said and whistled sharply for his brothers to man the three lookout towers at the centerline of each wagon.
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