Boris roared as the Sand Hydra lunged again, its massive jaws snapping inches from his head. His iron-clad fists struck like a warhammer, but the beast's thick, sand-coated scales absorbed most of the blows. Its multiple heads weaved and struck in perfect unison, forcing Boris to fight on all sides at once. Even in his monstrous Iron Vein form, he could feel his strength waning.
Meanwhile, his men, battered and desperate, had raced across the dunes to the Silver Axes' camp—only to find nothing. The fires had burned low, the banners fluttered idly in the desert wind, but there were no warriors, no weapons, no Torgo. The Silver Axes had already left.
Panic set in as realization dawned. There would be no reinforcements. No cavalry to turn the tide.
They exchanged frantic looks before one finally spoke. "What do we do?"
Another cursed under his breath. "We ride after them."
"It'll take days!" someone barked.
"And if we don't?"
Silence.
The ground trembled in the distance. They could still hear it—the battle raging beyond the dunes. The Hydra was still there, still feasting, still devouring.
One of the Iron Foot warriors clenched his fists. "Then we go back. We fight. We die beside him."
The desert night alive with the sound of battle. The Sand Hydra roared—a terrible, echoing sound that shook the dunes and sent flocks of carrion birds scattering from the ruins of the Iron Foot camp.
Boris Thorson, the warlord known as Iron Vein, stood in the center of it all, his once-mighty form now sluggish with exhaustion. His breath came in ragged, growling gasps, his iron-plated skin cracked in places where the Hydra's fangs and claws had struck him. Blood, both his own and the beast's, dripped from his massive axe, Jibral's Judgement, a weapon said to be blessed by the spirits of vengeance.
Yet no matter how many times he cleaved into the monster's flesh, the Hydra did not falter.
It was a nightmare given form—a great, shifting mass of scaled bodies and writhing, elongated necks. Its six heads, each large enough to swallow a man whole, struck at him from different angles, their forked tongues flicking out to taste the blood on the air. Their eyes burned with a cruel, mindless hunger, and their teeth gleamed under the torchlight.
Boris had already learned the hard way what made this beast so fearsome: Each time he severed one of its heads, two more grew in its place.
Now, twelve heads surrounded him, snapping and coiling like monstrous whips, each one hissing mockery in its own way—some in distorted human voices, others in a language older than time itself.
"Weak."
"Fool."
"Meat."
The Hydra's voices slithered into his ears, mocking him with every word, each head speaking over the other in a horrific chorus.
Boris spat blood into the sand. "I'll carve your words into your damn skulls."
He swung his axe with all his remaining strength. The blade met the thick hide of one of the Hydra's necks and tore through muscle and sinew in a spray of blackened blood. The severed head tumbled to the sand, twitching.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a sickening squelch, two new heads erupted from the stump, screeching in unholy delight.
"Not enough!" one of them cackled.
Boris gritted his teeth as another head lunged. He barely managed to twist out of the way, but his movements were slower now, less refined. His body, once an unstoppable force, was betraying him.
Then, he heard them. Hoofbeats in the distance. Through the blood and sweat clouding his vision, Boris saw them—his warriors had returned.
Ragged, wounded, but resolute, the Iron Foot raiders rode back into the camp, their weapons drawn, their eyes filled with grim determination. The Hydra turned, its heads snapping toward the new arrivals, as if amused.
One of Boris's warriors dismounted, gripping his spear. "What in the depths of the Seven Hells is this thing?!"
Another, an older war-chief, spat into the sand. "Death incarnate. And our king fights it alone."
Boris glanced back at them, his breath ragged. He wanted to tell them to run. To leave him here. But he knew his warriors. They would never run.
One of his men, Erik the Red Wolf, laughed despite the situation. "You look like shit, Boris!" he called out.
Boris managed a grim smile. "I feel worse."
Then Erik planted his sword in the sand. "Then let's all look like shit together!"
The beast roared as the raiders struck. Swords, axes, and spears rained down upon its writhing mass, cutting through scales and drawing thick, tar-like blood. The Hydra thrashed, sending warriors flying like broken dolls.
Boris joined them, forcing himself forward despite the leaden weight of exhaustion in his limbs. He drove his axe into one of the Hydra's legs, severing tendons and forcing the massive creature to stagger.
The beast screamed, thrashing wildly. One of its tails swung out and caught a warrior mid-run, sending him crashing into a tent, his body limp.
Another head lunged at Erik, jaws open wide, but the Red Wolf rolled beneath it and drove his sword into the Hydra's throat, pinning the head to the ground. For a brief moment, it seemed they had the upper hand.
Then, the ground trembled. The Hydra's many heads rose in unison, their eyes glowing with something more than hunger now. Rage. Intelligence.
It drove its body into the sand, disappearing beneath the dunes. A moment of stunned silence. Then—chaos.
The Hydra erupted from beneath them, its massive form tearing through the camp like a force of nature. It crashed into wooden structures, sending debris flying, tents bursting into flame as torches were knocked aside.
Boris barely had time to roll away before one of the beast's heads snapped at him. He swung his axe in retaliation, but the strike was slower now, his body screaming in protest.
The Hydra's laughter echoed in his ears.
"Tired, little warrior?"
Boris's vision blurred. His grip on his axe weakened. He could feel the weight of the fight pressing down on him. For the first time in his life, he wondered if this was where he would die. Then, a horn sounded.
As Boris steadied himself, his body trembling with exhaustion, the low, mournful howl of a horn echoed across the dunes. It was a sound foreign to the battlefield, yet unmistakable in its meaning—someone else had come.
Turning toward the horizon, Boris saw them. Silhouettes against the moonlit dunes. Ships. Not the kind that sailed the sea, but the kind that ruled the endless desert. The DuneStriders.
Massive vessels, their hulls built from the ironwood of the Oasis Groves and reinforced with the bones of colossal desert beasts, these were ships crafted to glide over sand as smoothly as water.
Their sails, woven from the silk of the dreaded Ash Spiders, caught the hot desert winds, while a complex system of skates and levitation runes carved into their keels allowed them to cut through the dunes like sharks through water.
Each vessel had a unique shape and purpose:
The SunHarvester – A colossal flagship, adorned with golden sails that shimmered under the moonlight, its hull painted with intricate carvings of old desert gods.
The GlassPhantom – A sleek, ghostly white skimmer, its hull lined with reflective crystal, making it nearly invisible under the desert sun.
The StormSerpent – A long, slender raider ship, built for speed and ambush tactics, its front shaped like the maw of a fanged wyrm.
The IronMirage – A heavy warship, its hull plated with scavenged steel from ancient ruins, bristling with harpoons and chained ballistae.
Boris recognized these ships immediately. The Sand Surfers had arrived. The Sand Surfers were no ordinary warriors. They were legends.
Neither true pirates nor mercenaries, they were nomadic raiders who ruled the sands of Sol-Mayora with unmatched skill. Each crew was its own tribe, bonded by blood, honor, and the ever-present thirst for wealth and battle.
Their ships moved across the dunes through a blend of ancient engineering and sorcery. The hulls were enchanted with wind-binding runes, which captured the desert gales and propelled the ships forward. Massive metal skates beneath their hulls shifted with the dunes, preventing them from sinking, while some of the more advanced vessels, like the SunHarvester, even had gravity stones salvaged from pre-collapse civilizations, allowing brief moments of true levitation.
But it wasn't just the ships that made them feared. It was their captains. At the head of each ship stood a warrior whose name carried weight across the deserts:
Captain Ra'Zir al-Sol (The Sun Harvester) – Known as "The Gold Fang," Ra'Zir was a towering man clad in desert silks and gilded armor, his curved scimitars gleaming like fire under the moonlight. A former prince from a fallen desert kingdom, he sought conquest, wealth, and eternal glory.
Captain Ismara the Veil (The Glass Phantom) – A phantom of the dunes, her face always hidden behind a shimmering veil of black silk. Some whispered she was a sorceress, others a ghost. What was certain was her ship's ability to appear and vanish at will, striking unseen before retreating into the night.
Captain Vekram the Stormcaller (The Storm Serpent) – A madman who believed himself blessed by the desert gods, his ship painted with streaks of blue lightning sigils. He led his crew into battle like a raging storm, his twin spears crackling with energy.
Captain Dhalmok the Black Brand (The Iron Mirage) – A former warlord exiled from the eastern kingdoms, his body covered in ritual scars and tattoos marking his many victories. He wielded a massive chain-axe, said to be cursed, and his ship was the most heavily armored, built to crash through enemy lines like a battering ram.
Boris clenched his fists as he watched the Sand Surfers draw near. They had come—not for him, not for the Silver Axes, nor even the Iron Foot. They had come for the Hydra.
As the first of the ships reached the battlefield, anchors of thick, spiked chains were fired into the dunes, holding the vessels in place. The captains stepped forward, their crews leaping down into the chaos, weapons drawn.
Ra'Zir al-Sol grinned at Boris, his golden fangs gleaming. "I see you're losing, Iron Vein."
Boris growled. "You're late, Gold Fang."
The pirate prince laughed, stepping past Boris, his curved blades drawn. "Not late. Just dramatic."
Boris gritted his teeth as the Sand Surfers surged forward, not as saviors, but as predators. They had no interest in the Iron Foot, no desire to help. To them, the Sand Hydra was not a threat—it was a prize.
They were poachers. The biggest bounty in Sol-Mayora stood before them, and they would claim it, no matter who stood in their way. But as Boris watched them descend upon the Hydra, he noticed something… strange.
The captains of the Sand Surfers moved differently. Their bodies twisted, their forms shifting beneath their armor. Then, as one, they changed.
Bones cracked, muscles expanded, and skin stretched. The Sand Surfer captains were no ordinary men—they were mutants. Each of them took on a monstrous, canine-like form.
Ra'Zir al-Sol became a towering, jackal-headed beast, his golden armor fusing into his fur-covered skin. His eyes burned like molten gold, and his fangs gleamed under the moonlight.
Ismara the Veil transformed into a shadowy desert wolf, her body sleek and spectral, moving like a mirage on the battlefield.
Vekram the Stormcaller turned into a massive hyena-like creature, laughing madly as sparks of energy crackled across his body.
Dhalmok the Black Brand became a hulking sand-colored mastiff, his body covered in runic scars that glowed faintly with an eerie, cursed light.
They were not as large or powerful as Boris in his Iron Vein form, but their numbers were overwhelming. For single Iron Vein, there were dozens of these desert-hounds. And unlike Boris, they fought together. The Sand Surfers swarmed the Hydra, not like warriors, but like a hunting pack.
Some lunged at its legs, ripping through the thick scales with razor-sharp claws. Others climbed onto its back, stabbing into its flesh and anchoring themselves like ticks. The Hydra roared in fury, its many heads thrashing wildly, biting and snapping at the attackers.
But the mutants were too fast. For every head that lunged, a Sand Surfer dodged. For every tail that swung, another leapt onto it, stabbing into the Hydra's spine.
They fought like a well-coordinated pack, each movement precise, each attack calculated. They weren't just attacking the Hydra—they were wearing it down. And Boris knew exactly why. They didn't want to kill the Hydra outright. They wanted to break it.
Tire it out. Bleed it just enough to make it weak—but not dead. A dead Hydra was worthless. A captured Hydra? Priceless.
Boris clenched his fists. For all his hatred of the Silver Axes, at least they were warriors. These bastards? They were scavengers. And he wasn't about to let them steal his battle.