Page 6 of Rok’s Captive (Barbarians of the Dust #1)

TRESPASSERS WILL BE THOROUGHLY MISUNDERSTOOD

ROK

T he male sleeps against my clan’s boundary marker.

I crouch, watching from my position among the sandstone outcroppings. My skin ripples subtly, adjusting its amber-gold patterns to match the surrounding rocks.

This traveler has committed an outrageous offense.

In all my cycles, I have never witnessed such a blatant territorial challenge. The boundary markers are sacred to all Drakav—to rest against one is to claim it, to challenge the clan’s right to the territory beyond. Even rival clans respect the protocol of proper challenges.

Yet this small, strange male simply collapsed against our marker as if it were nothing more than a convenient resting spot.

I extend my senses, attempting to catch his thoughts, but encounter only silence. No Drakav would shield their mind so completely unless they were hostile. Every attempt to establish a connection meets an impenetrable void.

Perhaps he is a youngling? His size suggests he might be, though something seems off. He lacks the proper markings of any clan I recognize. His skin is a strange pale color, and he wears coverings unlike anything I have seen.

A ripple of unease goes through me. What horror have the creatures this male killed endured for him to drape their hides as trophies across his body? Strange hides that cover his legs and chest. Worse yet is the reflective hide that catches Ain’s light. It must have come from some creature I have yet to encounter in all my sols.

And the sounds he makes…Gods, my ear holes bleed. Constant, meaningless vocalizations expelled through his mouth. No proper mindspeak at all.

I shift, crouching lower, my complete focus on the male before me. I suppose it is good that he is so loud. If not for his constant vocalizations, I might not have found him.

Last dark, when I first spotted this intruder approaching our marker, I had hastily raked warning symbols into the sand. The pattern was haphazard, rushed, but any Drakav would recognize the meaning: Turn back. Danger ahead. Territory claimed.

The male ignored them completely.

Now he stirs, making more of those strange vocal sounds. He manipulates something to his mouth and I go still when a drop runs down the corner of his lips.

Water.

He is drinking water.

It is from a strange waterskin, though I am not sure I can call it a waterskin at all. I almost give away my position with the urge to move closer just to investigate, when, without thought or reverence, the male wipes away the drop that ran down his lips with the back of his hand.

My veins go cold. Wasteful . A being who would waste even a drop of the sacred life-giving liquid can be nothing but dangerous. A destroyer. A defiler. This confirms what I already suspected.

This male is a threat.

I tense as I watch him survey his surroundings, my muscles coiling with the instinctive readiness that makes my tribe such feared warriors. Has he detected me? Impossible. My camouflage is perfect. The male’s gaze passes directly over my hiding place, lingers for a moment, then moves on.

His attention shifts toward another clan’s territorial marker in the distance, and alarm pulses through me. That marker indicates the boundaries between my clan and theirs. They are our rivals. Males we have fought against and bled because of. If this male intends to take passage through our lands to go into theirs, I cannot allow it. We cannot appear to be weak. And we cannot appear to have helped this intruder. If he is as dangerous as I think he is…I should eliminate him here.

I must act. But how?

The male begins moving again, not back the way he came, but into our territory and toward the rival clan’s.

I watch as he arranges small stones into a pattern before departing and I creep forward once he’s a safe distance away, examining the creation.

It is a crude thing, but it has a point and an end. Even I can see it’s a directional marker pointing toward our settlement, with strange symbols beside it. A message for others of its clan, perhaps? Reinforcements? This might be the beginning of some invasion.

The decision is made. I will follow this strange male. If he is scouting for an invasion force, I must know his purpose. If he is a lone intruder, I must prevent him from reaching the rival clan’s territory and getting further into ours. Either way, I cannot let him wander freely.

I move in silence, my feet gliding over the hot sand without leaving even the slightest impression. The heat brings comfort to my foot pads. This is my element, my territory—where I am most powerful.

The male, in contrast, moves like a wounded sandfin dragging itself across the dunes. His footfalls are heavy, clumsy, leaving tracks so obvious that a blind nestling could follow them. Each step pushes deep into the sand, creating a trail that might as well be marked with signal fires.

“ Who are you ?” I project the thought toward him, focusing my mindspeak carefully. Nothing. The void remains.

But the male stops suddenly and turns around. I drop, my body flattening against the dust, skin shifting to match the exact shade and texture of my surroundings. My dra-kir hammers in my chest. Did he sense me? But no, he merely surveys the terrain before turning back and continuing his awkward trudge.

As Ain climbs higher in the sky, pouring its merciless heat onto the dust, I expect the male to seek shelter. He is obviously struggling. Instead, he continues, though his pace slows significantly. More vocalizations emerge from him—sharp, clipped sounds that carry a tone of… frustration? Pain? I cannot interpret the meaning.

He stops again and I freeze, this time behind a small rock outcropping barely large enough to conceal me. The male adjusts the shiny layer of his strange hide coverings, revealing more pale flesh beneath. He secures this covering over his head. I barely catch a glimpse of his dusty yellow fur.

What I do catch is a glimpse of his exposed arms. They are turning a deeper shade. A shade that often signals rage or warning in the dust. I don’t move, my entire focus on him, waiting for him to lurch towards me in an attack. Instead, he turns, stumbles, and carries on.

Strange.

If he is not changing color as a warning, then… Is he unwell? Maybe he is no scout after all. Maybe he is heading to a Giving Stone—the place where all Drakav go to die. And the place where all Drakav emerge into this world.

Wrong. The nearest Giving Stone is in the opposite direction, and this male persists, continuing his determined march toward the rival clan’s territory.

“ Stop your advance. This territory is claimed .” I try again with my mindspeak, pushing harder this time, but the void remains. Either he is deliberately blocking me, or—more disturbing—he is incapable of receiving mindspeak at all.

A being without the most basic form of communication? Impossible.

By the middle of the day, Ain blazes directly overhead, turning the dust into a pleasant warmth. Some creatures hide when Ain is at her highest point, but her rage does not affect me. The male, however, is clearly suffering. His movements have become erratic, his vocalizations more frequent and strained.

He finally collapses into the meager shadow of a small rock, consuming more of his precious water. That is twice now. Drinking so much in such a short time. It is wasteful. Unheard of.

He must carry some illness.

The next few solmarks pass with the male huddled in the diminishing shade while I maintain my vigil. When he finally rises to continue his journey, I notice his skin has changed color again—parts of it now an angry red. I know no clans that change color like this. All the Drakav I know are similar shades to me: amber-gold. Some lighter. Some darker. But never red.

It is a strange camouflage that appears to serve no purpose.

I am right about this male harboring some illness. It is even more important that I stop his trek through the dust. I watch as he winces before moving forward, still toward the rival clan’s marker.

What a void-minded ka’vrakt.

His determination is both impressive and troubling. What could drive an ill runt of a male to push himself this way? What goal could be worth such suffering?

I can think of nothing good.

As Ain begins her descent, the light grows softer and the male’s pace quickens slightly, as if renewed by the promise of coming darkness. The rival clan’s marker is now clearly visible on the horizon, perhaps another solmark’s journey at his current speed.

I cannot allow him to reach it. The truce between our clans is fragile at best. The tension between Kol (our leader) and Lucek (theirs) has been rising high since the water scarcity sols ago. A strange male crossing from our lands into theirs will be seen as either an attack or collusion—neither scenario ends well for my clan.

Each step brings him closer to the boundary, and my skin prickles.

I cannot let this happen.

I won’t.

Surging forward, my body is a blur of motion against the darkening landscape. The male doesn’t hear me approach—how could he when I move with the silence of wind over dust? At the last possible moment, he begins to turn, some instinct perhaps warning him of danger.

Too late.

I tackle him, angling my body sideways to take him off course, even as I’m careful to control my strength against his smaller frame. I expect an immediate onslaught against my mindspace, but there is nothing. What occurs is a shrill screech that comes from the male’s throat. I’d cover my ear holes if I didn’t have to grab his limbs as they suddenly kick out in every direction, trying but failing to land a blow on me.

We tumble across the dust, my momentum carrying us several lengths before coming to rest with the male pinned firmly beneath me, my hand covering his mouth to prevent more of that Ain-awful noise coming from his lips.

His eyes—the sight of them makes me freeze. They are a strange, single-colored blue without proper vertical pupils. Now they widen at me in shock and possibly fear. I can feel his dra-kir racing against my chest, his body radiating heat that speaks of exertion and stress.

His strange eyes dart wildly, searching for escape. Up close, I can see other disturbing details. His skin is even paler than I first realized, showing every pulse of his dra’kir beneath. Then there’s the rounded flatness of his teeth visible through parted lips, the small pertness of his nose. Not to mention the complete absence of status markings on any visible skin.

He is the most beautiful male I have ever seen in all my existence…and yet, everything about this male is wrong.

The struggle intensifies as he thrashes beneath me, making those horrible sounds despite my attempt to muffle them. My concentration slips for a moment, thrown by his strange features and the complete absence of mindspeak. Clawless digits connect with my jaw. The impact is weak, but that single touch is enough. It sends a burst of information through my nervous system—temperature, texture, scent—all foreign, all wrong.

His screeching grows louder, and my blood runs cold. Those sounds will carry across the dust. Every dust stalker within range will hear it, and the thought of those massive predators with their crystal-tipped claws makes my skin ripple with unease. Even a full hunting party approaches those beasts with caution. Alone, with this thrashing male drawing attention…

I must stop his racket.

I do not know how.

I release him and spring back, dropping into a defensive crouch, my body coiled and ready. The male scrambles away, falling twice before gaining his feet. He backs away but doesn’t flee, watching me with those unnatural eyes. His chest heaves with exertion and my brow tightens. His chest is not flat like mine.

There are two rounded mounds. He must carry gourds strapped underneath the strange trophy hides he wears. What else does he hide? A blade? Some weapon I cannot see?

My gaze snaps up to his when more sounds suddenly spill from his mouth. This time in shorter bursts.

It hurts my ears.

I am not used to such constant noise-making. It has been many many moons since I had the need to use my own voice—and that had only been because I was in dire circumstances. With no Drakav close by, I could only shout to get someone’s attention as the sandfin had tried to pull me under the dust to its den.

This male needs to be silent.

Ain touches the horizon. Soon the dust stalkers will begin their hunt.

My gaze travels over the male before me. To the wide blue eyes. The strangely soft face. The way he’s looking at me, still making those vocalizations that I wish I could silence.

I’ve prevented him from reaching the rival clan’s territory, but now I face an impossible choice. I cannot take him back to my tribe—bringing an unknown male to our sanctuary would be unforgivable. But I cannot leave him here, either to continue his mission or to become prey. If he dies in our territory, his clan—wherever they are—might seek vengeance.

Dust curse it.

A distant screech echoes across the dunes—not the male this time, but a hunting call. The male’s head snaps toward the sound, and for the first time, I see real terror in those strange eyes.

What am I to do with this void-minded, water-wasting, marker-defiling creature?

The answer comes to me as another screech tears through the air, far across the dunes. The male’s strange coverings will not protect him from what he has attracted here. His pale hide will be torn to shreds before Ain rises again.

I sniff the air, eyeing him as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

I know what I will do.