The plan ended up being remarkably simple. The Naru had split into four groups, each with its own mix of hunters and civilians, then dispersed into the desert. Their paths would eventually turn towards the next oasis, but each route would be meandering enough to justify investigation. It would stretch supplies thin, but not nearly so much as skipping the oasis entirely. The tribe could make that sacrifice, and it wouldn't weaken them overly much.

Nicos had been placed with Urz and Grasa, along with two other hunters who had volunteered, to keep track of the slaver caravan, and hunt down its scouts when necessary. Their group was a small one, and green as grass, but Nicos wagered that it would be enough. The boy assumed he'd be doing most of the actual killing, as some strange aspect of the Naru's upbringing made them repulsed by the mere idea, but his companions were certainly evasive enough to provide a decent distraction. No more fighting four on one for Nicos. His ancestors' Memory thrummed at the thought of having allies at his side. It felt right.

Each of the Naru crouched patiently in the sand, their hands buried past the wrist, as they read the movement of the distant slavers. The enemy could not have hoped to sneak up on the tribe, but perhaps they had assumed their presence would go unnoticed for a while longer. The Naru did not often fear pursuit, and their scouts were concerned primarily with what lay ahead, not behind. It was entirely possible that, had Nicos not warned them, the Naru would not have noticed the caravan until it was nearly nipping at their heels. At the very least, they would have had far less time to prepare. Panic, Nicos thought, would have seized them utterly.

That was no longer an issue. Their senses were focused entirely into the distance, while Nicos stood guard. Nothing could hide from them in the desert, so long as they were looking for it. By now, the slavers should be reaching the point that the Naru had split ways. Nicos and his companions were perhaps half a day's travel from there, camped out roughly in the center of the weaving trails that the Naru had created.

"They are stopping," Urz murmured quietly.

That was a good thing. The whole plan hinged on the caravan not simply picking a path and plowing onward. It was a plan that had a single, enormous assumption: that the Outsiders could not read the desert as the Naru do. It was, in Nicos opinion, a safe assumption. Nobody sane would mimic the Naru's method of reading. The risk of Wandering was simply too high. The desert was overwhelming, and without someone like Durz, who could lead a lost mind back to itself, the benefit did not outweigh the danger. They would have to resolve the situation with more mundane techniques.

The trail splitting was suspicious. If the slavers had even the slightest sense of caution, they would have to send scouts ahead to determine what exactly was happening. And even if caution was not a part of their mindset, greed surely was. Simply following one of four paths ran the risk of only finding a fourth of the profits. Judging by Nicos' brief conversation with the man, Vaughn Cardin would not be satisfied with anything less than a full harvest.

Nicos and his companions waited patiently, as the Outsiders argued among themselves. The Naru's sand-reading focused specifically on movement, so the exact words were unclear, but the meaning came through well enough. Groups were formed, outriders, astride their reptilian mounts, and sent out along the trails. Four teams of four, each tracking a separate path.

"That's one enemy for each of us," Grasa mentioned, nervously scratching at her knuckles.

Nicos glanced at her. "Don't worry. All you'll have to do is distract them. I'll take care of the rest."

She nodded, clearly still unsettled. There was little Nicos could do about that. Confidence would be found in combat, not before.

He turned to Urz. "We need to move. Do you have our targets?"

The young tribesman nodded grimly. "Yes. We should be able to meet them in the sandflats. From there... we will have to see how the others have dealt with the desert."

The Naru knew the desert. The paths that they traditionally followed were, more or less, free of danger. The paths that they were leading the pursuing slavers on, were quite the opposite. This, aside from the tribe's disinclination towards violence, was the primary reason why only four hunters had joined Nicos. The rest were needed to fend off the dangers of their route.

Quicksand, nesting predators, even a roc's hunting grounds, the Naru were capable of traversing these dangers, with care and caution. Knowledge was half the battle, preparation the rest. The tribe would survive, unharmed. They'd been doing so for generations.

The slavers would not.

Normally, the Naru would help those who succumbed to the desert's relentless onslaught of danger. It was this very tendency that had saved Nicos' life. Fortunately, they were less merciful to those actively looking to murder and enslave them. The boy was comforted by the practicality, even if he thought that they could stand to be a little more proactive about it.

Nicos quite liked the idea of the Naru letting the desert do their killing for them.

The first group of trackers that his little coterie would intercept, were heading for an area that the Naru called the sandflats. The ground there was wildly unstable, shifting and collapsing at almost any moment. It made a mastery of the sand-skate technique vital to traversing it. The slavers' mounts, whose great size and gangly limbs seemed to power them across the sand with force rather than finesse, would struggle greatly.

Nicos' plan was to kill the trackers while they were in the midst of the sandflats, then stage things like the desert had claimed them. With any luck, any follow-up scouts would be too afraid to close the distance, and read the Memory of what had actually occurred. If they were very lucky, the same would happen across the various trails, with scouts falling to the natural dangers of the desert. Both Nicos and the Naru hoped that the Outsider's greed would dampen beneath their losses.

The tribe had never been pursued to such an extent. This kind of cooperation was unheard of in their lifetime. It was dangerous, but also tenuous. The Memory of his ancestors whispered history into his ear. How change was always accompanied by doubt. How proof was needed, overwhelming and decisive, lest cracks form within the ranks.

Vaughn Cardin was riding a dangerous line between failure and innovation. As the bodies piled up, faith in him would dwindle. Nicos did not need to defeat the entire caravan of slavers, he merely needed to kill enough to undermine Cardin's authority. No sentient being would willingly allow themselves to be thrown to the wolves.

"Let's go," Nicos said.

The group turned towards the sandflats, and Urz guided them onward. Every so often, he would stop to read the location of the enemy scouts, slowing down or speeding up depending on their progress. While it was clear that the Bastioners were unable to read the desert as the Naru could, that did not necessarily mean they were devoid of their senses entirely. While astride their mounts, it was unlikely that they could read any Memory of substance, but there was no need to take risks. Nicos and his companions needed to arrive after the scouts were firmly mired in the sandflats.

It didn't take long. The scouts hit the sandflats at almost a sprint, following the clear trail that the Naru had left. Nicos' squad gathered at the very edge of the area, while Urz monitored the situation.

Soon, Urz hissed, "Go!"

Nicos set off like an arrow fired from a bow. He zipped down the dunes, bolstering his half-learned sand-skating with his own variation, using sheer body strength to keep up with the tribesmen at his side. His companions moved effortlessly across the sand, one stride of theirs matching ten of his. Yet, Nicos felt no fatigue.

He had begun to notice, distantly at first but with growing clarity, just how much stronger he was than many of his peers. The slavers he had fought were so much... less than he was. Slower, weaker, unskilled. Seized by hesitation and doubt. Things that Nicos had rarely felt in combat. At some point, Nicos eventually realized, he had grasped the most basic use of resonance: to increase his own capabilities. The Memory of his family, so mighty in the eyes of others, made him more than his enemies could hope to be.

And the Memory of himself. The student, the son, the warrior; one who had witnessed a battle between gods, who was slowly closing the gap between himself and his ancestors.

It was an uncomfortable thought, but he embraced the power it offered.

They crrossed the distance quickly. Nicos could hear the sound of thrashing limbs and loud curses, coming from just over the next dune. They crested the dune and found themselves gazing down upon a group of slavers, thoroughly stuck. The massive lizards they rode had slammed into the clinging sand, and their frantic attempts to escape had only dug them deeper. The scouts, four in total, shouted instructions at each other with varying levels of anger and frustration. Each held nets and swords. One had a bow strung across his back.

Nicos fell upon him like a storm. A single, great leap crossed the distance between Nicos and his foes. He planted his sword in the chest of the bowman, his momentum hurling the both of them off the shrieking lizard and onto the sand. Nicos cast hardness into the soft ground, giving his feet a steady platform, as he stomped down on the dying slaver. The man gurgled as the sand swallowed him, but Nicos was already sprinting for his next target.

He could hear more screaming from behind him, as Urz led his fellow tribesmen against another floundering foe. Their spears were perfect against the enemy's swords, and the nomads could untangle each other, should nets come into play. Nicos trusted them to survive. He couldn't afford to be distracted. There was killing to be done.

His target was the man his instincts were whispering was the most dangerous foe. The man launched his net as Nicos approached, and swore as the boy cut the projectile in half. Their swords clashed with a resounding clang, as Nicos closed the distance before the man could struggle out of his saddle. The boy pressed down, locking blades—connection— as he read the Memory of the enemy's sword. The man's next move played out in his mind, clear as the sky.

Nicos dodged backwards, when the man attempted to gut him. He parried the next blow, and the man struggled out of his saddle. The slaver's balance was superb, managing to keep upright on the wriggling spine of his mount. But while his foe found his footing, Nicos found his opening. He struck down in a vicious overhead.

The slaver attempted to parry, an action echoed dozens of times in his Memory, and Nicos' evertree blade cleaved through sword, man, and lizard alike. He spun in the direction of the next foe, brandishing his sword, only to stop.

The last two scouts hung limply in their saddles, riddled with spears. Urz stood over one, pulling his weapon free. The young man's face was grim, but satisfied.

The battle was over.