My-re and the Rirorni, General Pol, stood on the shore of the Lake of Mists with crates of supplies watching four boats approach. One warrior disembarked and approached them. He wore well-oiled leather armor. His golden-brown arms and legs boasted perfectly carved muscles. His round helm covered his entire head, including a nose guard with thick rivets around the opening, so only his scowling mouth was visible. His helm hid his eyes in shadow.
“I bid you greetings Lord Protectors, my name is Captain Darien. I’m here to escort you to the Isle of the Eye.”
“Translation kid,” General Pol said in Rathiri, turning to My‑re.
Kid? “He said for you to wait here for the next boat,” My‑re replied in Rathiri.
“What?”
Darien then gestured for them to board the long boat on the shore of the Lake of Mists.
Grumbling under his breath, General Pol understood she didn’t translate Darien’s dialogue accurately. After a moment, he composed himself and said, “Apologies if offense was given. My travels have been long and my mood is short. I will be at a disadvantage until I learn this cursed Alastarian dialect. Therefore, I would be in your debt if you untangled their words for their proper meaning.”
Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly nodded and said, “Only if you stop calling me kid.”
Pol nodded.
My‑re and General Pol boarded the craft, and Captain Darien followed. The two oarsmen began rowing them across the lake.
Captain Darien looked at the brooding Rirorni and said, “Any wait on the shore was out of necessity. The creatures in the lake have been restless lately. Once we reach the Isle of the Eye, an ambassador will take you to your quarters, where you can eat, relax, and refresh yourself. Training as a Lord Protector will begin tomorrow. The arena games are every two weeks, so you can test your mettle against fellow Lord Protectors as often as you like.”
About to translate, My‑re saw that General Pol seemed disinterested and ran his hands through the blue waters of the lake.
Captain Darien continued. “Rirorni, a word of caution. The Lake of Mists is filled with strange and extremely dangerous creatures, so casual boating, swimming, or dangling digits in the waters is at one’s own peril. One of the worst near the shores is sawfish, which are highly territorial, ill-tempered, and all-around nasty pieces of work.”
General Pol noticed Captain Darien talking to him. He turned to My‑re for the translation.
“The fish bite.”
Pol quickly retrieved his hand from the water and nodded to Captain Darien. He understood.
The trip across the lake seemed endless. The mist was everywhere My‑re looked. There were no points of reference. A maze without walls. They could have been going in circles for all she knew. The only sounds were the oars pushing them through the waters and the occasional splash in the distance.
Captain Darien turned his head and motioned for the oarsmen to stop rowing. Several heartbeats passed. General Pol opened his mouth, but Captain Darien placed his finger hard to his lips for silence.
A gargantuan, dark shape passed right under their longboat, broader than their craft.
My‑re held her breath. Feeling the weight of her ringmail armor, she knew she would sink like a rock if she fell overboard. Not being a strong swimmer, she slowly began to lift it. Darien touched her hand and shook his head. His strong, commanding presence placed her at ease. She lowered the armor’s ends. The creature effortlessly descended into the murky depths.
A minute passed, and the rowing began again at Captain Darien’s signal.
As he removed his hand, so did the reassurance. My‑re pulled her arms and legs tighter into her body. After a while, she saw light burn through the fog in the distance. A beacon of hope from the monsters in the mists. Their boat headed toward the source. She heard multiple voices in conversation, and as though a curtain was being drawn, a harbor materialized through the haze.
A longshoreman tossed Captain Darien a rope and helped guide them to the docks. He nodded respectfully, extended his hand toward My‑re to help her ashore, and said, “Lord Protector.”
Appreciating the respect, My‑re relished the thought of holding his hand again. She accepted the gesture. Yep, she instantly felt and liked that strong, commanding aura.
Captain Darien, General Pol, and My‑re traveled down a wooden dock. It creaked under their weight, indicating it had been built some time ago, where many other great Lord Protectors of past ages had already proceeded before her. She saw an aged sign that read “Willow Beach.” Nestled among beautiful willow trees, the fishing village rested on the southern tip of the Isle of the Eye. Somewhat rocky for a shore, My‑re thought Willow Beach wouldn’t be a comfortable place to sit and enjoy the sun. She breathed in the lake’s scent of briny seaweed and fish odor, which proved much different than the fresh prairie grassy smells where she grew up.
Greeted by the sounds of construction, the three entered the town. Workers scrambled across new wooden rooftops of gladiatorial guild houses and one new tavern. Townsfolk haggled with merchants for the latest catch from the Lake of Mists. She noticed a group of four men strutting around in white cloaks. She caught pieces of them bragging about past and future deeds, likely to anyone who would listen. Others traveled in and out of a nearby tavern. Taller than the other warriors passing by, she slumped, and she had to consciously stop herself. It wasn’t her fault she was tall.
Captain Darien motioned for them to follow him toward a man standing and watching them approach. He wore the fine-tailored robes of a mage but didn’t seem much older than My‑re. He had deep blue eyes, a fair complexion, and a splatter of freckles across his youthful face.
As they approached, Captain Darien made introductions.
Motioning to the young man, Darien said, “This is Spymaster Timshard. I must say, I’m surprised to see you out of the Academy of the Eye’s archive room.”
“Yes, yes, I do need to get back. However, my aunt asked me to attend the welcoming of the latest Lord Protectors to her isle. Normally, there would be more fanfare, but there are just the two of them, and you know the duties of my aunt are never done,” Timshard explained.
“Just the two. Really,” My-re said.
“So, without further delay.” Timshard straightened his robes and bowed with grace toward them. He pulled out a scroll, cleared his throat, and announced with great elaboration.
“Hail My‑re and General Pol, mighty gladiators of Alastari!”
“I bring you humble greetings from the Isle of the Eye. In honor of your courage on the arena sands and in recognition of your proven skill at arms, you have been bestowed a great honor and, for now, and evermore, will have a place in the realm of gladiator prowess.”
“Many thousands of Lord Protectors now compete with steel and sinew in brotherhood on the Isle of the Eye. You are a hero to this land and have taken your place among the mighty.”
“Each of you has been granted title and land and henceforth shall men and women call you Lord Protector. May you bear the name proudly and with honor.”
“The greatest pinnacle of your mastery of training awaits thee, my Lords. May the gods of thy faith protect you even as you shall be a Protector to the Land. May victory be your eternal companion.”
“Signed, Sheila Greywand, Lady of the Ice Garden, Witch of the Northern Waste, High Sorceress of Glacks Island, Lady of the Fire, the Enchantress of—.”
Timshard interrupted himself, “You get the meaning.”
General Pol looked to My‑re for the translation.
“Congratulations, we are now Lord Protectors.”