“All roads lead to the Isle of the Eye.”
My‑re glanced at the old wagon driver named Chuck. She half-listened to his constant monologue for the past two weeks as they journeyed from the city of Valamantis. He occasionally pulled out a gem of a quip.
My‑re traveled on a two-person wagon with a tight canvas, like a drum, that covered stacks of supplies. These were packed carefully, with the heaviest items at the bottom to prevent the cart from tipping over. Chuck, an experienced wagon driver, sat next to her. Their seat consisted of little more than an old board. The stiff panel had rough edges, making splinters a genuine concern. She sat on her ringmail armor for padding, so going over rocks in the road protected her tailbone. However, the smell of their team of oxen's irritable bowels proved more problematic.
Surrounded by a sea of brightly green grass, they swayed in the wind like an ocean. Dirt trenches, perfectly fitting the wagon’s wheels, lay on the well-traveled road before them. They likely didn’t even need a driver, as the channels would keep the cart on track.
At the start of their travels, she wondered if Chuck, with his coy stares at her cleavage, would make it alive to see the end. His glances became bolder, especially when she removed her armor to use as a seat cushion. However, they eventually lessened, and she soon found his stories and comments about life and travels helped pass the time.
She remembered first meeting the slightly bowlegged driver before embarking. Chuck gave her a measure up and down, sighed, and scratched his patchy white beard.
“Lass, I be having one rule and one rule only. Chuck and only Chuck determines when the wagon be stopping and when the wagon be going. The merchant guild pays me a hefty bonus for every day I be cutting off me travels. I’ll only be halting once the sun in the sky grows long, and I can’t be seeing past my oxen’s backsides. So, if it be getting too hot, cool off in the wagon. At night, I be cooking one meal. Then ye can be sleeping by the campfire or under the wagon. Also, I want no belly-aching about the call of nature during the day. Ya get off, do your business in the grass, and catch back up.”
My‑re thought at least these ‘calls of nature’ provided some exercise and woke her legs up a bit. Stretching, she ran her hand through her dark hair, cropped short to keep pests to a minimum. She felt a piece of grit, hopefully sand. Her scalp had always been oily and tended to trap particles. She ran her nails through her hair to remove it and any other debris. A good scratch always felt good.
Chuck reached out to touch its silkiness, likely under the guise of ‘helping her.’
“Stop it.” Staring hard until his hand retreated significantly, My‑re’s nose caught a whiff of moisture in the air.
Placing his hands back on the reins, Chuck nudged his head forward.
My‑re saw a haze forming on the horizon. “Fog at this time of the day?”
“Nah, it be the Lake of Mists. We’s should be there in an hour. Get yer things, as I only be stopping long enough to unload these supplies.”
My‑re traveled light. She packed her belongings in a backpack and loosely donned her now uncomfortably warm ringmail armor over her clothing. Ready, but then, an itch at the back of her mind caused her to turn toward her battle axe, obtained from the Tower of Death, wrapped in sailing cloth to keep the elements at bay. She reached back and retrieved it.
True to his word, it took an hour before the shore of the Lake of Mists came into view. Chuck headed to what appeared as an outcropping of rocks, but as they grew closer, the mist revealed them as stacks of crates and hog-head barrels piled high on the rocky beach. Other trenches in the road indicated multiple sources fed the Isle of the Eye. She thought it odd that someone had abandoned the supplies at the shore’s edge until she saw a male figure stand up from one of the crates.
As they approached the coast, My‑re saw the man stroke his long side mustache downward to his goatee. He observed them as his rough fingers gingerly traced a long scar from the left side of his nose across his mouth to his chin. He removed his helm. Previously shaved, he had a few days’ worth of stubble, and his hair exposed a strong widow’s peak that resembled a black skullcap. It also revealed a fresh scar with stitches stretched along his left forehead.
“The nine hells, it’s about time someone showed up!” the man yelled, but it wasn’t in any of the Alastarian’s dialects, but that of Rathiri, spoken in the very far south in the Rirorni Empire.
“What’s a Rirorni doing out here?” Chuck asked, but it seemed more rhetorical. He reached under his seat and, to My‑re’s surprise, pulled out an intricately designed short sword and a sharp, curved dagger. Despite being old, he seemed versed in the dangers of the road.
Their wagon stopped a safe distance, and Chuck yelled. “What are you about, Rirorni? If you be thinking of stealing these supplies, then yer in for a lick of trouble.”
The Rirorni scrunched up his face at Chuck’s words as if he didn’t understand them.
“Wonderful, another Alastarian idiot dumping off supplies. Sure, I’ll just continue to sit here and wait for hours and hours for some boat to take me to the Isle of the Eye,” grumbled the Rirorni in Rathiri.
Having grown up on the Rirorni plains near the Free Blade city of Rocanis, My‑re understood what the Rirorni said. Businesses in the south typically used Rathiri for trade, so as part of her education, she learned the language from her mother and father.
“Do you know what he is saying?” Chuck asked.
“He’s waiting for a boat to travel to the Isle,” My‑re translated quietly.
“Ah, another Lord Protector,” Chuck said, putting away his weapons under his seat. “Never seen a Rirorni protector before. Gotta be a first for everything.”
Chuck began to unload the wagon’s supplies next to the ones already on the beach. My‑re watched the Rirorni pace back and forth, watching them out of the corner of his eye. Within an hour, Chuck emptied the cart and sat back on the wagon’s driver seat, ready to leave.
“Good luck, lass, in yer training!” Chuck yelled over his shoulder as his team of oxen pulled the cart back south.
My‑re watched Chuck’s wagon travel for a few minutes and then sighed, turning back to the mound of supplies and the Rirorni staring at her. He snorted and drew a great sword from the sheath on his back. He tossed an apple into the air and pierced it with his sword tip. Bringing it down, he removed it and began eating the fruit.
My‑re snorted at his showing off.
The Rirorni smirked and said, “At least I get some company, though I’m sure you don’t understand a word I’m saying. I doubt anyone on that cursed isle does. However, the bright side is I thought you were some kid with a bad haircut.”
My‑re unconsciously touched the back of her black hair, cut in a crescent shape, at his words.
“Wait, you understood what I said, didn’t you?” asked the Rirorni in mid-bite.
My‑re didn’t answer.
“You do understand me, don’t you, kid.” The Rirorni looked her over and stroked his long side mustache, “Your father bathes with pigs, and your mother-”
“Yes, I understand what you are saying, Rirorni, and you’d be wise not to say anything more about my parents,” My‑re interrupted and replied in Rathiri.
“A fighter, after all, I knew it. However, you look a little young to be a Lord Protector, kid,” the Rirorni said.
“And you look a little old to be a Lord Protector,” My‑re retorted.
“My name is Pol, General Pol. I’m a highly renowned Rirorni warlord, and I’ve been waging battles since long before you were out of your nappies. Just two weeks ago, I slew the mighty Shewish Giant, Rokori Klee, in a Dark Arena match. What monster did you slay in the Dark Arena?”
“I didn’t fight in the Dark Arena,” My‑re replied.
General Pol scoffed. “I guess every arena needs initiates.”
The sounds of splashing water emanated from the fog like oars hitting the waves. The two turned just as a single long boat with three men appeared out of the mist. Then, three larger craft appeared, occupied by two sailors each.
Landing, they began loading the supplies from the beach.
One man from the first craft disembarked and headed in their direction. He wore well-oiled leather armor over his well-defined, solid chest and abdomen core, which enhanced the armor and made it look good. His golden-brown arms and legs boasted such perfectly carved muscles that artists or even healers would likely pay handsomely so they could draw or study his build. My‑re admitted she wouldn’t turn down the offer to touch his physique to feel what a perfect male specimen felt like. A round helm covered his entire head, including a nose guard with thick rivets around the opening. 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.”