“All roads lead to the Isle of the Eye.”
My-re glanced at the old caravan driver, named Chuck. She half-listened to his constant dialogue for the past two weeks out from Valamantis, but every few hours he pulled out a gem of a quip. A tight canvas covered their two-man wagon stacked full of supplies, but her seat was little more than an old board. It was hard with rough edges, so splinters were a concern. She sat on a change of clothing, so going over rocks were less a bother. However, the smell of their team of oxen irritable bowels was more problematic.
At the start of their travels, she wondered if Chuck, and his mouth, would make it alive to see the end, but found his comments about life, travels, and stories helped pass the time. Embarking, Chuck stated he had only one rule. Chuck and only Chuck determined when the wagon stops and when the wagon starts. The merchant guild paid him a hefty bonus for every day he cut off his travels. This made taking care of nature’s call troublesome during the day, as he only halted once the sun in the sky grew long. However, the exercise to catch back up after a ‘rest stop’ did stretch her legs a bit.
Chuck nudged his head forward.
My-re saw a haze forming on the horizon. “Is that fog?”
“Nah, it be the Lake of Mists. We’s should be there in an hour lass. Get yer things, as I only be stopping long enough to unload these supplies.”
My-re traveled light. She packed her belonging in a backpack and loosely donned her ring mail armor over her clothing. She was ready, but an itch at the back of her mind caused her to turn towards her axe 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 Mist 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. She thought it odd that someone had abandoned the supplies at the shore’s edge, but then saw a figure stand up from one the crates.
As they approached the coast, My-re saw the man stroke his long side moustache downward to his goatee, it seemed he was sizing them up. His rough fingers then gingerly traced a long scar that ran from the left side of his nose across his mouth to his chin. He removed his helm exposing his shaven head with a few days’ worth of stubble, which highlighted a strong widow’s peak and appearing as if he had a black skullcap on. It also revealed a fresh scar with stiches stretched along his left forehead.
“In the nine hells, it’s about time someone showed up!” the man yelled, but it wasn’t in the Alastarian dialect, but that of Rathiri, the Rirorni native language.
“What’s a Rirorni doing out here?” Chuck asked, but it seems more rhetorical. He then reached under his seat and to My-re’s surprise pulled out an intricate designed short sword and a sharp, curved dagger. Despite his old-man appearance, it seemed he was versed in the dangers of the road.
Their wagon stopped a safe distance and Chuck yelled out. “What are you about Rirorni? If you be thinking of stealing these supplies, then ye be 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.
My-re understood what the Rirorni was saying having grown up on the Rirorni plains, near the Free Blade city of Rocanis. Normally, business in the south used Rathiri for trade, so her mother taught her the language.
“What did he say?” Chuck asked.
“He’s waiting for a boat to travel to the Isle,” My-re said 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 was back on the wagon, his cart empty.
“Good luck lass in yer training!” Chuck yelled over his shoulder as his team of oxen pulled the wagon 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 sword sheathed from his back. He tossed an apple into the air and pierced it with his swords tip. He brought it down, removed the fruit, and began eating it.
The Rirorni 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, but at least you’re soft on the eyes.”
My-re touched her short, black hair, with the back shaped in a crescent.
“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 moustache, “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 said in Rathiri.
“A fighter after all, I knew it. However, you look a little young to be a Lord Protector,” the Rirorni said.
“And you look a little old to be a Lord Protector,” My-re replied.
“My name is Pol, General Pol of the Skull Squadron stable and I’ve been fighting battles long before you were even born kid. Just two weeks ago, I slew the mighty Shewish Giant Rokori Klee in the Dark Arena. What monster did you slay in the Dark Arena?”
“I didn’t fight in the Dark Arena,” My-re said.
General Pol scoffed. “I guess every arena needs initiates.”
My-re heard splashing from the water, as if oars from a boat. The two turned and out of the mist appeared a single long boat with three men. Then three more crafts appeared behind the first with two men each.
One man, a warrior, from the first craft disembarked and headed their direction, while the others landed and began loading the supplies from the beach to the boats.
The warrior 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.”