My-re’s small, child frame sat imprisoned on a wagon in a straw-lined cage with escape-proof rods. A boy, Varick, lay in her lap. When she brushed the brown hair from his face, his skin felt smooth and warm to the touch.
“My-re?” the boy Varick questioned sleepily.
“Go back to sleep, you’re safe,” My-re said. She stroked his hair.
“Will you protect me and keep me away from those bad Rirorni men?” Varick asked.
“I will.”
“Do you swear you won’t leave me?”
“I swear on my life I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Apparently comforted, Varick smiled and settled back down in her lap.
Looking outwards from the cage, the landscape was sparsely covered with tired grass and looked fit to produce only rocks, many of which jutted at odd angles. It was a dark and decrepit place, with a weak sun muted by thin, grey clouds. The road was little more than dirt with trenches worn by passing caravans. The remaining rocky, uneven terrain would be inhospitable for wagon wheels. My-re saw wooden buildings in the far distance.
By the time the structures had merged into an enormous wooden city on the vast open plains, My-re saw an old, weathered sign that read Rithakhar.
The stench of unwashed bodies and animals welcomed them. My-re covered her nose and Varick used his cloth shirt to help block the odor. She heard a multitude of conversations raised in complaint and argument. Numerous Rirorni citizens watched them, pointed, and whispered as they passed through the city. My-re and Varick hugged each other as guards moved.
Filth covered the roads and the wagon wheels kicked up dust that rain hadn’t touched in months. The caravan passed through a market area, where merchants sold bolts of colored cloth, foods, pottery, armor, and weapons. They and their customers haggled with great fanfare, raised voices, and curt hand gestures. All sorts of wagons, horses, and soldiers roamed around. Some were rolling dice, while others argued, both verbally and with fists, over the spoils of war. At the far end, a woman stood on a platform. Clad in tattered clothes, she covered her breasts with her arms while men leered and shouted prices at another Rirorni on the stage. My-re saw other haggard prisoners in chains standing off to the side to wait their turn.
The wagon with their cage jerked to a stop.
A heavily tattooed Rirorni opened the lock and grabbed at Varick’s leg.
“Come here, you!” he exclaimed in their native tongue of Rathiri.
“No!” Varick screamed. He kicked at the Rirorni’s hand and held tightly onto the bars. “My-re!”
My-re tried to pry the Rirorni’s fingers from around Varick’s leg, but he pushed her and she hit her head hard on the wagon’s floor. Anger swelled within the ten year old. She lunged at the man’s arm, and bit into his hairy limb, tasting dirt and blood. The Rirorni howled and released Varick’s leg. He turned to his assailant and pulled her long black hair. She cried out in pain. He punched her in the chest with his full might, flinging her back into the iron bars with a solid thud. Lightning exploded in her head, as the man grabbed Varick’s clothes, this time yanking him from the cage.
“My-re, get up! Don’t let them take me!” Varick screamed, his limbs flailing wildly.
A familiar, calmer voice said, “My-re, get up.”
She opened her eyes and saw Vomarian Fae standing nearby. They were in the luxury Grub and Rub Bistro's Lady Greywand grand suite in the city of Shadowspire. She stretched and turned over on her goose feather, filled pillow. She almost forgot what comfort felt like. The bed was like a fluffy cushion encompassing her body in a hug.
“Breakfast's been delivered to our room. Eat while it's hot. Afterwards, we need to get moving. We have a long walk ahead from Shadowspire back to the Unsinkable III.”
“Where are the mere drag-” My-re began to say then stopped remembering they ran off shortly after digging up the grave. It seemed to have continued the remains of a dragon and presumably from the markings AG on the headstone, likely for Araminth Goldeneye, the missing spymistress from the Isle of the Eye. She rose to eat.
“Just curious what were you dreaming about?” Vomarian asked. “You were calling out someone’s name in you sleep.”
“It’s nothing,” However, seeing doubt in the elf’s furrowed brow, My-re continued, “It was someone lost long ago when I was a child.”
* * *
“Master Bal’Taz, welcome back to the Rirorni Empire. I hope your trip to Alastari was profitable.”
Bal’Taz was stocky and his skin was sun-darkened. Like most Rirorni, his hair was pitch black, thick, and worn long, but with an uncommon curl. There were four deep scars, from a war flail wound received at the siege of Trocar during the Rirorni War, which ran diagonally across his face. The disfigured Rirorni shot an annoyed look at the fat, dirty, and smelly pit boss. “Where is he?”
The pit boss gestured. “He’s down there with the other pit gladiators. I’ll take you.”
He led Bal’Taz down a rock tunnel with its wooden supports spaced every thirty paces. Torches provided a perpetual gloom, exacerbated by the smells of animals and unwashed people, as the occasional scream or growl bounced off the walls.
They passed iron prison cells, some empty. The others held men so pathetic-looking it was difficult to tell if they were alive or dead. A low din of cheers came from further down the tunnel. They entered an enormous torch-lit cavern. Wild dogs and wolves chained to one wall chewed on severed human limbs. In the middle of the cavern, a crowd of Rirorni standing around a large circular pit lined in stone yelled and cheered.
Bal’Taz pushed through the jovial crowd. A few muttered ugly curses under their breath. There were four combatants in the pit, three against one. The three were muscular, each armed with a small shield and short sword, and wearing leather armor and a helm. Bal’Taz’s eyes grew wide at the sight at the fourth man, the size of a small mountain, and wearing a leather loincloth. He had bestial brown hair with his bangs braided in four long strands. A beard covered his strong jaw line. A thick portion of it braided on either side of his chin with ivory skull clasps at the ends. He looked to be a head taller than Bal’Taz and his shoulders seemed twice as broad. His arms were thicker than Bal’Taz’s thighs, and his corded leg muscles radiated power with each step. He held a bloody great sword.
The large man burst with lethal strength and quickness and dispatched each of the other three pit gladiators with one or two broad strokes. Their bodies soon littered the earthen ditch. The crowd of Rirorni cheered as he dispatched the last victim. Blood was everywhere.
“Varick wins again!”
The losing bettors in the crowd grudgingly handed gold to the winners.
Bal’Taz followed the pit boss to Varick, who arms pumped in cadence, cleaning his weapon on the clothing of the dead men.
The spectators chanted, “Varick…Varick…Varick!”
Bal’Taz yelled over the din, “How were you brought here as a child?”
Varick looked at Bal’Taz and then ignored him to continue cleaning his weapon.
The pit boss pulled a barbed whip from his belt and threatened Varick, who flinched at the sight of the lash. Bal’Taz could see Varick had many healed scars, perhaps from previous whippings.
“Were you brought here with a girl?” Bal’Taz asked Varick.
Varick’s knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on his weapon. He snarled at the question. Blood vessels stood out like cords of veined iron across his neck and shoulders. He began to mutter. Though Bal’Taz couldn’t understand everything, he understood Varick to say, “She let me be taken from that cage. It’s all her fault.”
“Was her name My-re?” Bal’Taz asked.
Varick bellowed, “I’ll kill her for abandoning me!”
Bal’Taz smiled. He pulled out a pouch heavy with coin.
“I’ll take him.”