Ten Years Ago…
My‑re’s small, child frame sat imprisoned on a wagon in a straw-lined cage with escape-proof iron rods. A boy, Varick, lay in her lap. His skin felt smooth and warm when she brushed the brown hair from his face.
“My‑re?” the boy Varick questioned sleepily.
“Go back to sleep, you’re safe,” My‑re said as she continued to stroke his hair.
“Will you protect and keep me 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.”
Comforted, Varick smiled and settled back down in her lap.
She gazed outwards from the cage. Tired grass covered the landscape, which seemed fit only to produce rocks. Many jutted at odd angles. A weak, muted sun displayed a dark, decrepit place covered by thin, grey clouds. Passing caravans had worn deep trenches in the dirt road. The remaining rocky, uneven terrain would be inhospitable for wagon wheels. She then noticed wooden buildings in the far distance. By the time they reached them, the structures had merged into an enormous wooden city on the vast open plains. An old, weathered sign read “Rithakhar.”
The stench of unwashed bodies and animals welcomed them. My‑re covered her nose, and Varick woke up and used his cloth shirt to 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 when the guards moved closer.
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, food, 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 verbally and also with fists over war spoils. At the far end, a woman stood on a platform. Clad only 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.
Their wagon jerked to a hard stop.
A heavily tattooed Rirorni opened the lock and grabbed at Varick’s leg.
“Come here, you,” he said 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 deeply 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. The man grabbed Varick’s clothes, yanking him from the cage.
“My‑re, get up! Don’t let them take me!” Varick screamed, his limbs flailing wildly.
Present Day…
“My‑re, get up,” said a familiar, calmer voice.
She opened her eyes and saw Vomarian standing nearby. They were in the luxury Lady Greywand grand suite in Shadowspire.
“Breakfast’s been delivered to our room. Eat while it’s hot. Afterwards, we need to get moving. We have a long walk from Shadowspire back to the Unsinkable III.”
“Where are the mere dragons-” My‑re began to say, then stopped, remembering they had run off shortly after digging up the grave on the Rirorni plains. It seemed to have contained the remains of a dragon and, presumably from the markings AG on the headstone, likely for Araminth Goldeneye, the missing person they were sent to find. She rose and stretched.
“Just curious, what were you dreaming about?” Vomarian asked, picking up a couple of pieces of bacon. “You were calling out someone’s name in your sleep.”
“It’s nothing,” However, seeing doubt in the elf’s furrowed brow, My‑re continued, “Someone I knew as a child during the Rirorni War.”
***
“Master Bal’Taz, welcome back to the Rirorni Empire. I hope your trip to Alastari was profitable.”
Stocky and sun-darkened, Bal’Taz, like most Rirorni, had pitch black, thick hair, worn long but with an uncommon curl. Four deep scars, from a war flail wound received at the siege of Trocar during the Rirorni War, ran diagonally across his face. The disfigured Rirorni shot an annoyed glance 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 wooden supports spaced every thirty paces. Torches provided a perpetual gloom, exacerbated by the smells of animals and unwashed people, with the occasional scream or growl bouncing off the walls.
They passed iron prison cells, some empty. The others held men so pathetic-looking alive or dead were equally likely. 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. Four combatants battled in the pit, three against one. Each armed with a small shield and short sword, the three wore tattered leather armor. Bal’Taz’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the fourth person, a mountain of a man who only wore a leather loincloth. He had bestial brown hair with his bangs braided in four long strands. A beard covered his strong jawline. A thick portion braided on either side of his chin with ivory skull clasps at the ends. He looked 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 two bloody weapons, a broadsword and a battle axe.
The large man burst with lethal strength and quickness and quickly 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 when he dispatched the last victim. Blood painted the pit.
“Varick wins again!”
The losing bettors in the crowd grudgingly handed gold to the winners.
Bal’Taz followed the pit boss to Varick, whose arms pumped in cadence, cleaning his weapons 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 weapons.
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 from previous whippings.
“Were you brought here with a girl?” Bal’Taz asked Varick.
Varick’s knuckles whitened. He tightened his grip on his weapons. 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 coins as guards motioned to the pit fighter. Varick dropped his weapons and climbed out of the pit. “I’ll take him.”