Mildly frustrated, Aralim marched up the zigzagging road as it climbed the Opal Valley slope. Going one way, he looked back toward the Monastery of Illumination—which had been anything but illuminating in his search for the vale’s mysterious “prisoner.” Going the other way gave Aralim a wide view of the Valley, the distant town of Vagar where he had arrived, the gleaming lake, and a few other landmarks he had not yet reached. It was a lot of terrain to cover in a search saturated with uncertainty and ignorance.
Though his map was directing him to the next temple—the so-called Temple of Silence that was allegedly filled with the Emperor’s Aura—Aralim had spotted another village by one of the Valley’s many streams. He doubted they would know of Rattar when only one man at the Monastery had recognized the Ambassador of Rema.
He turned back along the next bend of the climbing path, and gazed once again toward the Monastery, nestled amid the fold of the Yurna ridges and nearly covered by the dense, vine-strewn trees. He paused. Those ridges conjoined a few miles past the Monastery, but from this elevated vantage…. There was indeed something in that tight gorge; amid mossy rocks and wide-leafed canopies were the unmistakable grey lines and angles of masonry. It looked like a castle in a similar state of repair as the alleged birthplace of the Emperor. That had not been on any of the maps—though all such ruins had supposedly been added in recent years.
Aralim didn’t turn along the next length of the dirt road. He leaned on his staff and peered north. Another ruin, hidden behind the very Monastery that Rattar apparently frequented—that was promising indeed. With a shrug, Aralim stepped off of his road and onto his Path.
Soon enough, he plunged into the sloping foliage of unkept rainforest. He had not trekked through many similar forests, but the idea of setting off with his own goal and not that of some predetermined trail—he began to feel nostalgic.
The biting of bugs and the incessant chirping of colourful jungle birds quickly infringed on his wistfulness.
Under the thick shadows of the forest canopy, Aralim found treacherous rocks strewn with moss and scattered still-water ponds. The ruckus of wildlife deafened his senses of other animals or travellers—likely he was out here alone. He swatted a blood bug off his neck and caught his balance with his new staff. The more adverse his route, the more determined he became. This ruin was the perfect hiding spot in the Valley—the “prisoner” must be there.
Then his feet slipped on a rocky slope and he careened two staff-lengths down. He hit the mud hard, fresh moss bunched at his feet. It took him a moment to figure out his surroundings. A lily-blanketed pond of lurid water spread near his feet. Across its short surface was a dead goat carcass, half-eaten and coated with maggots.
The surface of the water stirred—first in one point, then in three, then in a dozen more. An alligator slithered through the grimy puddle toward Aralim.
The Walker’s staff was still in his hand. He slowly stumbled to his feet, holding the staff out in front of him. He slowly moved away from the pond, going at an angle to the slope he had slipped on. If the gator leapt, the new woodwork would see its mettle tested. The creature crept up the slope after him. Aralim’s breath didn’t seem to be working quite right. His shallow inhales were only matched in pace by the pounding of his heartbeat.
Ker-splash! Something plunged into the pond and the gator spun, maw clapping open and shut. It slid back into the pond, splashing water around as it searched for something.
Aralim had already seen what the alligator has missed. A man stood near a tree on the other side of the pond, his clothes coated with mud and twigs. He held a second rock in his hand and hurled it at the goat corpse, shaking its maggots onto the foliage. The gator snapped at its meal, protecting it from an unseen thief.
Forgotten by the ordeal, Aralim easily backed away from the pit and onto solid ground once more. He exhaled deeply and inhaled again. He was glad his Path did not end in a reptile’s belly—at least, not yet.
He caught up with the forest man a few minutes later. The man had continued on his way, presumably uncaring to Aralim’s situation. “Thank you,” Aralim called as he hurried to catch up.
The strange fellow turned back to look at Aralim. He had a mangy brown beard and tuft-like eyebrows. His unkempt hair was half hidden by a brown leather hood. An iron sword protruded from a pack on his back, barely visible amid all the camouflage that caked his clothes. A bow was hung over his shoulder and a machete hung at his belt. He kept walking. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, without responding to Aralim’s gratitude.
“I’m hoping to help my friend, Rattar. I saw some ruins from up the hill,” Aralim explained.
The man turned his head to look Aralim over, peering down his nose. “Rattar sent you?”
Aralim chuckled. “He liked the way I look at things… even if I tend to…” He trailed off and waved back toward the pond. Only then did he realized he was still coated in mud from shoulder blades to buttocks. He started wiping it off with a quickly dirtied hand.
“Good way to get eaten, that,” the man muttered and continued northward.
Aralim followed. He had not been invited, nor turned away. He waited until they’d travelled a few hundred feet before he asked, “So, what’s your relation to Rattar?”
The man shrugged. “Employee,” he grunted. He paused and gestured for Aralim to follow him closely. They navigated around the edge of another still-water trap.
A few minutes passed wordlessly. The man turned west and soon came upon a snare complete with a dead forest weasel. The man slipped it into a leather satchel before resetting the trap, and Aralim glimpsed a few others inside before the man rolled the trophy pouch up and returned it to his pack.
“Do you also work for the Emperor, or only for Rattar?” Aralim asked.
“Rattar pays me. That’s all I need to know,” the man said, as he stood up again. He looked at Aralim directly—only the second time he had done so—and added, “That’s part of why he does too.”
Aralim shrugged and waved for the man to lead on. He didn’t probe his guide with more questions. Sure enough, the man led him past the Monastery of Illumination and toward the gorge where the mountains joined.
A ravine had been cut nearby, where a few streams converged and disappeared into the ground. The remnants of an ancient fortress or settlement clung to the edge of the cavern, shadowed by the rocky ridges of the Yurna Mountains and shadowed by vine-strewn jungle canopies. The seemingly-distant sun streamed through in errant rays, illuminating the rubble like airborne bands of torchlight.
Most of the buildings were utterly derelict, with more collapsed walls than standing ones. Two showed signs of recent habitation, their old constructions upkept with wooden support beams and unlit torches. The man lit one as they arrived, and disappeared inside one of the structures. A wooden door—old, but not as old as the ruins—closed in defence of his home. Aralim waited outside quietly, uncertain if the man would even speak with him again. Is he the prisoner? he wondered, doubtfully.
A few minutes passed as Aralim leaned just outside the door and then the stranger emerged again. He carried his prey satchel and a carving knife. Seeing Aralim on his doorstep, he paused and narrowed his eyes at the Walker. “Is this an urgent matter?” he questioned.
It was dinnertime and Aralim was famished. “Rattar told me to look for ‘the prisoner of the Opal Valley.’ I’ve waited longer than I should have to come here…but I still have rations, if I must wait.”
“That’s it?” the man asked. He chuckled to himself and brushed past Aralim.
“That’s all he told me. He’s stuck in Starath.”
The man didn’t respond—again, it was clear he was paid not to ask questions. Does a man like this even use money? Aralim wondered. The man brought them to a firepit near a second habitable building and set down his prey bag near it. As he started setting some pieces of firewood into the space, he said, “I’ll show you the way down once we have some meat cooked up. You know how to carve?”
Aralim accepted the cleaning knife before he even had a chance to reply. “Down to the prisoner?” he asked, glancing toward the nearby ravine. He unrolled the bag and chose the weasel first.
The man was readying some kindling. He didn’t even look up. “He’s kept down there. Between you and me, I call him Sevil. Like the river mole.”
Aralim nodded and started skinning the rodent. He’d heard of them around Rema’s streets. The phrase was also used as an insult, though not a serious one.
They cooked slowly, quietly. Aralim was usually an avid talker, but he respected the strange man’s preferences. Soon they were eating in silence, too. At last, Aralim asked, “What’s your name?”
“Gil,” the man muttered.
“I’m Aralim.”
Gil kept eating quietly. He was still cooking, though he had already made enough for Aralim. Either he was preparing a feast for himself or the food was for the prisoner. It turned out to be the latter. As the last morsel was crackling away over the cookfire, Gil stood up and told Aralim to watch it. He emerged a moment later with a platter of vegetables and two canteens for drinking. Aralim had already gotten out his own to wash down the well-done meat. They placed the remaining rodent haunches on top of the greens.
With just a nod, Gil invited Aralim to follow him to the ravine. It was time to meet the prisoner of the Opal Valley.