Arn licked his lips and then delicately puckered the salt off of each finger. He drifted closer to Razaad, though he’d taken a break from the paddling. His stomach moaned happily as it started to digest the slab of cooked and seasoned meat he’d just enjoyed. He’d devised a mix of spice and sea salt on Scoa, to keep his hunting supplies longer. It didn’t taste incredible, but it worked. His body would be burning meat into strength for a few hours he hoped. Continue reading Arn 32
A drooping, bloated moon hung close to the horizon as the tide began to drift off the long, sandy beach, casting a web of finger-like shadows across the gritty brown surface of Arn’s raft. The hunter stopped, leaning against the waist high boat to catch his breath. Sweat ran down arms and on either side of his eyes. He tilted his head up so it wouldn’t sting the corners of his sight, and peered up at the twisting branches of the last few trees.
With a groan, Arn arched his back to get a grip of the raft’s underside again. His face was brought low, close to the heavily laden sack that lay on the raft boards. He’d brought a lot more supplies this time. When Arn had lost control of his raft on the coast of Razaad, he’d not been planning to survive from his pack, but had been lost at sea until stopped by Scoa’s stony embrace. This evening, Arn had a bigger plan than to test a raft. He was going to return to Razaad. Continue reading Arn 31
A hot, damp wind whipped over the curved eaves of the two-storeyed building in front of Farek and rustled his hair. It had been long before but was growing more unkempt as the days went on. His three men stood at his back, facing the wind and the nearly decrepit structure before them—all three of them. Matek was still regaining his strength, but he was here, and he had fully healed from the illness.
Together, they approached the Ageless Academy once more. After asking at the tavern they stayed in—where no one had heard the word Kiaraka before, let alone its estate—they had decided to return here. Continue reading Farek 31
Ren had never seen a creature like the Vorin Buck before, but Karsef assured him that’s what they had seen. The little troop of mercenaries marched swiftly across the valley floor. They were still a few days from Ith, and apparently had ended up right in the middle of the territorial beast’s land.
They had first seen the buck trotting along a hilltop at their flank. It has paused with a good vantage to examine them, and then galloped out of sight. According to Karsef, who’d spoken at length with a Raderan about the creature, it would confront them if they didn’t soon leave its domain. It was a burly creature, covered in thin brown and black hair. Wide horns splayed out to each side of its head, sometimes sharpened by their habit of marking trees. Continue reading Renado 27
“Did you leave any friends when you started walking the Path?” Dullah asked. As they sailed the last few miles toward the city of Hawsi, Aralim’s friend had come to him for a cup of tea to keep loneliness at bay. She went on, “The way I recall it, you said you left upon the destruction of your home and loss of your family.”
Aralim put down his tea cup. “No, the entire village was killed, including the others that returned on the boat with me. Though I’ve made my share of friends since then.” Continue reading Aralim 73
Candro’s Crossing drifted through the waves, leaving the small, mountainous isle behind. New Mallam had been visible as soon as they rounded the rocky island, overlooking it from a tall, grassy mound on the Great Isle. As they drifted closer, Farek realized that only a portion of the city was visible, a few three- and four-storeyed estates amidst guard towers and smaller buildings. The rest of the city was hidden by the curve of the land. Continue reading Farek 30
Aralim was fast asleep when his guards knocked gently on his door. The forty-seven-year-old man rolled back into sleep after first hearing it. A few more raps finally disturbed him enough, and he sat up. With disheveled greying hair and a ruffled linen tunic hastily thrown over his sweaty torso, he hoped it wasn’t anything important. He opened the door to find Grendar bowing his head.
“It’s Gathim, sir,” the man said. “He’s begging to speak with you again. I can tell him off, if you’d like, but I thought we should accommodate his willingness—” Continue reading Aralim 72
There was a decent sized town on the route Ren and his men took toward Ith. Avoiding the Crimson Highway was a risk. As corrupt of an organization as it was, the Highwaymen did offer a reliable security along their road. Bandits roamed the wildlands, but Ren and his men found safety in Olston.
The village appeared to be a mining town, at first glance, but Ren noticed an entire district of some two thousand people that had been freshly built far from the mine. Refugee housing, he assumed, when he saw the ragtag inhabitants there. They had arrived from the wrong side of town and walked through the northern gate after going around. Compared to Vagren, it was no gate at all, just an opening in the palisades, patrolled by a couple of guards.
“Where’s a good place to stay?” Ren asked one such pedestrian as he walked.
The man stood up and stared at Ren, but said nothing. Woodro waved his hand in the man’s face as they passed and shrugged. “He’s blind, maybe?” he asked, but the man stammered and flushed in irritation.
They passed a patrolling guard, a man with a stiff, straight arm but a veteran’s set jaw. Asar spoke up before Ren decided to. “Are there any inns here?”
“Look for the Old Granite Inn,” the guard replied. “Head down here, through the market. Then go left, downhill. It’s just in front of the old mine.”
“Thanks,” Ren said, turning around but continuing forward, to take a few steps backwards as the guard continued past the group of warriors. He nearly tripped over an old woman when he spun right away around. He got an exceptionally dirty look, but kept walking with as much of a friendly air as he could manage. Some small towns didn’t like armed guests wandering their streets.
His men walked silently. They had a long way to go before they reached Ith. Travelling over the hills was slow work for the group of smugglers turned sell-swords. They were tired and eager for a good rest.
The innkeeper of the Old Granite Inn was an awkwardly tall man. “Welcome,” he said. “I’m Ogivar, and I’ve run this tavern all my life. Can I get you and your men a serving of our evening stew?”
“It’d be appreciated,” Ren said. “We’ve never travelled this way before. Are the newer houses to the northeast for refugees?”
“You don’t look like refugees,” Ogivar said.
“We’re not,” Ren replied.
Ogivar shrugged. “They’re for whomever would like to escape to Olston, apparently. I’ve been serving more unfamiliar faces than familiar ones, for about a year now.”
Ren blinked in surprise, before going to find where Woodro and the others had found seats. This land was in constant flux. He remembered Sheld, for a moment, his lost home. Perhaps all the world was changing, but perhaps that was just his new perspective. Most people lived and died within a span of miles of their home, but Renado had seen islands and countries aplenty. He spooned stew into his mouth in silence that evening, and let his men enjoy their own banter. He felt adrift, like a boat with torn sails. Perhaps reaching Ith and getting some focus would help.
A quiet breeze followed Arn through the still waters in the lowest point of the island. Over his right shoulder he carried a wide wooden trunk. His progress was slow, but at least he was able to do it. His left shoulder still pained him, every other step, but it was a mild pain compared to how it felt to eat. His shoulder was healing quickly, impressively so. If he bit back the pain, he could still move it to most angles. Continue reading Arn 30
The ill warrior lay on an infirmary cot, surrounded by sweat and shirtless. His skin was pale and inflamed, and he shifted his position as Farek watched, groaning and twisting onto his side. Matek didn’t notice his friends watching him in concern, though the healer assured them that he was not unconscious in the conventional sense. Continue reading Farek 29