Dashyl's Quest

Soern filled his teacup and offered his guests a refill, which they both eagerly accepted. The Kirzan returned to his seat on the cot and slowly shook his finger at Dashyl.

“I was on my rounds, patrolling the city’s defense perimeter. There hasn’t been much action lately, so I’ve been expanding the range of my patrols.” Soern leaned forward and poked Dashyl’s chest, then pointed out the window. “Luckily for you, I went farther to the northeast on this particular day, along the seldom used road that leads to Blue Hollow.”

“Blue Hollow, where’s that,” Fretly asked.

“Don’t interrupt,” snapped Dashyl.

Soern took a side-glance at Fretly before continuing. “Blue Hollow is the one place on this continent that the Akrasa call home. Mostly they are a nomadic people, but some do maintain dwellings in Blue Hollow. They believe it is the place where the Akrasa race originated.”

“I’ve been there,” gasped Dashyl. “The Akrasa, do they have blue skin?”

“Yes. Sometimes green, too,” Soern answered.

“I remember a blue-skinned person took care of me and my dad. I don’t…no, I don’t remember his name.” Dashyl took a deep breath and thought for a second. “All I remember is that my father died, but I lived. He healed me and the next thing I know, I was with the curics.”

“That makes sense,” said Soern, “The Akrasa are healers. They know how to refine and craft radia in ancient ways that most other races on Veratar have forgotten. I run into them from time to time. They avoid the cities, as a rule, but Anchorwatch is close to their homeland and the residents let them do their business unmolested.”

“I have a feeling the Akrasa who helped me is dead,” sobbed Dashyl as pieces of his memory returned. “He’s the one who gave me my dad’s journal. I didn’t know about it before he gave it to me.

“That is a definite possibility, I’m afraid,” Soern said. “If a Krill Assassin was following you, he probably tracked you to Blue Hollow. The assassin had just caught up with you when I found you.”

“What happened,” asked Dashyl.

“I heard sounds of a scuffle, so I left the road and approached from the trees. The assassin had pulled you some ways away from the roadside. He didn’t see me as I hid in the shadows. You were tied up on the ground, gagged and clearly drugged. He had the journal you speak of in his hand and was talking to you. He said that even though he had you father’s journal, he still needed to kill you. He said he was charged with erasing everything about your father and you were the last piece remaining. He then dropped the book on your head and pulled out a dagger. I had picked up a couple throwing stones and hurled them at the assassin knocking him to the ground. Charging from the tree line, I skewered the assassin on my pike before he had a chance to use any of his deadly abilities. You have to kill a Krill Assassin quickly, otherwise…well, no one I know has survived a long fight with one.”

“Did you go through his possessions? Were there any clues about who he was or where he was from,” asked Dashyl.

“That I can’t tell you, my boy,” explained Soern. “You were in such bad shape, the first order of business was to get you to the curics. After staking the dead Krill to the ground, I gathered you and the journal and ran back to the city. I rode the biggest, fastest igwaza in Anchorwatch to carry you to Rathyra. I left the assassin’s body for the Anchorwatch guard guild to remove.”

“Can we go to the guard guild and see what they know,” asked Dashyl.

“That would do no good. No one knows the identity of Krill Assassins and they don’t have any unique markings or identifying paperwork. The body was burned by the guild in accordance with protocol in dealing with Krill Assassins, or anyone else who uses lethal poisons and chemical weapons.” Soern reached over and patted Dashy on the shoulder. “It has been a good while since I saved you. Long enough for whomever wants you erased to realize the first assassin failed his mission and send another.”

“You mean there could be more after me? This wasn’t just one guy,” Dashyl shrieked.

“I wouldn’t rest easy with the belief that this assassin acted alone, Dashyl. Krill Assassins are most often the pawns of a higher power in the Legion. I don’t know who your father was or why his journal is so important, but in all likelihood, others know about its existence, as well as your existence, and will be coming to finish the mission. You just don’t know, so you should be very, very careful,” Soern admonished, but then shifted to a more hopeful tone. “This is your chance to put some distance between you and your pursuers. Throw yourself so far off their trail that they will never find you. I would not waste your time in Anchorwatch. That is your last known destination to them, you could be walking right into their clutches. I would head immediately to Trader’s Haunt. I agree now that this is the most expeditious route to safety.”

“Just the two of us, alone, exposed” Dashyl asked.

“Do not worry. I will accompany you as far as Trader’s Haunt,” Soern offered.

“We don’t need you,” Fretly shot.

“Shut up, Fretly,” Dashyl said. The boy stood up, walked over to Fretly, and leaned over so their noses almost touched. “Soern is going with us.”

“Okay, okay. If that’s what’s happening, then we better tell him,” Fretly said.

“Tell him what,” Dashyl asked.

“That the Kirll Assassins aren’t the only ones chasing us.”

Dashyl's Quest

“There’s not much to tell, really,” Dashyl admitted. “I woke up in the care of curics from Sanctum. They nursed me back to health and took care of me until I was okay to leave.”

“Ah yes, I left you in the care of Rathyra. A robust and stoic curic. However, she can be a little brisk in her bedside manner.” Soern chuckled at some far off memory coming to the surface. “Once, in her care, I complained about her vigorous scrubbing while cleaning a deep wound I had from a vaygr. A piece of the beast's tooth had broken off in me and she was so determined to remove it that I passed out from the pain. She never let me live that down. For being a healer, her sense of humor could be rather cruel.” Soern stroked his beard and smiled with a distant look in his eyes. “Ah, but I have delayed you further, please, young Dashyl, begin again.”

Dashyl and Fretly shared a furtive glance before Dashyl continued his story. “Ah, well, I met Fretly when he was brought in one day for healing and he was pretty much the only company I had other than the curics, but they didn’t ever talk to us for very long.”

“Humph,” Soern snorted, “They are women of few words. What are your plans now that you are right as a river?”

“Why should we trust you,” Fretly asked.

Soern laughed a few belly laughs and slapped his hands down on his enormous thighs. “My little friend, I could have killed this young Sarion when I first encountered him. Why would I want to interfere with his plans now? If you continue to be suspicious of me, you may wait outside until Dashyl and I are finished catching up.”

Fretly pouted, crossed his arms over his chest and sank into his seat a little deeper. “Whatever. Dashyl, if you trust this guy, then I trust you.”

“See, that’s acting like a wise adventurer,” Soern said, winking at Fretly.

“We had hoped to find a caravan in Anchorwatch to travel with across the Tournament Plains to Trader’s Haunt," Dashyl explained.

“Trader’s Haunt,” Soern asked incredulously. “Why do you want to go to that forsaken place? The main reason I am paid to man this post is to keep the riff raff from Trader’s Haunt out of Anchorwatch. The two of you will be skewered and scambagged before you see your first morning in Trader’s Haunt.”

“You underestimate us, my gargantuan friend,” Fretly said. “I have fought in the Center of Death Tournament. And lived, as you can see.”

“As have I. As have I,” Soern said, stroking his beard and squinting at Fretly. “Fighting an opponent in plain view in front of you is one thing. Avoiding a blade or a bash from behind in a crowded alley is another thing entirely.”

“Have you heard of the Urchyn’s Clan,” asked Fretly.

“Hm, those pesky rascals from Fairewood? Yes, I have heard of them, common thieves who steal while travelers enjoy entertainment. I have never seen or met one,” Soern answered.

“Until now,” Fretly pointed out. “And we are more than thieves. Surviving as an Urchyn in the underworld of Fairewood is no less dangerous than slipping into Trader’s Haunt unnoticed. We’ll make it. Don’t twist your beard off worrying about us.”

Soern looked at his young guests and sighed. “I suppose you are going there to catch an airship. Where? Back to Fairewood?”

“Fretly is. I don’t know yet. I want to go home, but I’m not sure there’s any reason to go home,” Dashyl said.

Soern slurped the last of his tea and stood up. The Kirzan towered over Dashyl. Sarion, on average, are the shortest race on Rynaga (of those that live on land), while Kirzan are the tallest. Dashyl nearly fell over looking up at Soern, but balanced himself at the last minute.

“Dashyl, there is a very good reason for you not to go home. You are being hunted. A Krill Assassin was after you,” Soern said.

Dashyl’s eyes grew large. Something tugged at the edge of his memory, something ominous. His heartbeat quickened. Tears welled up in his eyes. He dropped his head and watched a tiny carapid crawling along the floorboards of the hut as Soern went on telling his story.

Dashyl's Quest

“Have I met you?” Dashyl asked the burly fellow who sat across from him at a table so large that he could barely see over the top from his seat.

“Have I met you,” the boy asked. Soern roared with laughter. “Oh, that’s nice. I save your life and you ask me if we’ve met.” Soern pounded on the table with his rocky fist making the table jump blotting out Dashyl’s vision of his host. This boisterous host eventually was able to breath and wiped a tear from each eye. “Aye, you were unconscious and near death, but you looked up at me and I told you my name.”

Soern leaned to the side of the table and stared into Dashyl’s face. He did not see any recognition or sign of remembrance in the boy’s eyes. His tone grew serious as he sighed and said, “Ah, well, I should not be surprised when nysik is involved. Nasty stuff, that is.”

Soern stroked his beard and looked out one of the four windows of his hut. “It doesn’t matter that you don’t remember me, I still am dying to know how you come to be sitting in my hut again.”

Dashyl stood up on the seat of his chair and looked Soern in the eyes. “I’ll tell you, but you have to tell me all you know about meeting me that I cannot remember. Deal?”

“Aye, we have a deal, an easier deal to uphold I have not had.” A tea kettle whistled at that moment and Soern rose to his feet and lumbered about preparing to share his refreshment. "I only have sigilweed tea, I must apologize if that is not appealing to you. The flavor is harsh, but it helps me stay awake at my post.”

Fretly nodded and smiled as he took the oversized cup that looked small in Soern’s hand.  “Mmmm,” he murmured as he drank trying not to make an uncomfortable face.

“No thanks,” Dashyl politely refused and offered the reason, “My father always said that sigilweed tea makes your mind weak.”

Soern’s eyes narrowed and not an inch of his great bulk moved. Fretly fought hard to not spit out his tea. He swallowed hard and whispered into Dashyl’s ear. “Never refuse tea from a Kirzan, it is very rude!”

“A Kirzan!” Dashyl shouted. “I’ve heard about you guys, but I’ve never seen one. You are as big as I’ve imagined. But, you don’t seem very barbaric.”

“Yes, Dashyl, I am a Kirzan,” Soern stood up as tall as he could as he said this. “And you will drink my tea.” He said in a voice a few octaves lower than his normal tone.

“Yes, sir,” Dashyl bleated out as he grabbed the cup with both hands and took a drink.

Soern smiled and sat on the cot that was his bed so he could see his guests without obstruction. He sipped his tea eagerly and said, “Begin. By my most binding oath I will not wait one moment longer to hear your story.”

Dashyl's Quest

Shortly after breaking camp and resuming their journey to Anchorwatch, the vegetation suddenly thinned around them. They were exposed to the road without any cover. Up ahead, they could see the road crossed the river at a bridge to the side they were on.

“This is a clear cut area,” Fretly said. “We must be really close to Anchorwatch. I think we can just take the road now. We haven’t seen anyone follow us yet.”

“We haven’t seen anyone at all,” Dashyl reminded him. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not being followed. You’re the one who insisted we be careful, I’m doing what you say.”

“Right. They don’t even know that we came this way, though. It’s probably all right. We should be there very soon.”

The two set off through the clear cut down towards the river. As they approached, they could see there was an old weathered hut sitting up the road from the bridge. They were walking right to it.

“Fretly, what should we do?”

“It looks abandoned, doesn’t it,” Fretly asked. “Even so, let’s stay away and make our way to the road past it.”

The two crouched down and crept slowly through the grasses and ferns that were growing up around the many thick tree stumps in the field. After a short while of this, Fretly changed their course to intersect with the road. A few yards from the edge of the road, he flopped down on his belly and motioned for Dashyl to do the same. They shimmied their way to the edge of the road and poked their heads out of the grass surveying each direction.

“I don’t see anyone,” Fretly whispered. “I think that hut is empty. Let’s stand up and go.”

As soon as they did stand up, a voice bellowed from the hut.

“You there? Where did you come from?”

It was a deep voice. It wasn’t the voice of anyone of the sidrani or sarion races.

“Who asks,” called Fretly.

Out of the hut, a tall, well-armored being emerged. With long strides, the being quickly walked toward them, wielding a huge hammer. He wore a metal helmet with long, white locks flowing from it. The face inside the helmet did not appear menacing, just annoyed. He walked up and stood over them. The young men craned their necks to look up at him.

He’s twice as tall as the tallest sarion I’ve ever met, Dashyl thought, before the voice bellowed again.

“I, Soern Kwath, protector of the road to Anchorwatch, ask you. And I will ask you again, who are you and where did you come from?” Soern Kwath spun the massive hammer in his gigantic hand like a toy as he spoke. When he was finished speaking, he put the hammer’s head under Fretly’s chin and bent down to look him in the eyes.

“I…I’m Fretly from Fairewood. We, uh, we came from, uh…”

“Shush,” Soern insisted and turned to Dashyl. He put his hammer under Dashyl’s chin and leaned in to get a closer look.

“I’m…”

“Dashyl! You’re alive!” Soern dropped his hammer and caught the boy in his two hands and lifted him high in the air.

“Whoa!” Dashyl lost his breath. He had no idea how Soern could know who he was.

Soern set the boy down and stood up tall again. He pointed at Fretly and asked, “are you Dashyl’s friend?”

“Yeah, oh yeah, most definitely, I am Dashyl’s friend.” Fretly answered, speaking quickly and nodding his head.

“Good,” Soern bellowed, clapping Fretly on the back so hard he fell forward. “Come back to my hut and have something to eat and to drink. I want to hear all about how you survived, Dashyl. I’m so curious.”

Entry from Kilkarak’s Expedition Journal: Day 9

Jarax has found a sarion woman willing to let us use her son as a decoy. The plan is for my friend to wear my clothes, for this stand-in boy to wear Dashyl’s clothes, and for the two of them to leave for Agrigane shortly after dusk. As our pursuer follows the decoys, Dashyl and I will leave some hours before dawn, when only the purple moon is in the sky. Under this cover of darkness, we will head due south of Histra and try to reach the Tanglefern Thicket by the eve of the following day. Maps show the country between Histra and the thicket to be gentle, rolling hills of grass and scrub forests. We should be able to travel quickly and be lost to anyone following us.

Jarax laughs off the risk. He claims since we do not know the intentions of the one on our trail, he could be taking no risk at all. He asked me who would harm a masquer. I did not speak my answer to him, but there are plenty of minions loyal to the Catalyst Foundation that would not hesitate to harm anyone in the way of achieving their goal. I can only hope this is a farce dreamt up by Jarax as some sort of performance preparing him for a place in the masquer troupe in Agrigane. If this pursuer is connected to those who called for my exile, Jarax could be taking a lethal risk.

I realize, in a few hours, I will say farewell to my friend and it could be the last time we see each other. Spending so much time with him planning our journey and traveling together has lifted my spirits greatly. His wisdom and whimsy are the perfect counterpoints to my calculating and logical mind. His stories are often of a humorous bent, but when he performs them while dancing and tumbling, they take on an added meaning, added importance. Jarax’s art gives life a heightened meaning, a greater sense of purpose that what we are doing is grand. Yet, he also reminds us not to take ourselves too seriously and let laughter and mirth bring balance into our existence. I have a feeling we will see each other again. If not in person, then in the lore shared by future masquers across Veratar.