Dashyl's Quest

 “What are you doing?”

The question made Dashyl yelp as he jumped up and scattered papers into the air.

He whipped around, his heart racing in his chest. Fretly was rolling on the floor laughing.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Dashyl yelled at his friend. The boy scrambled around the hut picking up the pages of the letter he had just been reading.

“Oh, you should have seen how high you jumped,” Fretly said, sitting up and wiping tears from his eyes while trying to quit chuckling.

“Not funny,” Dashyl protested.

“Sorry, but what are you reading,” Fretly asked.

“Nothing,” Dashyl replied as he gathered up the pages, folded them up and put them back in Soern’s trunk.

“If you’re going to be a sneak, Dash, you need to not be so jumpy,” Fretly admonished. “Now, what are you doing reading our host’s letters?”

“They’re just love letters,” Dashyl said, unimpressed.

“Any juicy details,” asked Fretly, in that awkward stage before becoming a man.

“No,” Dashyl said crinkling up his nose. “They’re from a curic, maybe one that took care of us.”

Fretly’s interest suddenly grew serious. He crouched down behind Dashyl and peered over his shoulder into the trunk. “Anything interesting?”

“Well, the letters are written in the Sarion tongue,” Dashyl said.

“That’s not unusual, the Saraja are still taught the Sarion tongue, but they don’t speak it publicly,” Fretly explained.

“Yes, but why is she writing to Soern in the Sarion tongue,” Dashyl asked. “Shouldn’t someone writing to Soern write in Sidrani Symbolic like all the other letters and papers in this trunk.”

“Sh,” Fretly suddenly interrupted. “Soern’s back and he has company.”

The two inside the hut could hear Soern’s deep voice in conversation outside and a similar, deep voice responding.

“They must be tying up the igwaza,” Fretly reasoned. “Quick, close the trunk and let’s get ready. We don’t know if this Soern guy could be setting up a trap for us.”

“Right,” answered Dashyl as he closed the trunk and joined Fretly peeking out the window next to the door. He could see Soern outside with another equally large Kirzan. They would find out soon if it was a trap or not, Soern and his companion were coming in. Dashyl braced to either run or fight.

Dashyl's Quest

“Oh, dad.” Dashyl said, putting his father’s journal back into his travel sack and smiling. Fretly had dozed off on Soern’s bed while Dashyl was reading the journal entry. His friend seemed at ease even in a stranger’s bed. Dashyl had always felt comfortable in strange places with his father and having Fretly with him had the same effect. He looked around the small, one-room hut. The furnishings were spare, a rudimentary kitchen and dining area along one wall, with the bed and a floor to ceiling shelving unit on the opposite wall. Other than that, the hut contained a few chairs, a table and a trunk.

Dashyl stood up and went to look out the window next to the door. The window, other than the teapot and cups, was probably the cleanest item in the hut. He could see far down the road in the direction of Anchorwatch. He didn’t know how far away it was, but it couldn’t be too far. The afternoon shadows of the trees that lined the road grew longer, but that was the only change that Dashyl noticed other than the small circles of moisture that his breath made on the glass.

“I wonder when he’s coming back,” he said out loud. Fretly stirred on the bed and rolled over, mumbling something. 

Dashyl sighed and turned away from the window. The boy crept over to the trunk. It wasn’t locked. He glanced over his shoulder at Fretly and knelt down in front of the trunk. After a few moments, he lifted the wooden lid and peered inside. Papers filled it. Dashyl picked up a little stack. They were messages written in the Sidrani Symbolic writing that he didn’t understand. The only thing he recognized about them were the delivery stamps. Apparently, most had been delivered by igwaza runners. A couple in his hand were delivered by trinket owls, but he didn’t know from where. He didn’t recognize the stamp locations, they weren’t from any Legion controlled lands. The boy rummaged through the trunk, picking up stacks of paper and thumbing through them. Towards the bottom, he found a stack of messages written in the Sarion tongue. Intrigued, Dashyl sat on the floor and began to read.

Kilkarak’s Expedition Journal Entry Day 9...Addendum

Beer! Beer, beer, beer! I could never have imagined something could make you feel so…tingly. I tingle from my lips to my toetips. My head won’t balance on my neck. Forgive my handwriting, it is dancing across the page, up and down, like the hills of my homeland. These words are spilling from my fingers in big golden drops on this page. At the tavern, I had the fortune to meet a brew master from Hiroja. I forget his name…something like Hoarg, Foarg, Schmoarg-a-boarg-a-dilly-doo. How do I write laughter? Boarg and I became fast friends over a pint of fangwail pale ale. I gave him a fake name but I may have let it slip that I am a chemist. We had a delightful conversation about specific gravity and how to combine different ingredients and where they are harvested. We compared compounding methods and ratios. Ratios. That word looks funny, ratios. Is that how you spell it? My next pint was a bitterot brew and I do believe I went blind after my first sip, but I kept up the conversation, not letting on that my world had gone dark. However, when my sight came back, my new friend was gone. How long had I been talking to myself? Had anyone noticed? I’m glad I was in disguise. If any of my friends saw me, I would be banished from the Catalyst Foundation. What am I saying? I am already banned from the Catalyst Foundation and I have no friends. Well, except Jarax, who should return at any moment. And my son, Dashyl, who is asleep on the soft bed next to the writing table. Peaceful. Enjoy the peace, son. Once we reach the Tanglefern Thicket, all luxury and comfort will vanish from our lives. Perhaps I could take some beer with us. I do believe that is one of the best ideas I have ever written down. Good night.

***

Readers, please forgive my entry from this night. I am not proud of the frame of mind this entry reveals, but for the sake of true and accurate reporting of this expedition, I will leave it intact for future readers. – Kilkarak

Dashyl's Quest

Soern took a big gulp of his lukewarm tea and swallowed hard. “Oh, something else is chasing you? Something worse than a Krill Assassin? Are you criminals of some sort? Is there a bounty on your heads? Perhaps I should contact the Shrieves Council of Denholm and report you two.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Dashyl said quickly, shaking his head furiously.

Soern burst into another round of belly laughs. “I am just pulling your legs, your wee legs. What could you two have done to be followed by a Krill Assassin and something else? Tell me…”

Fretly chimed in. “It’s serious. Have you ever heard of the Center of Death Tournament?”

“Heard of it? I was its greatest champion. I had to stop competing because I was so dominant. The audience grew bored with seeing me win, so I was not invited back.” Soern leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

Fretly stood up from his seat. “Are you joking,” he asked.

Soern chuckled under his breath, but his countenance quickly lost all frivolity. He leaned his massive bulk forward until he was nose to nose with Fretly. “I may find things amusing often, but I assure you, I am serious,” said the immense Kirzan.

Soern leaned back in his chair and the mirth returned to his face. “Yes, I was somewhat of a legend in my day. When I was not invited back to fight, it was just as well, I had beaten the odds and walked away with my life too many times. My luck was bound to run out. I wandered the countryside for some time. I tried to settle in Trader’s Haunt, but that den of miscreants was more dangerous than the tournament. So, I made my way to Anchorwatch and eventually found a way to make a living guarding this road. I have lived in this hut ever since.”

Tugging on his beard, Soern’s eyes scanned the one-room hut, considering the weathered boards and old furniture of his home. “It’s certainly not a home befitting a legend,” Soern sighed. “But, I’ve met many characters on this road, some with news of the far reaches of Veratar. Those conversations have given me something to look forward to each day: who will visit me today? Who will share my tea with me?”

Fretly chewed his bottom lip waiting for Soern to let him continue. Finally, he interjected, “Okay, okay, so you used to be some great warrior. Since you always won, you might not know what I have learned about the tournament and its secret.”

“Is that right,” Soern asked. “You? What would a boy know about the tournament?”

“I’m not a boy,” Fretly growled. “I fought in the tournament.”

Soern cocked one eyebrow. “Now I must ask, are you joking?”

“I wish,” Fretly snorted. “I entered with my Kirzan friend, he was an anvyl, big as you. We traveled from Fairewood where we had heard of the tournament from visitors. We wanted treasure, we wanted riches. But I watched my best friend die on the battlefield.” Fretly choked a little on his words.

“Aye, you are not a boy if what you say is true,” Soern said.

“I died. Or at least I thought I was dying when a curic came to me and told me the secret of the tournament.” Fretly, who had been looking out the window as he talked, turned and looked into Soern’s eyes.

Soern leaned forward again. “What secret,” he asked.

“That the curics use nysik to wipe the memory clean of the losers of the tournament who haven’t been slain, then they make them fight again. She told me that I needed to remember what she told me and that I needed to escape.”

“Ha!” Soern guffawed, nearly falling backwards in his chair. He regained his balance and brushed moisture from his eyes. “Oh, that’s who is after you? Curics? Curics who somehow are involved in a plot to…to…to recycle losers?”

“I don’t know, all I know is that she told me to escape. I would die if I stayed,” Fretly insisted.

“Fret, you told me all this after having a nightmare. Are you sure this isn’t just a dream you had,” asked Dashyl.

Fretly turned and growled at Dashyl, “It’s not a dream. It’s a memory. I’m sure of it.”

“Well, in all my years of fighting in the tournament, I never fought those who I had killed before,” Soern said. “Unless they somehow disguised their appearance, but I doubt that would be possible. You never forget a face of one you have killed. Strange details of their faces still haunt my sleep, each one individual, each one different than the last.”

“But why would a curic tell me that if it wasn’t true? I am right, I know it,” Fretly insisted more fervently.

The three sat in silence, except for the occasional sipping of tea. Soern twisted a few gray strands of hair under his chin, lost in thought. After a while he stood up, took the teacups from Dashyl and Fretly and set them on the countertop. He turned slowly and looked each of his visitors up and down, now twisting the hair under his bottom lip.

“I will fetch my brother from Anchorwatch and return quickly. I’ll trust him to protect you two from any Krill Assassins,” Soern said, then looked at Fretly and smirked, “or any curics coming to kill you. Once he is here I will return to Anchorwatch to secure two more igwaza and supplies so the three of us can make the trip to Trader’s Haunt as quickly as possible.”

“You’re going to leave us alone here after telling us there may be another Krill Assassin after me,” Dashyl protested.

“It won’t be for long,” replied Soern. “I will ride my igwaza into Anchorwatch and bring my brother back immediately. You’ll hardly notice I am gone. Stay put, but keep watch. I doubt a Krill Assassin would look for you in my humble hut here, you should be fine.”

“I guess,” Dashyl shrugged.

“Don’t worry, Dash, I believe him. Let’s rest here, out of sight and indoors for once,” Fretly persuaded.

“Yes, listen to the man,” Soern said, chuckling again. “I’ll be back before an igwaza can flick its tail twice.”

And with that, Soern left the hut. They could hear him speaking in soft tones to what must be his igwaza. “Let’s go, Griffypuss,” they heard him say as he mounted the swift-running creature.

Fretly and Dashyl laughed and asked simultaneously, “Griffypuss?”