Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

“I was the greatest champion these Tournament Plains ever saw,” Soern said, sweeping his gaze over the plains that stretched far south. “Being back here always brings up good memories, memories of my hard-earned glory and my fabulous gain. But leaving these plains and entering Trader’s Haunt, as we will soon do, brings up memories I would rather not revisit.” Soern’s words trailed off and he grew quiet as his igwaza trotted along the road that was taking him closer to those painful remembrances.

“Why,” Dashyl asked, “what happened to you in Trader’s Haunt?”

Soern sighed softly and reluctantly began to tell his tale. “I squandered everything I had gained and lost the glory my name used to conjure up when spoken among the people of Veratar. You see, Trader’s Haunt is a den of thieves, a place where anything you want can be gotten if the price is right. I had a coterie of Dark Traders at my beck and call. I was wealthy beyond measure from my winnings in the tournaments and I had an insatiable appetite for the rare and the exotic. I will not tell you all the things I imbibed and ingested, but they were from the farthest reaches of Veratar and some of them not of Veratar, but from far off lands only Myrkin have visited.”

“Myrkin,” Dashyl asked suspiciously, “I thought they only existed in tales told to children. They are real beings who live underwater?”

“Oh yes, Dashyl, they are very real, very mischievous and very devious, too, if you ask me,” Soern said. “We may see one or two in Trader’s Haunt, in fact.”

Dashyl’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, that would be something.”

Fretly chimed in at this point. “I don’t see what is wrong with what you were describing, Soern. Trader’s Haunt sounds fantastic.”

“Ha, well, someone with your fast fingers would be right at home in the Haunt,” Soern reasoned. “But for someone like myself, it was a trap, a place I could forget the screams of all those I had killed and indulge in whatever pleasure I wanted. I lost my fighting form and could no longer compete in the tournaments that had made me wealthy. Inevitably, my wealth ran out and I tried to live off the past glory of my name, but that soon wore off, too. I was a disgraced man. A joke. Once, those who saw me on the street would tremble with fear or excitement. But then I grew slow and dim-witted and those who saw me would laugh or shake their head in pity. In the end, I was forced to leave Trader’s Haunt and ended up becoming the guardian of the road to Anchorwatch, where you found me.”

Soern said no more and scratched at his wound under the bandage on his left hand. “We will need to see a curic in Trader’s Haunt. I think my hand is getting infected.”

They rode on in silence for the rest of the afternoon, lost in their own thoughts, Soern reliving his memories, Dashyl imagining his future and Fretly dreaming of all the fun to be had in Trader’s Haunt.

As the day wore on, the wind shifted and the smell of the sea washed over them, reminding the travelers of how close they were to leaving the plains. The three of them stood with their igwaza on the banks of the ditch that signaled the plains were coming to an end. They could see the dark mass of trees on the horizon where the woods began.

Dashyl rubbed his neck where the razorwigs had cut him on the other end of the plains. “I don’t like this,” he said, “I’m having flashbacks to the razorwig swarm.”

“Aye,” Soern responded, “We will not take the road any further. Let’s follow the ditch to the south for a ways. Then we will cut over and enter the woods. It will slow us down, but I know a way to sneak into Trader’s Haunt. There is a curic I know there, if she is still there, who may give us shelter and see to our wounds.”

“What about the deadeye,” Fretly asked.

“Who knows,” Soern relpied, “his employer may know that his lackey failed in his mission and could be watching the road. Or at least he hired someone to watch the road. There’s no shortage of mercenaries for hire in Trader’s Haunt who would gladly make some qu by whatever means necessary.”

“Are you sure this is the best way to go,” Dashyl asked, “it seems so dangerous.”

“Trust me, young one,” Soern said, “I know the seedy underbelly of Trader’s Haunt as well as anyone. I’ll get you in and out safely, but you must do what I say without question.”

“Yes, sir,” Dashyl and Fretly said simultaneously.

Soern laughed one of his big belly laughs and shook his head. “We’re not in an army, you two. Just listen to me and be on your guard. Now, let’s make our way along this ditch and find a place to make camp for the night.”

The two young friends nodded their heads, again in unison, as they were both ready to dismount and rest their weary bones.