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?”