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.

Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

"Sleeping under your own personal tent, I see." Soern's voice stirred Dashyl from sleep. On his chest was his father's journal lying open and facedown. Soern chuckled as Dashyl picked up the book, sat up, yawned and stretched his arms.

"No," Dashyl responded, indignant. "This is my father's journal. I must have fallen asleep reading it last night."

"We all need our rest, Dashyl. Even though we're two-thirds of the way through these plains, we still have a long way to travel to Trader's Haunt," Soern said.

"I know that, but it's been a long time since I've been able to read one of my father's entries and I'm so curious about what he's written," Dashyl responded. "Maybe there's a clue about who's following us."

"Aye, you are right, there could be. Who was your father," Soern asked.

Dashyl paused. He looked over at Fretly who eating his breakfast. Fretly just stared back at him, chewing slowly.

Soern, sensing Dashyl's hesitation, said, "Now, son, you don't need to tell me, but you can trust me. I've helped you this far."

Dashyl sighed, "My father was Kilkarak, the greatest chemist in all of Veratar."

Soern simply said, "Humph."

"What," Dashyl asked.

"I have no use for Sarion chemists. They deal in the unnatural, often using their knowledge and talents to further the nefarious plots of the Legion," Soern paused to drain the last of his drink. "The only chemistry I can appreciate is the science of brewing tea. So many magical combinations one can make when combining herbs, leaves and water."

Dashyl's eyes welled with tears suddenly. He turned away from Soern, letting his tears roll down his face and under his chin. "My father was a great man. He died in the name of science."

Soern came up behind the boy and put his hand on Dashyl's shoulder. "No need for that, son. I'm sure your father was a good Sarion. I'm sorry I spoke ill of the dead."

Dashyl sniffed and hung his head. "I miss him so much," he whispered to himself.

"We'll get you to Trader's Haunt and away from this corner of Veratar. Once we accomplish that, you can think about how best to honor his name," Soern comforted.

"Look at that," Fretly exclaimed, pointing to a group of dark forms moving towards them from the far edge of the horizon.

Soern left Dashyl's side and stood next to Fretly, following his gaze. After squinting for a while, he said, "Ah, that's a heard of bufflegars. They're gentle creatures that grow fat on the grasses of the plains. However harmless they may be, they do attract vaygr who hunt them when they come close to the edge of the plains. We're probably safe where we are, but it's another reason to move on. Hurry up and eat your breakfast, Dashyl. We must be on our way."

Dashyl took a deep breath and patted the cover of his father's journal. The hard pieces of wood wrapped in cloth that served as the journal's covers felt comforting, like he could feel his father's hands holding them. The young Sarion placed the journal back into his gear sack and pulled out some food to eat. He couldn't wait to learn more about his father's thoughts and feelings.  The boy silently wished he was in a safe place where he could forget about people chasing him and people wanting to kill him, where he could just sit and read and read and read and be with his father again.

Entry from Kilkarak’s Expedition Journal: Day 10

Sick. Worse than any sickness I have ever felt is this after-ale malady that has settled upon me. Was I poisoned? This cannot be how everyone feels after imbibing their fair share of fangwail pale ale and bitterot brew, can it? Upon awaking, the contents of my guts soon came spewing forth. I was in such a dizzy state that I could not find the chamber pot quickly enough and I am afraid I left quite the mess in our room. Dashyl and I had to leave quickly because I overslept.

Jarax had come in to wake me before he left with the decoy Dashyl, but apparently I was not able to be woken up. My friend left me a note. It saddens me greatly to think that my last communication with Jarax could be through his note. He wished me success on my journey and told me to look him up someday in Agrigane. He said I could sneak into the city under the cover of night and he would provide a disguise so I could attend his performances as a masquer. I can only hope that scenario will play out after Dashyl and I have collected our fill of specimens from the Tanglefern Thicket.

We were able to leave Histra just before first light. We had no trouble leaving without attracting attention. We avoided the roads and forged our own path slowly over the rolling hills. We have camped under an overhang at the bottom of a craggy hill. I could not travel far as the ale-sickness drained my energy and made my head pound with pain. I could not concentrate all day and told Dashyl we had to walk in silence.

Tomorrow I will be able to have conversation with my son again as we walk. We will be each other’s only companions for a long time. Now, I must sleep and hope this sickness has run its course.

Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

"All I can see is grass in every direction," Dashyl exclaimed as he dismounted his igwaza.

"Yes, that's why this is a good place to stop, no one can sneak up on us here," answered Soern, who had already dismounted and let his igwaza drink from the stream that ran through the ditch where they had stopped. "This ditch," he continued, "marks the mid point of the plains. This one still has a trickle of water running through it."

"So these ditches are not natural and were dug here," asked Fretly.

"Is that not the definition of a ditch," Soern asked back.

"Who made these ditches," asked Dashyl as his igwaza knelt over to drink with the other two.

"No one knows," said Soern flatly. "An ancient civilization, perhaps. Perhaps these plains were leveled as farmland ages ago and these are the irrigation ditches of those long lost farmers. They trisect the plains all the way to coast."

"Trisect," quizzed Dashyl.

"These ditches divide the plains into three parts. We will come upon another dry ditch that will signal that the final third of the plains are ahead of us," explained Soern. "In fact, we may need to use that ditch as we used the first ditch for an escape."

Dashyl blinked a few times and said, "You mean we might face another swarm?"

"That is a possibility. Or who knows what? We'll need to be on our toes and keep our heads on a swivel," Soern warned. "We haven't seen anyone following us yet. My guess is that the deadeye was working alone and did not share information about his task or employer with anyone else. Lucky for us, I bet he was a greedy cogrel and wanted all the pay for himself."

"How can you be so sure," asked Fretly.

"Oh, I am not sure. But, having dealt with many Sarion and most of the races who call Veratar home, I just have a gut feeling that he was working alone."

"Does your gut know if anyone else will come looking for me in the future," Dashyl asked anxiously.

Soern laughed a little at this question. "Dashyl, to that question, my gut answers yes. What we know is that whoever is searching for you knows your name, but not enough else to give a description of you. We can use that to our advantage." Soern stroked his beard for a few moments, then added, "In fact, we should call you by a new name starting now. Any suggestions?"

Fretly chimed in immediately, "Rigglewort." Fretly laughed out loud at his own suggestion.

"Shut it," Dashyl said as he got up an punched Fretly in the shoulder. After some thought, he offered, "How about Kilkarak, after my father?"

"No dummy," Fretly answered, "you need to hide the fact that you are Kilkarak's son."

"Oh, right," Dashyl said, plunging back into thought.

"Don't think too hard about it," Soern urged as he ruffled the boy's hair. He opened the pack with their food supply and handed out three of the smashed bars of dried fruit and torgen leaf that they had been eating since they left Soern's.

"How about Volkard, after the great warrior from the Sarion legends," Dashyl finally decided.

"Can I call you Vollie," Fretly teased.

"Ugh, no." Dashyl said.

"Hush, Fretly," Soern commanded. "Volkard it will be. I know of the legend of Volkard. May you have the same level of courage your people believe he possessed."

Dashyl, growing very serious, solemnly bowed his head and said, "Thank you, Soern. I will try."

"Eat up, Vollie," Fretly called out as he popped the last bite of his bar into his mouth and winked at Dashyl.

"Yes," agreed Soern, "let's be on the move again. If we time it right, we can approach Trader's Haunt under cover of darkness and not from the main road. We must hurry, we do not want to be exposed in the plains much longer."

"Will things be better in Trader's Haunt," asked Dashyl.

"I wouldn't say that, Volkard, but we will be closer to our goal, won't we," answered Soern.

Dashyl nodded in agreement, but felt that his journey would be far from over once they reached Trader's Haunt.

Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

When the three travelers reached the road they found the deadeye's own igwaza runner tied up and anchored off to the side. When Soern rode right past it without saying anything, Dashyl spoke up. "Are we going to take his igwaza with us?"

"Why," Soern asked back, riding on.

"Well, I mean," Dashyl pasued, "He could find his way back to the runner and it could carry him back to wherever he came from and he would be saved...and maybe come after me again."

"Earlier, you wanted me to spare his life and now you are wanting to doom him to die in the these plains by taking his only hope of survival?" Soern scoffed.

"No, I mean, I don't know," Dashyl stammered.

"Let the poor carapid crawl through the ditch and find his runner and ride it to safety. Let him take a longer drink from the tea cup of mercy," Soern said, adding, "it would be delightful to have some tea, don't you think."

"If we are not going to take the igwaza, let's see if there's anything worth taking off the igwaza," Fretly said as he dismounted his runner. He searched through the bags and sacks the deadeye had packed on his runner.

"You're going to steal from a blind man?" Soern asked.

"Well, I am an urchyn," explained Fretly. "Some qu might come in handy in Trader's Haunt."

"Fretly Fast-fingers is what I'll call you from now on," Soern said.

"Not a bad nickname," Fretly replied, pulling out a little pouch that sounded like it was full of coins.

"Bah," said Soern, "an old Kirzan saying goes: 'Fast fingers are quickly lost.'"

"Ha," laughed Fretly, pocketing the pouch full of qu. "As long as I have my fingers, I shall not fast and qu will be quickly lost. That's my saying." The dextrous urchyn had pulled out a coin and ran it back and forth over the knuckles of his left hand. "This day's starting to get better," Fretly said as he flipped the coin into the air, climbed back onto his igwaza, then caught the coin in his right hand.

"Enjoy it while it lasts. If that deadeye does live, I wouldn't want to be the one who stole from him," Soern warned.

"Aye, and I wouldn't want to be the one who stabbed his eyes out," retorted Fretly. 

"See," said Dashyl. "Doesn't it seem like a good idea now to bring his igwaza with us?"

"Leave it," Soern commanded. "We must get on our way. I think we should be good to run the igwaza along the road. We're about a third of the way to Trader's Haunt. We'll have one more night to sleep on the plains." Soern gave the signal and the three igwaza broke into a run carrying their riders ahead smoothly and swiftly, each one secretly hoping the deadeye would die and no one one else would be following them.

Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

"Did you really think I wouldn't find you wallowing in this ditch," asked the man in black armor. "Did you think I would just keep walking down the road hoping to come across your corpses?" He didn't wait for a response. "I knew how you escaped the second I came across this ditch. It was just a matter of following it away from the road." The man never took the aim of his arrow off of Soern. Soern never took his eyes off the archer.

"Let me guess," Soern spoke finally, "you're a Sarion. A deadeye from Tanglefern. Am I right?"

"Bullseye," answered the deadeye. "Now, which one of these little twerps is Dashyl?"

Dashyl sucked in air when he heard the question and Fretly's head snapped sideways to look at his friend.

"Ah yes, the younger one," the man said as he studied the boy. "Are you Dashyl," he asked.

Dashyl looked at Soern but the warrior still did not take his eyes off the archer, so Dashyl looked at Fretly. Fretly slowly shook his head.

"Why do you want to know," Soern asked the man.

"I have been hired to find him," the man admitted. "I have been looking a long time for you," the man addressed Dashyl directly. "My waiting has finally paid off and now I can get paid," the man said, chuckling to himself. He turned his attention back to Soern. "I am only getting paid to find one Sarion boy and you, my Kirzan friend, are no Sarion boy, I'm afraid."

As the man pulled back on his bow string, Soern yelled, "Rush him!"

Dashyl froze, unsure of what he should do. He saw Fretly jump over to his backpack and look for something inside. The archer fired his arrow as Soern charged him, screaming. The arrow pierced Soern's left hand and the warrior fell to his knees clutching his hand with the arrow stuck halfway through.

Fretly had found Dashyl's knife and flung it at the deadeye, but it bounced harmlessly off his armor. Fretly followed up his throw by throwing himself through the air at the man. The archer deflected the leap with his left forearm, knocking his attacker to the ground. The deadeye reached behind his back to grab another arrow. Fretly took the opening and grabbed the bow with both hands and hugged it to his body as tightly as he could. The archer tried to shake the bow free at first. He dropped the arrow he was holding and started punching Fretly in the face and head, but the urchyn would not let go.

While Fretly and the deadeye wrestled, Soern stood up and with a great bellow pulled the arrow all the way through his hand. He snapped the arrow in two and dropped the back half. "Fretly, move aside," roared the huge Kirzan. Fretly let go of the bow and rolled away. Soern then charged at the deadeye ramming the middle of his armored chest with his shoulder. The man fell down with Soern's big bulk on top of him. The old warrior held down the deadeye.

"Who hired you," the warrior asked the man.

"I'll never tell, he could make my life a living terror, you can only kill me," the man answered.

"What does he want with Dashyl," Soern asked.

"Save your breath, old one, I'm not one for conversation,"the deadeye said, obviously struggling under the warrior's weight.

"I see. Then that's that. Fretly, open the visor on his helmet," Soern calmly commanded.

Fretly did as he was asked and turned away as he realized what Soern was going to do. Dashyl watched, however, as the Kirzan stabbed the broken arrow into each of the man's eyes, then stood up.

"Try finding your way back to Tanglefern, now, deadeye," Soern said as the man rolled on the ground and screamed in agony.

"Get on your igwazas," Soern again calmly said, "we're getting out of here."

"We can't just leave him here like this," Dashyl pleaded.

"Look," Soern said sternly, "he's a hired assassin. He would have killed us and maybe you. We are showing him a mercy he would not have shown us."

"Mercy? But..." Dashyl protested, but words failed him.

"Let's go, Dash, Soern's right," Fretly consoled.

Soern bandaged his hand as the other two gathered their gear quickly. The three travelers mounted their runners and headed back toward the road. The deadeye ran after them for a short ways, pleading for them not to leave him, but he couldn't run far without tripping and soon they were out of range of his cries.

Dashyl's Quest: The Tournament Plains

A gentle chorus of trilling and chirping soothed Fretly as he slept. A smile crept on his face as the sound grew louder and louder until it woke him up. Through sleepy eyes the young man saw a group of birds hopping and scratching at the ground on both sides of the ditch. Then Fretly remembered his watch duty and he jumped up, shaking off the grass stalks that had been covering him. He spun around to see Soern laughing at him.

"Oh boy, way to keep watch, there, watchman," Soern said as he laughed his signature belly laugh.

Fretly scratched his head. "I guess I fell asleep before the end of my watch. Sorry," he said before yawning. "What are all these birds," he asked, coming over to sit next to Soern.

"Rockhoppers. They know razorwig swarms will knock grass seeds from the stalks and the rockhoppers follow them out of the woods to feed on the bounty," Soern explained.

"Oh yeah," Fretly said, "these are those birds that can't fly. They sure are tame here, I've never seen them come so close to a camp."

"Not many people around to hunt them here," Soern replied.

"How's Dashyl," Fretly asked.

"I'm fine," answered the boy who also had just woken up. Dashyl sat up and rubbed his jaw. "I can move and I can talk, I guess that means I'm doing alright." He winced and felt the sutures on his cheek and then explored the wound on his neck. "Still hurts all over," Dashyl said.

"Now you know why a razorwig swarm is so dangerous," Soern reminded him.

"Oh, thanks, for a moment I forgot why I feel like this," Dashyl snapped.

"Now, now. You're lucky to be alive. We all are," Soern said. "Eat some rations and let's make a plan of action so we can move on soon. Maybe we can catch whoever set off those explosions and put the swarm in motion towards us. I'm going to feed the igwaza while you two eat."

The two friends ate their breakfast in silence. Dashyl had to eat gingerly due to the cuts on his cheek and neck. Soern returned from feeding the runners and crouched down with the others to begin discussing a plan. Before he could say anything, a loud screech pierced the air followed by a soft thud and an flurry of feathers spinning in the air near them.

"Whoa," Fretly said, startled. "What was that?"

"Look, it's a merlyn, it must have dive bombed a rockhopper," Soern pointed into the air. "There, it's got one in its talons as it flies away."

As the three travelers watched the merlyn rise into the sky with its prey, something whizzed over their heads and struck the merlyn, knocking it from its course. It released the rockhopper it had killed and both birds fell from the sky like deadweights. The rockhopper's lifeless body fell right at Dashyl's feet. The shocked companions were staring at the dead bird when they heard a strange voice.

"Greetings," said a man wearing black armor and a green mask with what looked like a large orange eye on the front. The man stood on one bank of the ditch and was wielding a bow with an arrow notched and ready to fire. "Any of you move and I will put an arrow through your throat."