by R D Wolfe
Darien’s face began to lose color as he listened, fear gripping him before he could tamp it down.
“I’m not a fan of unnecessary killing,” Totra-Dal said, taking a deep gulp from his goblet. “I don’t revel in it like Kort does. If we follow our traditional ways, then you’ll have the option to join us. Or you could be ransomed for a sum from whatever party would pay it, though from what you’ve told me so far, that would be fruitless. We could always keep you around for sport or leave you behind in the woods. There really are any number of paths ahead of us, most of which depend on how you answer my questions. Now, I ask again, what are you?”
Darien was at a loss. First though, he had to answer Totra-Dal’s questions about his story, there was clearly no way around that. Maybe he could get away with another half-truth.
“Okay, I was lying, but not completely.”
Totra-Dal motioned for Darien to go on, taking another bite of food.
“I did wake up just a few days ago, not knowing where I was, or how I had gotten there. The only thing I know about Olympus is that I’m in it. A centaur in the village took care of me for a few days. He and the other two were taking me to Farkland Reach to see what we could do next. I didn’t tell you about the village because the centaurs had told me about marauders, and I didn’t want you to hurt anyone there. They’re not involved at all except for the fact that it’s where I woke up…” Darien’s voice trailed off.
He sat and waited, watching the big man’s face for any sign of his next words. Darien hoped that Totra-Dal would accept the explanation. It was half true, after all.
After several chews, the grey-skinned mouth twitched behind the deep red of the beard.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Let me put you at ease, my young friend. We have no interest in that village. Even if someone there knew you, there is nothing that would warrant us making the detour.” Totra-Dal guffawed. You haven’t touched your food yet save for that one bite of bread. Please, eat! This is the finest forest boar we’ve killed in weeks!”
Knowing what the meat was and hearing that Totra-Dal would not be going to Taitron, Darien calmed a bit, enough to try a piece of the meat. The more he ate, the hungrier Darien realized he was. The centaurs had only offered fruit, bread, and cheese. It was nice to finally have a substantive meal to enjoy.
“Given that you don’t know who or what you are,” Totra-Dal said, swallowing another large mouthful of food, “you provide little value to my family. So now, we turn to what to do with you. Do you have a preference? Would you like to join us here, under my command?”
Darien thought for a moment, trying to find a path that would lead him back to Chorrun and towards his friends who would be waiting for him.
“What I really want is to get to Farkland Reach and find out who I am. What option lets me do that?”
“There isn’t one, if I’m being honest,” Totra-Dal said. “You can choose to remain here with us and pledge yourself to the marauder’s life. There’s always a chance that we will travel north to Farkland Reach, but we always stay a good distance away to avoid the king’s patrols. You can choose to remain a prisoner, though we tire of keeping prisoners after a time and they usually end up as sport for members of Kort’s persuasion. Or, if you wish to be freed from your mysteries, we could simply kill you when we leave tomorrow, though I don’t think you would favor that option.” Totra-Dal chuckled again at his morbid humor.
“I think,” Darien said swallowing some water from his own goblet, “I see a middle path, if you’re open to it.”
Totra-Dal beamed, motioning for Darien to continue.
“No, I don’t want you to kill me. And to be totally honest, I don’t really know what life as a marauder is like, and I don’t know what kind of life I’m leaving behind if I do join you. I also don’t relish the idea of staying a prisoner and finding out what punishments Kort can come up with for me to endure. So, what if I join you, without joining you?”
Totra-Dal looked confused, so Darien continued quickly before the long-winded man could interject.
“I’ll give you my word that I will work for you and do whatever you ask, but without the kind of formal promise you might usually ask for. In exchange, you give me a place to sleep, food to eat, and permission to travel with you. Leave me disarmed, even guard me at night so you know that I won’t run away. You gain an extra hand around the camp, and I get to live. Then, once I’ve paid back the effort it took to capture me, and for whatever it takes to keep me fed, you let me go, and I can make my way wherever I want.”
Totra-Dal let out a boisterous belly laugh. After the animated amusement, he let out a sigh.
“You have quite the little mind there, Darien,” he said. “I like how you think. I also like that this will frustrate Kort to no end. Not only will you get to stay, but he doesn’t get to kill you. You better be on the lookout for him. You can do a lot of damage without killing someone, which is the only line he won’t cross without my permission. Yes, you can stay. I will make sure we keep hold of your personal belongings, should you ever earn your way back to them.”
Darien nodded, lifting his goblet in appreciation. That sword was the only thing linking him to home. He did not want to lose that, by any means.
Totra-Dal leaned back in his chair, having finished his meal. Darien thanked his host for the food, attempting to further appease the man who was essentially keeping him as a slave. Though it was better than being a prisoner, Darien was not looking forward to the labor they would likely have him doing. Totra-Dal called outside the tent flap, and Hodra re-entered. It was clear she had been sitting outside, waiting for this call. Totra-Dal instructed her to lead Darien to one of the empty tents. Hodra provided him with his bedroll and returned his pack to him, only after it had been thoroughly searched for hidden weapons of course.
Once Darien was in the small tent, which he noticed was nothing more than some canvas held up by a strand of twine, he laid down on his bedroll, using his pack as a makeshift pillow. Tomorrow, his time with the marauders would begin, and so would his plan to leave them behind as quickly as possible.
Chapter 8: The Offer
The next morning, Darien was immediately put to work. As suspected, the marauders did not give him the cleanest of jobs to do. By mid-afternoon, he had mucked out three horse stalls, with another four to go. Darien’s sprained wrist impeded his work, greatly annoying his captors.
“You best speed up before we decide you’re not worth our trouble,” Kort had sneered at him as he walked by. Darien kept his temper in check, though the thought of flinging a shovel full of the manure onto Kort did cross his mind.
The rest of the day dragged on, and Darien spent most of his time, in between shovels full of grime and gunk, watching the camp. As Darien watched the rest of the camp, he made mental notes of movement, when perimeter guards came in, and when breaks seemed to appear in their watches. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t derive any patterns. The lack of organization didn’t seem to come from any meticulous planning. Watchmen came and went at intermittent times, seemingly whenever they chose. Sometimes watches would seem to last hours, and sometimes minutes. Darien’s struggle to make sense of it all was due in part to his lack of knowledge on how to keep time in this world.
Darien still made time to watch the other people in the camp. So far, he had counted three different races. The green-skinned people, like Kort, were goblins. This group walked with a slight hunch in their shoulders, many wearing face coverings like Kort did. Those with uncovered faces seemed to have plain, blocky features, almost as if someone had made a rough cutting out of granite trying to find their way to some kind of face inside. The faces were not symmetrical, but neither were they distorted.
The second group were the trolls, grey-skinned people, like Totra-Dal and Hodra. These people looked essentially human, save for their grey skin and jet-black eyes. Their hair was equally black, yet no troll man—most people in the camp were men—had any faci
al hair. That seemed to be a unique feature of his new master.
Then there were the pale-skinned people, of which Darien had only spotted two or three. He wasn’t sure what to call them. They appeared human at first, at least, until he was able to get a better look. Catching quick glances as they passed by, Darien noticed that every one of them were androgynous. Each had black where the whites of the eyes should be, and stark white pupils, making their eyes appear to sink back, empty and devoid of sight. Darien had shuddered at this sight, hurriedly returning to his work, trying not to draw attention to himself.
Later in the afternoon, Darien found himself working near the tent he had been tied up in the day before. Peeking inside, he saw the small child, still restrained by the wrists to the metal pole buried in the ground. There was no sign that the child had been given any food or water; no bowls or goblets were in the tent anywhere. Darien paused his work and glanced around. No one appeared to be paying attention to him or the prisoner. He quickly grabbed his water pouch from the handle of his cart he used to haul off each load of manure and ducked into the tent.
“Hey, I’ve got some water here for you,” he offered. As before, the child didn’t stir.
Darien reached out to touch the child’s shoulder. Just before he could make contact, he heard a sharp voice from beyond the tent.
“Hey! Don’t do that!”
The voice was concern, not rebuke. Darien withdrew quickly and glanced at the entrance, seeing one of the pale-skinned people watching with its sunken eyes
“Please, do not touch the child. It will likely drive the wraith inside to try to possess you, and failing that, it would likely kill you.”
Darien recoiled and scurried backwards on his hands towards the entrance of the tent. Darien looked into the figures face, having a hard time meeting the other’s eyes for their foreign stare.
“Thank you, I had no idea,” Darien shuddered.
“I know you didn’t. When I saw you going into the tent with your water, I knew what you intended. But you were wrong. The wraith—”
“What’s a wraith?” Darien cut into the other’s words.
“I had heard you were ignorant of things here,” the haunting eyes studied him. “Rumors about you have already spread around the camp, but I didn’t think they were completely true.”
Darien looked away from the face, his cheeks turning red before the other answered.
“Wraiths are the most evil of creatures. It is believed that they are the souls of victims of Cyprin. Though I suppose you don’t know who Cyprin is either?”
Darien chose his words carefully; the smallest slip could give him away. “I overheard the centaurs who I was with talking about him. So, I know enough.”
The pale creature nodded. “It is believed that Cyprin, when he stole the magic from the world three millennia ago, did so with the help of spellcasters. These servants gave up their bodies, not knowing that it would doom their souls to eternal torment. They now live a tortured existence and envy every living thing. Over time, that envy grew into a vengeful rage. For the crime of possessing a freedom which can never be theirs again, they now seek to cause harm to any they come into contact with.”
“Why does it look like a kid?”
“Wraiths are largely incorporeal, mist-like, most of the time. However, if they find a host of flesh and blood, someone who can’t withstand their assault, they can inhabit those bodies. That child was playing on the edge of the camp, while we were near the Mist Caves, where the wraiths live. One of them latched onto her and refused to relinquish its hold. Sadly, her mother was killed by other wraiths while trying to save her, so she is alone. No one seems to know who her father was. Totra-Dal decided not to have her killed, and ordered that she be bound, and kept prisoner until we can find a way to free her.”
“How long has she been like that?” Darien asked, looking sympathetically at the girl.
“Forty-two days.”
Darien felt chills prickle over his entire body at the thought. “Isn’t there something someone can do?”
“Not that we know of,” the pale face shook. “The child is safe, as far as we can tell. She doesn’t seem to need food or water while the wraith has control of her body. But killing her would only free the wraith inside, sending it searching for another host, and killing those who it couldn’t control. There is nothing that can be done for her now. But we have talked long enough, I believe you were set to do a job. If you don’t finish, I suspect there will be problems which you would do right to avoid.”
“Yeah, can I ask you one question though?” Darien asked, hoping he wasn’t being impolite.
The figure gestured for him to continue.
“Sorry if this sounds rude but, who… what are you?”
“I am a Scillan,” a smile twitched at the corner of the pale mouth. “We don’t conform to the usual convention of naming individuals, and so each of us is referred to simply by the name of our race. Therefore, what I am and who I am are one in the same. There aren’t many of us across Olympus, so this is rarely a problem. The majority of our people live on the small islands which are scattered around the rest of the world, isolated from the main continent. We prefer a secluded life, but a small number of us choose to come to the mainland and travel to learn, and eventually bring back our stories to our people. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, thank you,” he nodded. "There’s just so much I don’t know about things here. Every little bit helps.” Darien picked up his shovel, eager to avoid Kort seeing him dawdle in conversation.
The Scillan nodded, giving a brief smile. Darien watched as they walked away before turning back to his work, sighing deeply before pushing his shovel back into the piles of manure.
As the day drew to a close, Darien was able to catch up and finish the task that had been assigned to him. All of the stalls had been opened and raked, waste was hauled away, new water was poured into their troughs from a nearby stream, new straw bedding laid down, hay for food placed within, and the horses returned. Darien was exhausted by the time night fell over the camp. Some manner of food was offered to the group via large pots from the main fire. It was a type of stew, but Darien didn’t care what was in it anymore. He took a bowl and headed back to the solitude of the tent. This was officially his tent now; the prior occupant was compensated for his “troubles” after complaining to Totra-Dal.
Darien ate in silence. The warm stew felt good in his hands but tasted bland and mushy. That wasn’t enough to stop him from eating every last bite. His hunger still not sated, Darien decided to risk getting a second helping. After struggling with his sore muscles’ protests from the day’s work, he moved back towards the center of camp. As he crossed the halfway point, a voice called out.
“I’d stop if I were you.”
Darien froze, then turned towards the voice. It was a grey-skinned troll. She was tall and slender, athletic even, with black hair tied back in a ponytail, and black eyes, like the rest of her kind. She didn’t sound hostile. On the contrary, she sounded concerned.
“What?” Darien asked dumbly.
“I said,” she stood up from her sitting position and walked a few steps towards him, “I wouldn’t go back in there for more food. The only nights you get to eat your fill around here are when you return from a successful raid, and in your case, whenever you meet with the great Totra-Dal.” Her last words were laced with derision. Darien smiled.
“I don’t know that I’d let Totra-Dal hear you talking like that.”
“I won’t,” she said simply, turning away.
She walked slowly to the edge of her tent and motioned for him to enter. Darien paused a moment and then, realizing he was likely to have little other company for the rest of the evening, accepted the invitation, sitting down across from her. She finished eating her own food and set her bowl down before turning to Darien.
“So, how did you enjoy your first day with us?”
Darien couldn’t help but laugh.
>
“Enjoy your work in the stalls that much?” she said with a hint of derisive humor.
“No,” Darien shook his head. “It’s just that if you had told me I was going to end up here, I’d have never believed you. There are still moments where I wonder whether I’m dreaming or not.”
Darien leaned back on his hands, placing weight on his left wrist for the first time in a while. Pain spread through his arm, and he shot back upwards.
“Seems like you’re not dreaming after all. Are you okay?”
The concern seemed genuine, which confused Darien. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his wrist gently. “I just hurt my wrist when Kort and his group captured me. I think it’s okay, just hurts. It’s not broken, but—”
Darien was caught off guard as she grabbed his wrist, holding it tightly between her two hands. She pressed and prodded, looking closely at how he responded when she flexed his hand forward and backward, left and right, testing where the pain was. Her coarse hands flowed gently over Darien’s skin, moving with purpose and knowledge, sending a shiver through his brain and a lurch through his stomach.
“It’s worse than a sprain, but no worse than a fracture,” she smiled, releasing his hand. “Given how little pain you feel, I don’t think it’s even that serious. You’ll be fine in one week.”
Darien smiled stupidly as she retreated back to her original position, facing directly into the camp. The two of them sat in silence for a few moments before Darien worked up the courage to break the calm. Before he could speak though, she said, “What skills do you have?”
The two of them sat in silence for a few moments before Darien worked up the courage to break the calm.
“What skills do you have?” she asked, beating him to the punch. The question was so abrupt, Darien had to take a second to realize that something had even been said.