As I ponder disposing of Rakatha, Vong kneels down to care for the tired man. A hearty helping of the spiced chicken and rice dish Vong cooked, as well as his own canteen of water. There is a nearby stream so washing the blood and sweat off will be the next course of action, most likely.
Voella’Tien remains in the space that Vong rose from and watches the pair thoughtfully. When Rakatha is full from his meal and leans back to catch his breath, she breaks the news to him. “I fear that your trouble has been for naught,” she gestures to the hand laying beside the bowl at his side. “There are few in the region who can cast such magic and the price is likely beyond you, no offense. Even so, with such suspicion on her death, those who could cast a resurrection might not wish to become involved. I am sorry. Gala will not be able to be revived.”
How diplomatically put.
I roll out my bedroll and prepare for sleep while Vong takes Rakatha to the stream to clean up and bury the hand. One hundred each of my exercises followed by meditation. I am sitting on top of my bedroll when they return, eyes open and unfocused, reflecting on the day and feeling the flow of arcana in the area. The night air is cool and the sounds of wind across the plain are a soothing hiss.
With the detached freedom granted by my state of mind, I observe the others as they prepare to retire.
Vong makes several trips to the stream to clean and care for his cooking gear. The pots and pans and other tools are sturdy and well-made, not cheap. They have the look of being much used, but not neglectfully so. The way the young man handles them is with respect and love and…what is this last thing I am seeing? Ritual? No, more like duty. Interesting. Whatever it is, he takes it seriously. His overall demeanor is rife with the carefree vigor of youth, but he is young so that is not so surprising. Many a lively boy has grown to a man of dignity. Perhaps Vong will one day be worthy of the station he’s been allowed to don. However, currently it seems to fit him as well as a boy who wears his father’s robe.
While Vong attends to his supplies, Voella’Tien steps away from the light of the fire and away from the camp. The look on her face when she rose was serene and contemplative. It speaks to me of faith and fear—two things that are rarely far apart. In my meditative state I do not contemplate what she might be thinking while she wanders away, but I notice the look of resolve on her face when she returns. She sits, once again, near the fire and prods it with a stick to turn the coals and send new flames licking at the air. There is no bedroll in her pack, confirming that she is no half-breed. Half-elves can look and act much like elves but still succumb to sleep as a human does. Full-blooded elves, on the other hand, perform a waking rest that sustains them through communion with nature. Or something like that. I’ve never really studied elves and they tend to keep their secrets guarded—a quality I can appreciate. At any rate, it means that watch rounds will not be necessary as she doesn’t sleep. If I trusted her, that is. She seems like a kind person. I will only have my owl watch her a little.
I turn my objective gaze to Rakatha, who is lounging by the fire. His gear has been returned to him but he has not bothered to change into new clothes. Instead, his tanned skin reflects the warm tones of the fire. His boots are off and we are spared a salacious show by just a loincloth. Voella’Tien notices his state of undress but doesn’t mention it—preferring instead to glance over uncomfortably each time he moves. It is easier now to see the full scope of his battle scars, at least on the side facing the fire. Telltale slashes from swords, mean-looking gashes from maces or picks, puncture marks from spears or possibly arrows. There is not a part on his body that has not met with some injury. In fact, it tells of a man who has spent much of his life fighting, in close quarters, with minimal armor.
Elysium is wholesome and good on its surface; its pantheon embodying the nobler aspects of existence. Yet no place I have traveled is without a dark side. Part of this region’s dark side is the pits—the unsanctioned arenas for gladiatorial combat that operate in the seedy underground of the larger cities. While the venues never stick around for too long, a new one will always pop up elsewhere. The organizers bribe who they need to keep it all mum while they make a steady stream of profit from the endless patrons and fighters who lose coin or blood to the arena.
Naturally I’ve been to one, but not in Elysium. Too risky. Yet I still got an earful from the customers who bought pollyweed and rose hips in suspicious amounts and who thought that I look like the kind of guy who would be interested in watching two sentients attempt to kill one another.
Often, though the organizers would claim otherwise, the fighters are slaves. The narrative in Elysium, where slavery is illegal, is always that they are free men fighting for a sick child or to forget the pain of a lost love or whatever other story riles the crowd and helps the odds. Some of the slaves do eventually earn their freedom, but most just swallow their own humors until they suffocate.
Rakatha had been a pit fighter. No doubt about it. Had he been a slave? Had he fought for the pride of his tribe or to help his bedridden mother? Did it matter? How many fights had he won?
The barrage of questions swirling in my head breaks me from my passive contemplation. A man without fear of death but who can be controlled by his betters. I can use a man like that. He needn’t be clever, only loyal.
Suddenly, Rakatha is much more interesting. A new side project.
I make my final nighttime preparation by casting a warding over the camp—I may as well include everyone in it—that will wake me if someone enters its boundary. As I lay back and drift off to sleep, I consider how I will turn Rakatha into a loyal servant and my first, of many, minions. I suppose I don’t have to kill him just yet—they did bury the hand after all.
Sleep greets me before I come up with a satisfactory plan. I do not dream.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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