Rotten to the Core

Three days had passed since the dreadful incident on the road. Elteber and his fellow prisoner actually found that their former companion's tragic demise had worked in their favor. With only two prisoners remaining the captors chose to speed their journey along by placing their charges in the bed of the wagon. It was uncomfortable, as space was limited. Elteber found himself regularly being crushed by the large chests and barrels that were stuffed into the bed of the wagon. It was this experience that roused him from the gentle doze he'd managed to sink into. A sharp pain shot through El's ribs as a heavy crate slid backwards when the wagon began to ascend a hill. El sucked in his breath deeply, straining yet against the chains that bound his hands above his head, connected as they were to the side rail. He'd learned within the first day of his new "riding" situation to not voice his complaints about the pain. He was often met with a swift backhand, or occasionally the pommel of a dagger. So he bore his discomfort stoically, and when the wagon crested the hill and began its descent he was able to nudge the crate out of his way and once again resume dozing.

That doze was interrupted some hours later by a pair of shouting voices. One of those voices El recognized as the big man who drove the wagon, but the other was unfamiliar to him. Slowly opening his eyes in order to allow them to adjust to the light he did his best to pull himself up enough to see over the wagon seat. The group appeared to be at a way station of some sort, a rather shoddy one, and the driver was arguing with one of the attendants.

"Look, I told you before. Everyone pays the toll. If you want to use this road to Southgate, then you pay the toll. It's as simple as that," the porter, a sandy haired man with large ears, was saying.

"This is the only road to Southgate," replied the burly wagon driver replied cooly.

"That's true friend, it is."

"So you're telling me that you and your friends are taking advantage of this pass to make a profit?"

"It seems we understand each other friend, and before you get any funny ideas in your head about fighting your way through, there are six of us who run this station. You look a lot of things friend, but stupid ain't one of 'em. Now be a smart man and pay the coin and be on your way."

El held his breath as he watched his captor. On one hand if his captor got killed things could possibly improve for him. Of course that wasn't guaranteed. Things could get much worse depending on the temperament of the highway bandits. El released his breath explosively as the driver tossed a purse full of coin at the highwayman's feet. The man snatched it up and then stepped aside, ushering the wagon on with an exaggerated flourish. The wagon rumbled past and El caught the evil glare that the driver gave the big eared man.

El was surprised how little they traveled that day. After only an hour or so from the way station, the wagon was pulled into a copse of trees. Camp was set up and that ended the days travel. Much later, after night had fallen, the rat faced little man, who had quite recovered from his tumble a few days before, snuck off into the trees. It was several hours later that he returned, the sound of his voice rousing El from slumber.

"It's taken care of," the little man said bluntly.

"How many of them were there?"

"Only four, the big eared one lied," came the reply.

"I was certain he was. That shack wasn't large enough to house that many," the big man grunted sourly, then he took a sniff, a rather loud one at that, "do I smell smoke?"

The rat faced ruffian grinned at his partner, "The shack won't house anyone anymore, well anyone except their remains."

"You left them inside of it?"

"It was easier that way. The lookout was simple, but the others were all inside. So I barred the door using the dead one's sword and then set fire to the place. I waited outside the window, but they were too drunk to realize what was happening till it was too late.

El listened to the whole story with a feeling of utter revulsion, a feeling that was intensified exponentially as the two men began to laugh. It was in that moment that El understood just how wicked his captors were. Everything to this point had just been a scratch on the surface. These men were rotten to the core. El closed his eyes and felt a sob run through him. He found himself praying for arrival at Southfate. Even the arena couldn't possibly be as bad as this, could it?

The Road pt. 1

The journey had not to this point been pleasant, and within seconds of having that thought, El realized he was making a gross understatement. The journey had been a disaster.

After six hours of sitting in a cell in Quinn's manor, an experience which Elteber had found highly distasteful, he'd been dragged out into the night, along with a trio of other men. Their captors had roughly chained them to a cart, and then set off into the darkness. Being dragged along by ones wrists behind a cart is not the easiest of endeavors in the best of circumstances. At night, however, it's all but impossible. Each step is a gamble, and El found himself more than once stumbling, and occasionally falling. The falling was the worst, for the cart didn't stop. The pair of mules that stoically pulled it along didn't care for the plight of the prisoners, and continued their implacable pace regardless.

Eventually most of the prisoners found a rhythm, and while their stumbling continued the regularity of their falling, and consequently their dragging decreased. One prisoner, an older man from what little El had seen, never seemed to find that cadence. Instead he would fall repeatedly, and struggle to his feet as the wagon would approach an elevation change. After about several hours El noticed that the man was taking longer and longer trying to rise. Then as dawn began to break over the mountains far to the easy, the man fell. For twenty minutes those dreadful mules continued to put one hoof in front of the other, the sounds of those steps like the beat of the executioner's drum, and yet the man made no effort to rise. Finally El could bear it no longer and called out to the driver.

“Hey, you've got to stop. This man isn't getting up. He's hurt! Stop the wagon!”

The driver barely turned, casting little more than a glance in the direction of the man. He grunted and nudged the other, much smaller, man who sat next to him on the seat. The man stirred, and then hopped from the wagon, landing with a light roll in the dust. The acrobatic captor came alongside the man who was being dragged and reached down to check his pulse, even as they walked. With a grunt he leaped into the wagon bed. Reaching down he lifted a small, yet sturdy chest that bore a pair of locks and set it on the wagon seat. The driver lifted a silver key, attached to an iron chain, from beneath his tunic. The acrobat did likewise, though his key was a coppery color, and the two opened the chest, each inserting their respective keys into one of the locks, and turning them in opposite directions.

From within that chest the smaller man removed a large black metal key. Stepping back to the end of the wagon the acrobat inserted the black key into the heavy padlock that connected the chain to an iron ring that was on the wagon's frame. The padlock popped open and the thick length of chain that had been dragging the fallen prisoner behind the wagon went instantly slack. The body lay in the road, and El watched as it lay there in the dust. Then there was a sharp twang, and a small bunch of feathers sprouted from the man's back. El spun and saw the acrobat casually reloading a hand crossbow and tucking it back into his vest. The man regarded El with an almost amused expression, and then hopped back into his seat beside the driver. El shuddered, and was going to shout something at his captors, but a misstep caused him to pitch forward violently, and his retort was lost in the attempt to maintain his footing.

* * * *

After a sustained march of nearly five hours the captors pulled the wagon to the side of the road. The two of them helped, though again this is not a term that accurately describes their actions, the chained men to drink from a water skin. Much of the water did not end up in the captives mouths, but rather down their fronts. Each man was unchained long enough to relieve themselves, and then to eat a small chunk of stale bread, and a bland white cheese. As soon as the last crumb had passed their lips, those horrible chains once again were firmly secured around their wrists, and a small dribble of water was again allowed to fall into the general vicinity of their mouths.

Once all four prisoners had eaten, their captors settled back into their wagon seats and set out again. From where he was chained Elteber watched with jealousy as the pair ate their repast. A thick hunk of what looked like salted pork was sliced and eaten, and the men also each chomped loudly on a crisp golden colored apple. Elteber licked his lips as he watched, but said nothing. Opening his mouth would expose it to the dust and the dry heat of the road, and he didn't know when the next time they'd stop for water would be.

It was another three hours before they were again allowed to stop, and were provided with a small amount of water to wash the dust from their parched throats. Elteber began to guess that part of why the prisoners needed so few guards, was because they were not to be kept very healthy. As the inexorable creak of those wooden wheels again filled the air El let out a shudder. It was fifteen days in optimal conditions to reach Southgate. This wagon was not what El would consider optimal. It was slow moving, and the captors were forced to stop, which had they been alone they wouldn't have needed to do. El hazarded that they were more likely three weeks out from Southgate. He silently wondered how many of them would die before reaching their destination.

* * * *

A partial answer to that silent musing came two days later. An hour or so before noon one of the other prisoners, a well muscled man, pitched forward. El was surprised when the man did not rise. The big man had seemed in good health, and had endured the perpetual punishment with significantly greater fortitude than the third man. Again the mules were not called to a halt, indeed the drivers did not appear to have noticed the man's fall. Determined to not let another death occur, El called out. The taste of blood filled his mouth, as the dry skin within it cracked at his hoarse shout. Again the little man grimly went about the task of checking the fallen man. This time the fallen was not dead, and the acrobat hauled him to his feet. Perhaps acting on instinct, though more likely in sheer desperation, the prisoner swung his arms and attempted to wrap the heavy chain around the small man's neck.

Unfortunately, the prisoner's arms were weak from exhaustion, and the small man easily stepped out of reach of the chain. He raised a thin finger and tauntingly waggled it from left to right. The prisoner let out a howl and lunged forward at his tormentor, reaching for his throat with bound hands. The acrobat laughed and danced out of the way. Again the prisoner came at him, and again the acrobat moved away. Luck, it seemed, had not forsaken the big man. The rat faced captor stepped into a rabbit whole during that second move and his ankle twisted underneath him. The big man dove forward and smashed the heavy iron bands of his shackles on the small man's head. The small man's eyes crossed for a moment and then he fell. The driver, who had by now stopped the wagon and turned to check on the ruckus spoke.

“Enough, get back in line. You know you can't escape, so back away from him.”

“I'll kill him,” the big man cried out in a cracking voice, raising his manacled hands above the acrobat's head meaningfully.

A dagger seemed to materialize in the driver's hand and he tossed it such that the blade rested easily between his index finger and thumb. The big man laughed roughly.

“A single dagger, it'll take more than that to kill me,” and again he hefted his hands as if to illustrate his point.

The driver seemed to consider it, and then began to lower his hands. The brute did likewise. Then in a motion so smooth and fast that El could only barely make it out the driver cast his dagger sidelong, it's polished blade neatly laying open the cheek of the big man. The other hand came up in an underhand motion and another blade came up and out, embedding itself squarely in the now exposed throat of the belligerent prisoner. The big man let out a gurgling noise and crashed to his knees, his hands coming up to the pommel that protruded from his neck. Those weakening fingers fumbled with it for a moment and then the big man's eyes rolled back in his head and he fell with a heavy thump onto his face.

The driver vaulted down from the wagon seat and lifted the rat faced acrobat up into the bed of the wagon, aiming a heavy kick at the side of the big man's head.

“Stupid oaf. You've cost me a lot of money by making me kill you.”

After having deposited his companion in the bed of the wagon, the driver collected his dagger's and once again performed the required steps to release the big man's chains from the iron ring that held them. Then he climbed back into the wagon seat, gave one last disgusted look at the dead body lying in the road, then flicked the reins across the rump's of the mules and set off once again.

Elteber sighed and stepped forward to stay ahead, and thus keep some slack in those dragging chains. Eighteen more days like this? Did Quinn actually want him in Southgate? Or was she just trying to make his last days as miserable as possible?

Caught

"Look, you're making a huge mistake! I had nothing to do with whatever it is that you seem to feel I was involved in!"

The city watchman fixed the speaker with an amused gaze even as his hand drifted to the hilt of the plain broadsword belted at his waist, "I'm certain your accuser will be thrilled to hear that. Now shut up and get moving."

Elteber sighed and stepped out of the doorway of the small apartment he had rented on Goat Lane. Rented may not have been the right word. Commandeered may have been a better one. In point of fact Elteber had been squatting in the vacant apartment, and for the life of him he couldn't fathom how the watch had found him. Apparently he was to face his accuser, and his mind flitted through the half dozen or so petty crimes he had committed in the past week. He could think of none where he'd left obvious signs of his passing. His days of a high profile jewel thief were long behind him, and he no longer left a calling card with his marks. The fact that the watch had known right where he'd been baffled him beyond reason. Something about this situation was very wrong, and as he followed the lead guardsman into the dark alley that led away from Goat Lane he heard in his mind not the footfalls of their soft shod boots, but rather the clink of heavy iron chains.

* * * * *

It took about forty minutes for his captors to march him through the city to his destination. During that time Elteber took careful note of the bearing of his captors. There were three of them, and something about the way they carried themselves just didn't ring true with him. Their was a menace about them, and he knew that if he ran away they wouldn't exercise the restraint one could normall expect from men of the watch. They watched him like predators would watch prey, and he knew that they bore him a very special kind of malice. Yet the more he watched them, the more he realized it wasn't him they bore said malice for, but rather for everyone, and everything. 

Perhaps it was these observations which caused him to feel no surprise when they opened a manhole and led him into the sewers. He felt even less surprise when his captors removed the white and red embroidered surcoats of the Watch, to reveal chainmail shirts that weren't precisely polished. Things began to click in to place, and when he caught sight of the taloned claw sigil on the amulet worn about one of the men's necks, his worst fears were confirmed.

"Kryxor's blood," he swore under his breath. He knew exactly where they were taking him, and he knew he didn't want to see the one they were taking him to. He looked about frantically and knew that he had no way to escape. His shoulders slumped and he accepted the hard shove from one of the men almost stoically.

In short order they reached a heavy iron door with a thin grate. The lead man spoke quietly through that gate, and El could hear the sounds of several locks and bars being disabled. Finally the heavy door swung open and El was shoved through. About thirty feet beyond was round wooden platform that hung from heavy iron chains. Two huge creatures, likely bugbears were chained nearby. Next to them was a massive wheel with several poles set inside of it. After leading Elteber to that platform the leader of his captors gave a nod and the two chained creatures each set their shoulder to one of those poles and began to push. There was a loud grating noise and Elteber felt the platform begin to rise.

It rose for a quite some time, higher and higher through a tunnel of complete darkness. Then above him El saw a the dancing lights of torches, and brief moments later he was standing in a dimly lit corridor that ended in a sturdy looking oak wood door. With the leader in front and his other two captors behind, El walked towards that door. In his heart he knew what lay beyond that door, and he had no greater desire then to rush back towards the platform and leap after it into the all-consuming darkness.

The lead man grinned at him and opened the door, “We part ways here. I’m sure you’ll be well cared for.”

The laugh that ensued was wicked, and filled with pure malicious joy. Elteber let out an involuntary shudder and stepped through the door into the chamber beyond.

The room he entered was bathed in the dancing light of many torches. The shadows that were the natural result of such lighting served only to enhance the sense of foreboding that cankered El’s soul. His eyes were drawn up from the dancing shadows cast on the floor by a silvery peal of laughter. His eyes moved slowly upwards, over the polished stones to the first of five terraces. 

Atop that fifth terrace, clad in a silken gown of deepest scarlet, was a beautiful woman. She met his gaze with dark green eyes that seemed to blaze with an inner fire. Again that cascade of laughter filled the room.

Rising to her feet with a languid grace she stepped forward, her hands smoothing the front of her long gown. There was nothing revealing about that gown, it was tastefully cut, designed to enhance her figure not with daring cut outs and exposed skin, but rather with its shape and flow. Her beauty was enough to steal the breath of any man, and as she slowly descended the steps to each terraced level Elteber felt his blood quicken in his veins. As she descended from that last terrace Elteber caught a brief whiff of a heavily spiced perfume. For not the first time since he’d arrived in her lair, Elteber felt himself shudder. She drew closer, circling him slowly, her fingertips reaching out to touch his shoulder. El however, did not feel fingers, but rather felt as though a set of talons had raked across him.

“My my, it would appear that the bird has caught a mouse in her claws hasn’t she?” her voice was rich and lustrous, “a little mouse, so lost and alone. Did you think you could escape me little mouse? You should have known that I would find you. I have eyes everywhere.”

El opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter even a syllable the beautiful woman spoke again.

“You wound me Elteber. You slipped out of my bed in the middle of the night and fled like a coward. You stole my virtue and then stole my emerald? My dear little mouse, did you truly expect to escape Quinn Hawke?”

“Look, Quinn, I… well we are both aware that your virtue was stolen long before I got involved. As for the emerald,” he floundered for a moment, looking up at her for the first time.

It was stupid; he knew that before he even opened his mouth, but he was not noted for his common sense, “I wanted a memento of your eyes. Something with which to remember our time together.”

The slap across his face was one he would admit to having deserved. His comment had definitely been in bad taste.

“Little mouse, you amused me for a time. You proved a pleasant distraction, yet I’m afraid you are no longer amusing. Tell me now Elteber, where is my emerald?”

He coughed, and scuffed the toe of his soft leather boots against the polished stone floor.

The look she fixed him with carried none of her warmth, none of the subtle sensuality that it would normally have carried. Rather what he saw there was pure daggers.

"I'll ask you one more time little mouse. Where is my emerald?" her voice was filled with venom.

“I… well… I may have mislaid it Quinn.”

Her eyebrows arched dangerously, “Mislaid?”

“Well, there was this bout you see. Seemed to be a pretty peachy deal, all sealed up you know? No chance of loss. Well… I…”

She glared at him, and raised her hand threateningly.

“The man I’d bet on threw the fight, bet against himself. There was nothing I could do!”

“You bet my emerald? You… fool!”

“Now Quinn, look I---”

Her eyes were no longer on him. She had turned and begun to once more ascend the steps towards her dais. She spun, her elaborate silk gown swirling about her shapely legs. She lowered herself to her dais, and pulled a simple silver bell from her bodice. She rang it gently, but once, and from the shadows near the first terrace stepped a massive man. Bare chested and rippling with muscles then imposing figure came forward and took Elteber firmly by the forearm.

 “You no longer amuse me little mouse, and as my emerald is now gone you have caused me to lose a small fortune. That fortune you will regain for me, for as of this moment, you are my personal gladiator. You leave tomorrow for Southgate. There you will either make my fortune, or you will die.”

As Elteber was dragged quite firmly from the room by the behemoth of a man, he quite clearly thought that he most certainly didn’t deserve that.

A Day on the Lake

"Grampa, grampa! Look!"

The old man stirred with a slight grunt. As he pushed his old weather beaten leather cap away from his eyes he caught sight of his eleven-year-old grandson hopping up and down excitedly, his small finger pointing towards the glassy surface of the lake.

"What is it boy?" the old man asked, his voice was rough, but not unkind. He smiled at the boy and pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Out there, on the water! I saw him, Silverback!"

The old man crossed his fingers behind his head and reclined slightly, looking at the boy with an amused smile.

"Oh did ye now?" the boy's grandfather replied with a chuckle. The boy had to have been imagining things, Silverback was nothing more than a legend.


The youth stamped his foot indignantly, "I did Grampa! I knew you wouldn't believe me, but I saw him! He was the biggest fish I've ever seen! His scales were like mirrors they were so bright, he -- Grampa look!"

The old man turned a lazy glance towards where the boy was pointing and sat up with a start. The boy was right. That couldn't be any other fish but the legendary Silverback.

"Well call me a toadstool. Ye be right boy. There ain't nothing else that could be than ol' Silverback. Come on lad, he seems to be swimmin' in the south end of the lake. Let's get o'er there and try our hand."

It took the pair about fifteen minutes to pick their way along the shore of the small lake. The great fish appeared to be swimming near to the flowing tributary that ran down from the Shardspire Mountains. The boy was grinning broadly as he struggled to keep up with his grandfather. The sighting of the legendary fish seemed to have sparked something inside the old man. He moved as though he was thirty years younger, and the enthusiasm with which he spoke to the boy belied his excitement. The two had a chance to make history, and the young lad knew that this was a day he'd never forget, even should he live to be a century old.

As they slid down the small slope to the beachhead near the mouth of the tributary that fed their small lake the large silvery scaled fish once again broke the surface of the lake in a massive leap. The sunlight reflected off the near metallic scales and both the boy and his grandfather caught their breath. In all their years, neither had seen anything so beautiful as the glittering rainbow that danced across those scales. Each scale refracted the light perfectly, like hundreds of tiny jewels.

"Quickly boy, let's get our hooks in the water. No time to waste, daylight will fail us soon."

With a grin, the boy cast his line into the water and watched as his grandfather did the same. No sooner had the hook hit the surface than a loud roar echoed through the mountain. The young boy lost his grip on his pole and was thrown from his feet as a shockwave ripped through the lake valley.

"Grampa, what was--"

"I don't know lad. I've never felt or heard anything like that. Keep your eyes open."

"Shouldn't we be heading back?"

"Why boy, it was likely just thunder, Silverback is here. We haven't had a chance to--"

The roaring came again, this time closer. The boys threw his arms over his head and let out a sob as he watched his grandfather hurled from his feet. Then a shadow, larger than anything living could possibly cause suddenly filled the small valley. The boy screamed as a rush of wind blasted over them.

"Grandfather!"

"Move lad, do everything you can and get to the trees. Quickly!"

The boy scrambled to his feet and ran, his small legs churning the sandy beach as he hurried towards the treeline. He stumbled up the bank and turned to see his grandfather limping towards him.

"Come on Grampa!"

The shrieking roar once again filled the air, and the boy let out a cry as his grandfather pitched forward heavily, crashing into the treeline. The youth dropped to his knees, cradling the old man's head in his arms. The pair watched as that huge shadow once again covered the valley. Carefully the boy dragged his semi-conscious grandfather towards an overhang and slid under. There the pair remained for nearly an hour. Listening as that terrible wail filled the air. The young boy cried, terrified. Then at last the sounds were gone, and after what seemed like an eternity the old man stirred.

"Lad, we must get back."

"Grampa, we can't. Ye be hurt, and it's getting dark. Grampa, I'm so scared. I-"

"Hush boy, listen to me. We have to get back, quickly. Help me boy, we've got to get home."

The boy's lip stiffened and he wiped his damp eyes with the back of his sleeve. He nodded, and together they slid from under the overhanging patch of earth and made their way slowly back towards their village. Darkness was creeping over them as they reached the base of the hill that separated them from their home. Just over that hill lay a small valley, wherein the village of Greybriar stood. Despite the encroaching darkness a strange light seemed to fill the sky. The boy, his face confused, looked at his grandfather with tired eyes.

"Grampa, what is that light?"

The old man did not reply, but trudged up the hill, dragging one of his legs behind him in an awkward and painful looking limp. His grandson followed, weariness stealing the speed from his steps. As the lad neared the crest of the hill he caught sight of his grandfather, who had sunk to his knees. His face was awash in a ghostly orange glow and realization suddenly dawned on the boy. With a cry the boy hurried up the remainder hill, staring into the valley below to see his village engulfed in flames. The boy dropped to his knees next to his father and cried, a bitter, mourning cry. In the dancing light provided by the conflagration below the lad looked up towards the sky to shout a curse at the gods. The words were stolen from his lips however as he beheld a dark shape on the southern horizon, a shape that appeared to be flying with massive outstretched wings.

"What is that Grampa?" he asked in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

The reply did not come instantly, in fact it took several moment before the words were uttered Though he was young the child could recognize the abject horror in the tone of those words as they finally were spoken. Never before had he heard his grandfather speak with such a tone, and the sound pierced the child to his very soul.

"Dragon lad."

"But grampa, dragons have been dead for thousands of years. Everyone knows that.

"Indeed lad, not since the Kez'rakai were defeated at Southgate has a dragon been seen, but I tell ye lad. That... is a dragon."

Almost as though the beast had heard them the shadowy figure on the horizon banked sharply, and as the seconds passed it grew larger. It was clear that the dragon was coming their way.

"Run lad." The old man whispered, his voice gruff and filled with emotion.

"No Grampa, I won't leave you."

"Listen to me boy, ye must go. I'm an old man and I cannot run. I'm out of strength. I've lived me entire life here. You must head north, warn someone. Tell them what ye've seen. The world must know. The dragons have returned. Now run!"

The tone of his voice allowed for no argument. The boy slowly stood, watching as the massive shape grew even larger. Blinking back tears the child embraced his grandfather fiercely, kissing the old man's forehead, "I love you Grampa."

"And I you lad, now run."

Without another word, for another word would have stolen his nerve the boy plunged down the northern slope of the hill. His legs beat at the ground in spite of their weariness. Exhaustion was long since forgotten, the boy knew that if he stopped, he would die. He did fall once, as the awful shrieking of the dragon, and its subsequent shock wave, filled the air. The boy couldn't look back, and he blinked his eyes quickly to clear the tears that formed there. He knew what had happened, he knew he was alone, and so he continued to run, for several hours he ran, until at last he could run no more. His legs gave out beneath him and he pulled himself inside of a fallen log and there he cried himself to sleep.

As dawn broke across the land a great fish with scales like gemstones began it's slow journey upstream through the tributary that fed a small lake. It struggled briefly to pass a close set cluster of rocks, but a sharp wrenching pain pulled the hook that had caught in it's cheek free. The fish continued its upstream battle, while the supple yew fishing rod flowed downstream and back to a small lake...