Arturo V8

Bilingual writer of science fiction stories, journalist and interpreter. 

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr X

“Wake up Tyrian!” whispered someone to his ear while shaking his sweaty shoulder. The youth blinked his eyes, “I... I'm up...” he yawned, his gaze focused on the lanky female half-elf before him, drops of sweat rolled through her chest towards her stomach. “Fyala... you are bleeding,” stammered Kemet forcing his eyes open, his blue orbs watched her flat belly in the faint light coming down the barred pit opening. A few of the stab wounds had thin rivers of dried blood that reached the woman's stained breechcloth.

Fyala looked at her body and then to the Tyrian's blue eyes, “it must have happened when I slept, but they are not bleeding anymore,” she whispered as her fingers carefully ran through the seemingly closed the wounds. Kemet rose and quickly undid the dirty bandage on his bitten leg, the half-elf's brow frowned, “What are you doing?” The youth ignored her and put his arms around her waist, the thief was about to protest until she saw Kemet bandaging her torso. “That should help until your wounds heal,” he added after tying the stained rag. When Fyala was about to reply they heard someone approaching.

“Aww look at the young lover,” mustered Barla with disgust as she stepped close to them. The Tyrian turned to meet the broad woman with a cocky smile, “Don't be jealous Barla, it’s not my fault that nobody wanted to clean your ugly bleeding nose when the mindbender almost fried your head,” spat Kemet with contempt. The woman's wide nostrils opened and closed as she breathed angrily), “That does it snake-boy,” but before Barla could fully raise her calloused knuckles, the barred door of the pit opened. In came the blinding light of the morning sun; most slaves narrowed their eyes and covered their visage with their dirty hands.

“You are lucky,” whispered Fyala behind the young man. Kemet sneered lightly.

“Out!” came the scream from a brawny human with a spiked skullcap, “Now!” Fyala's legs trembled after hearing Malander's booming orders. Two thick ropes of giant hair were tossed and the slaves used them to climb out of the stinking gutter.

Hot burning sand blistered their hands, knees and feet as they pulled themselves to the top, the score of slaves was received by a row of guards aiming crossbows with obsidian tipped bolts and bone polearms. Only the captain of the guards stood gazing at them through the slits of his fang-spiked skullcap. Fyala rested in the back, she could feel her tormentors' gaze studying her.

Three armed guards approached the slaves and tossed several leather manacles, the men had studded leather vests and bone shortswords in their scabbards. “Put the manacles in pairs, and don't try anything,” ordered the grim captain as the prisoners began to grab the bounding devices. Kemet lifted one slowly and started to bind Fyala's slender wrists, his eyes darted around the camp looking for Staros, there was no sign of the Balican fighter, but the reinforced walls with thick bone ribs told him that they were still inside Farrek's Arena.

“We should make a run for it... how is your leg?” whispered the half-elf as she set the thick leather armbands in one the Tyrian's wrists. “We...,” replied Kemet with an intrigued expression, but before he could say anything else a whip cracked the Tyrian's back, followed by his painful scream.

“Stop talking!” screamed the overseer. Kemet turned defiantly to face the man, he had wanted to see him since the first time he whipped his back. A second and third lash struck him in his bitten leg. The whip left two red lines near where the jozhal had bit him. “You want some more slave!” slurred the voice of a man hidden behind a heavy hemp cowl, a tiara of fangs was stitched around his forehead supporting a leather mask. The mask itself had three holes, two for his red-injected-eyes and one for his crooked mouth. The overseer's broad-round frame was protected by a leather harness embedded with jagged bone studs. Thick worker gloves guarded his hands and forearms and a long sand-colored skirt covered his legs.

The overseer raised his whip one more time, but Malander stopped him after placing a hand on his shoulder. “I'll handle this,” added the grim captain as he walked towards the young Tyrian. Kemet did not move and met the brawny man. “Another defiant one,” mustered Malander while drawing an iron shortsword. The youth watched in awe the gleaming weapon, it was the first time he had seen a metal blade so close to him. “This will serve as an example for those fools that think that they can cause me and my men any trouble,” finished the captain as he opened Kemet's bite wound with a quick slash, the young man screamed and fell to the scorching sand while grabbing his leg. Fyala did not move, she could see Malander's jealous stare fixed on her. A searing pain spread through the cut as his blood poured faster than ever, the Tyrian's hands desperately tried to stop the crimson flow with some pressure. The captain raised Kemet's chin with the tip of his blade. “Now you die Tyrian,” added the brawny man as he prepared to plunge his sword into the youth's throat. Kemet met his stare with a mix of fear and arrogance.

A searing wind blowed the sand around Kemet and the captain of the guards, the youth's hands let go of the deep cut on his leg. Blood ran freely towards the burning sand, the Tyrian's eyes were fixed on the captain's face, who now had a faint smirk.

“Stop it Malander!” screamed Grelen as he approached the bloody mess his captain had created. “Are you mad, you know what that gangling youth is for!” he said while poking his sausage-like finger at the captain's chest. A bored expression appeared on Malander's face as he began to retreat, “take the boy to the healer,” he ordered to his guards. Suddenly his gaze fell on Barla, his sword hand aimed at the woman, “You! The broad wench, you carry him while my guards watch over you.” The bulky slave spit her rage to the sand and moved to grab Kemet. The youth's eyes were red with fury, pain and contained tears, “move it Tyrian or you want to be carried like a baby, I'm no wet-nurse,” chortled Barla with contempt.

Kemet grunted but managed to get up while eyeing the captain's metal blade dripping with his blood.

Barla hoisted the young Tyrian easily, carrying some of his weight while putting his arm over her neck. “I hate this,” muttered the broad woman under her stinky breath. The odd couple walked ahead of two guards, one carried a bone shortsword in its hand and the other, a sinister woman with a helmet, made with the head of a thri-kreen, walked a few steps behind them with a crossbow ready.

“Hold it!” commanded the dry voice of the sinister woman as the slaves approached the gigantic caravan wagon. Kemet's rage filled eyes fell to the transport's enclosed walls made with oiled leather. A fading symbol of a chained circle was painted in the vehicles facade. The Tyrian studied the thick giant hair that tensed the sturdy walls embedded with large rib-like bones.

“Dothar!” screamed the guard woman from beneath her sun-burnt thri-kreen helmet, which only revealed her meaty lips and angular chin. Soon a small head peered from a window in the upper floor of the caravan. “Grelen wants you to patch up this boy!” cried the female guard. The Tyrian saw the small head nod and the sinister woman left towards the rear of the wagon. “Watch them,” she ordered to the other guard and disappeared around a corner of the argosy.

Kemet eyed the distracted guard with the bone shortsword in his gloved hand, the youth followed the guard’s sight and saw a voluptuous woman in a transparent silver gown, her arm was locked with the chubby caravan master. Quickly he turned to Barla, if he wanted to escape he needed someone strong and the broad woman had bulky shoulders and stone like legs, there was a necklace of old tattoos around her collarbone that depicted several symbols, some were already fading. Kemet did not know what the marks meant, all he could tell about it is that Barla has been a slave for a long time.

“Do you really want to spend the rest of your days working from one master to another while hoping to escape some day?” whispered Kemet near the broad woman's ear as she supported his weight. Barla looked at him but remained quiet, for she too wanted freedom, yet she did not know what to do with it or how to get it. The Tyrian saw a puzzled expression appear on Barla's face, suddenly the pain in his leg increased and he began to pass out.

***

The wood creaked under Kemet's curated hide boots as he climbed the wooden stairs to his room. “Stupid man,” muttered the wizard under his breath, knowing in his mind that Urvas must die before he does. His steps felt heavier, the course of action that he had to take was a complicated one since Urvas had the support of some legionnaires. Killing him will surely divide the legionnaires, Kemet thought as he walked through the two partially abandoned rooms of the second floor. The weight of the decision did not come lightly for him, he had only executed two men in the five years of Chatka's existence.

He wondered what do the other legionnaires thought about their situation as his strip covered hand reached the door handle. Kemet paused for a moment. What would Eyla say about killing Urvas?, he left the thought hanging under the door's wooden frame. The half-naked legionnaire shifted in the bed as he walked towards it, Kemet noticed that she was still asleep. Quietly the bearded wizard set the erdlu’s candle next to the bed and grabbed a book without looking at the title, he needed a quick plan for Urvas was already carrying out his.

The Giant Siege of Balic, read the spellcaster's tired blue eyes, the text remembered him of his former master, Zomithias of Alorius, and soon he began reading the book.

“Ah Kemet you have arrived in good time,” replied the patrician with a crude common tongue. The lightly tanned nobleman had short dark-grey hair and lined aristocratic features, his chin was covered by a well braided beard. The medium height Balican was sitting next to a small lacquered wooden table with a broad book in his hands. The well-polished desk had the symbol of his noble family carved delicately in the center. The Tyrian slave could sniff the faint scent of old parchments and dust that persisted in the entire library, yet Kemet had grown fond of the smell of books. The old coot that trained him in the art called it, “the scent of wisdom.”

The middle-age patrician had a bone colored toga and the golden ring of his family rested proudly in his middle finger, his wrists were protected by wide crimson armlets proper of his station as head of the noble house. The brown-ash haired youth felt the weight of the wide leather collar around his neck that branded him as slave, a plain short sleeveless robe dressed his body and worn carru leather sandals covered his feet. “You called... master,” said Kemet still not used to referring to another man as master. “Yes, I have a need of your knowledge,” paused the patrician as he stood, “you know I bought you because you can read and write,” the last he said with surprise, “not many slaves alive can do both, but you Kemet, you can read and write and you are a smart Tyrian, I can see that, it's in your eyes,” finished the patrician while offering a heavy book to the young slave. “I just acquired this piece of history, our history,” said Zomithias arrogantly. “The Giant Siege of Balic, I have not read this tale since I was but a boy, sadly this one was written by a Tyrian, and since you are familiar with our language and the common tongue. You are the one to translate it for me.”

Slowly Kemet took the book, it had a thick leather frame neatly filled with pages of yellow parchments, “I shall do this for you master,” he finished while gazing around the library for a place to sit in one of the many desks of polished wood. “Yes, of course you can use the library to work on your task, there is royal kank blood ink and some agafari quills I think, as well as more than enough blank parchments, you know my family produces them for King Andropinis,” finished the noble petulantly as he pat the Tyrian in (on) the shoulder.

Little did Zomithias know that I would find hidden spells in his library, Kemet smiled under his grizzle beard for that was how he reclaimed his freedom a few years ago.

Once again the wizard read the tale of Barosus the savior of Balic, and how he defeated a score of giants that threatened the great city near the Sea of Silt. Kemet was immersed in the book for Barosus's victory over the beast-headed giants was not won with the strength of his arm. As the story progressed, the bearded Tyrian found the knowledge he needed to defeat Urvas in his own game, and rid Chatka of his evil presence once and for all.

Suddenly a soft hand caressed his thigh, Kemet smiled and set the book aside. Eyla was staring at him with loving eyes. “You can read Balican too?” asked the legionnaire getting closer to him. “I know some words,” replied Kemet briefly, he could feel the warm of her body. The strong woman got on top of him, “I see that the ointment worked just fine for you,” added the wizard with a roguish smile. “I bet you know the right words to get what you want...” finished the legionnaire while blowing off the candle.

[wandererwriter]

Slashing Deals

Fyala's life as a common thief was coming to an end, she could feel how her blood poured faster from the many stab wounds that her belly received. Now the hot sand and the searing wind of Farrek's Arena would be her graveyard, her vision dimmed and a strange cold began to spread from inside her injured body. The half-elf thief thought hearing the steps of someone approaching. Must be the wraiths coming for me, like my father once told me, thought the pointy eared woman.

“You are in deadly predicament woman,” said a strong voice.

The lanky half-elf's eyes were glazed for she was dying, her hands fell to the sides as they ineffectively tried to stop the blood flowing from the wounds in her abdomen. Fyala could barely focus on the face floating above her, but she tried. It was a human, a handsome man with an angular but firm jaw and short blond-silver hair.

“You are dying and my friend behind me says that you do not have much time,” the voice of the handsome man paused. The eyes of the half-elf began to roll up to her skull, “hey... hey...,” said the voice that seemed farther, while his hands shook her face trying to keep her awake. “I can heal you and save your life, but you'll have to pay with your service for it,” without thinking the woman nodded, all she cared was the living part. “Good I like your cooperation,” said the voice, although the face was closer the words were more like a whisper.

A tearing howl of pain escaped from the half-elf's bloodied lips as she felt something being inserted inside one of her still bleeding wounds. “There... that's just an insurance in case you are thinking of forfeiting your word,” added the voice, it was closer, the pain had brought her back.

“Heal her now!” ordered the handsome man urgently, the woman could perceive a familiar accent in it.

Hot sand burned the stab wounds in her abdomen, followed by the touch of fingers that began to draw symbols in the dust that covered her. “Don't you die Fyala,” said the voice, but her eyes rolled back and all turned black.

The woman rose with a silent gasp of fear, her heart was pounding, her gaze was still blurry and she felt disoriented, but she was alive. “A... room... where... where am I?” whispered the lanky half-elf. “You are safe for the moment Fyala,” said the same voice. The surprised woman focused her eyes to the man who accompanied her, he was a bit taller than the average human height, and he was in fit condition for someone of his age. The half-elf could see that his short blond hair had some grey that seemed to shine like silver.

At first sight the room appeared to be simple, it had few furniture’s, the walls were covered with several tapestries one had two black crossed scimitars in a golden field, others had faces of wild animals and predators. Near the only window rested a large chair made with polished bones and crooked wood tied with leather strips, the furniture had several well-made designs carved into the material, and its cushions were made with fine silk. The man moved towards a small wooden table, he wore a customary yellow tunic of a merchant edged with black stripes on its sleeves and shoulders. A steel shortsword rested in a scabbard, it was attached to his leather belt. The man approached the bed where Fyala rested, she soon realized she was naked. Her handsome savior moved somewhat petulantly, yet his movements were sharp, there was nothing soft about the human, the pointy eared woman noticed, her cheeks reddening.

“Don't worry about your clothing, they are right over there waiting for you,” his hand motioned to the window were her blood stained breechcloth and halter baked under the falling sun. “What is it that you need of me?” demanded Fyala with some anger. A quiet but evil smile appeared on the human's firm jaw. “I like a straight arrow, it’s easier to do business with them,” replied the man. “There's this caravan of slavers that I want ruined, your job is to infiltrate it and learn everything you can, like who's who, how many guards, how many slaves do they have, what weapons, do they have a mindbender... you can figure out the rest by yourself.”

Fyala recognized the man for what he was, an agent of Stel, the Urikite trading house, “and if I get caught? Will you rescue me?” she inquired coyly, although she did not know why she was trying to flirt with the human. The Urikite sat on the bed close to her, “if you are captured I won't save... not right away,” he paused for a moment, “remember that pain you felt before being healed?” Fyala nodded with a somber expression.

“It's a small obsidian disk, no bigger than my thumb, but it's charged with enough psionic energy to allow you to send one message to my mindbender. When you do this, he will know where you are and what the message is, that may be your only real chance, use it wisely,” finished the man standing from the bed. “There's food and drink in the table, don't take too much time, you leave for the caravan before the complete rise of Ral and Guthay. When you are done knock the door four times and one of my men will lead you,” the Urikite stopped near the wooden exit and said, “you will be bound and taken as if you were a prisoner, the less people know about you being here the better.” The half elf was about to protest angrily.

“Most walls tend to have a history of betrayal,” finished the Urikite while reaching towards the door handle, Fyala stammered, “wait... how...,” she wanted to know how did the man knew her name, “how... do I remove the disk from my body?”  

“You can always cut yourself open again, just be sure to open the right wound,” he smiled maliciously as he left the room.

The Urikite walked through a narrow dark corridor of splintered grey-wood planks until he reached the exit of the merchant's small house. Outside the dark sun was cut in half as it disappeared in the horizon and fiery orange-yellow tendrils tried to claw the sky in vain. The agent of Stel saw some of his guards trying to light a fire. “Burn this,” commanded the agent as he tossed a worn cloth hood.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr IX

“Where were you Malander?” demanded Grelen bitterly, the chubby merchant wore a clean blue cotton robe with a leather belt around his wide belly, and sported inix hide sandals. When the scarred captain did not reply, the fat human shifted anxiously in the large wooden chair filled with silk cushions were he rested. The luxurious furniture creaked beneath the chubby merchant's shifting weight. Malander eyed the spacious cabin of the caravan master, it was built with worn black wood boards, large dusty shells covered the weak spots, it also had some shelves on its walls filled with trinkets, and odd trophies. Behind the chubby man were thick curtains that lead to his private chamber. The upper deck cabin of the caravan had round windows on each wall to allow even the faintest breeze in. “I sent for you long before the sun hid away and now is well past the first night shift,” added with serious tone. “I was finishing the deals with Yorjan, he bought two slave wenches,” explained Malander with contained anger.

“You must know that we have a bothersome slave, an ugly human woman with a big jaw, I tortured her mind. She won't cause any trouble for a couple of days, unless her mind is stronger, but I doubt it,” added a soft malicious voice. Malander did not turned to see the elven mindbender, for he feared gazing into her olive-sky eyes. “Barla, she's bound to the Obsidian mines of Urik,” snorted Grelen, her voluptuous concubine poured wine into his bronze cup. Malander always thought it was strange that the caravan master knew all the name of his slaves, to him they were just cargo, and cargo does not have a name. “What is it that you require of me?” snapped Malander eager to leave the caravan master's spacious cabin.  

Grelen tasted the vintage, his cheeks growing full with the crimson liquid as he really inspected the wine with his tongue, until he gulped it. “This was supposed to be a sweet wine, but it has gone sour since its price went up,” stammered the chubby merchant while fixing his gaze on Malander. “Staros was not meant to kill the b'rohg... just wound him into defeat, yet he stabbed the damned thin in the throat. I had to pay Ludrak Stel in silver to save the wretched creature's life!” roared the trader.

The scarred captain nodded with contempt and before he could reply, a soft voice inside his head said, “you are being careless... that was not part of our deal daato.” Malander composed himself for such mind intrusion messages always hurt him. “I ordered you to tell the Balican not kill the beast!” added Grelen the tone of his voice raising. “What prompted him to do it!?” screamed the chubby merchant his question seemed more like an accusation as his round eyes narrowed angrily at the captain.

“My sweet Grelen it has been a long and hot day, you must not waste your energy on your busy captain,” said his concubine, her tongue licked the meaty earlobe of his ear, “you should waste it on me,” she added while her hand went inside his robe, below his waist. The fat merchant smiled lusciously, “Better take care of Barla without... without her dying,” gasped Grelen, his face reddening with arousal.

Malander eyed the shady elven mindbender, her face was hidden beneath the hood of her robe. No doubt she had controlled the mind of the concubine to distract the fat one, he considered. “I am already working on it,” inserted the scarred captain who left the chamber when the caravan master waved a dismissal hand.

A cold night wind followed the guard captain as he walked through a narrow-roofless corridor, a few torches lit his way through the reinforced wooden walls of the caravan's upper deck. Malander stopped when he realized who was behind him. “Should I thank you for that Kiireri,” muttered the captain looking at the jagged eyes that were set close in the triangular face of the tall elf, one nostril of her slender but long nose, had a small steel ring for an earring. The elf mindbender had a long silky pale hair that covered her pointy ears and reached her back. Kiireri always wore a sand-brown hooded robe that seemed rather clean and hid her slender frame except for the cuts that allowed her toned legs freedom of movement.

Kiireri sneered, “There is no need,” she paused. “I enjoy working with you daato, you seem true to your goals,” the elf pointed out while her talon like nails caressed the human's pulsing neck, she liked how the tough warrior feared her. “The door to my cabin is always open to you Malander,” added the mindbender wickedly.

The brawny captain retreated from her touch, “Why? You could control me and make me do it anyway,” snapped the man with contempt. Kiireri smiled, “I could yes... but it would not be the same,” she pondered for a moment, “that fat fool does not knows my true power, but soon he will. Be sure to know where your allegiances lay captain,” finished the tall elven woman as she walked ahead of the human with long strides.  Malander watched her go; a grim expression appeared on his scarred face.

---

“Two days... two nights...,” counted Kemet dryly under his breath. “Why don't you keep your comments to yourself?” spat the broad shouldered woman called Barla. “Says the reckless one who just regained her senses a while ago,” refuted the Tyrian looking at the bulky slave woman, although she was obviously physically stronger than him, Kemet knew she was not fully recovered, for Barla's gaze fell to the muddy ground after his comeback.

“Watch it Tyrian,” whispered the wounded half-elf from behind him, “she might try to beat you and I'd bet my money on her,” she finished. The brown-ash haired youth pondered on her words, “thanks for the vote of confidence. So... what should I call you?” inquired Kemet without meeting her pale green eyes.

The slender half-elf remained silent, her almond shaped eyes stared at the wooden bars that prevented her escape. She could feel the cold seeping into the pit like a blanket of death.

Kemet rubbed his hands as the cold breeze filled the gutter, some slaves huddled together to warm themselves. The human and the half-elf eyed each other, but both of them remained on their respective places. The female thief knew that the young Tyrian was not among friends either. He must be a recent acquisition as well, she thought as her legs and shoulders trembled. A fat sweaty human with hairy armpits sneered at her, “Come here wench I'll keep you warm.” The lanky half-elf ignored the man and moved as far from the rest of slaves as the pit allowed her.

The young man felt the cold as if his bones were made with it, he saw Barla's dagger-like stare piercing him. Kemet shrugged when the woman huddled among other slaves to keep herself warm. Some luck, surviving that beating only to die hungry and cold, the thought crossed the youth's mind as pale white breath left his mouth.

Kemet rested his back on a corner of the muddy wall and buried his head inside crossed arms, his legs bent so close to his chest that he seemed like a flesh obelisk. Yet he trembled from the cold, he remained still until he felt someone approaching and raised his head. The half-elf had come closer to him, she was rubbing her arms madly to avoid the cold. “You...” pale breath followed after his words, “you should rub your chest, your arms can take care of themselves,” explained the young man while staring at the halter that covered her petite breasts.

The half-elf narrowed her almond shaped eyes, “funny...” Kemet smiled, “you can't blame me for trying,” he spat at her. “Move over,” demanded the trembling woman, the Tyrian moved and she sat down close to him, copying his posture.

“Now will you tell me your name,” Kemet asked bluntly.

Pale white breath left the mouth of the lanky half-elf as she began to talk.

***

Eyla rested next to Kemet in the wide bed of his chambers, the soft mattress felt good beneath her sore body. There was a faint cold breeze coming from the small wooden window on the corner of the room's wall. “How did you know Jix could get one of these?” demanded the legionnaire, touching the furniture. Kemet narrowed his eyes a bit, remembering how he first knew of feather filled mattresses, “several years ago, when I was the slave of a patrician in Balic, the noble had many,” he paused, “once I was fortunate enough to sleep in one.” The wounded gladiator frowned, “sleep in one or with someone...”

The wizard smiled under his beard for Eyla did not hid her jealously, “I ordered Kuurku to gather a search party, they will leave on the morrow,” explained Kemet as he undid the brooches of the legionnaire's hard leather armor. “Really! You are in the mood now?” said Eyla with a coy laugh, while avoiding the subject. The wizard smirked under his thick beard, “the potion healed your immediate wounds, but this one might need some attention,” added the bearded man as his fingers began to remove the damaged armor with care.

“Some attention... you could at least try a bit harder,” chortled the strong legionnaire when her armor was gone and Kemet's fingers softly caressed her belly, a sweaty cloth halter covered her breasts. The wizard's blue eyes went from the halter to the nasty jagged cuts on her toned abdomen. “They are still open, but I still got some ointment for that kind of wound,” he paused for a moment, “it will make you sleep, but you could use it.” The legionnaire nodded in approval as a burning pain spread through her injury.

With Eyla in a deep sleep, Kemet began to study some of his spells under the light of several candles that filled the small wooden desk in a corner of his room. He heard heavy footsteps splintering the wood of the floor, followed by a soft knock in his door. Kemet opened the door knowing who was behind it. “Master can we speak?” said Bradek's broad voice, everything about the man was broad. Kemet sighed, for more than three-years he had talked to the legionnaire about not calling him master, then again he figured out it was more a habit for the brawny warrior. The wizard nodded, “meet me in my office”, he blew off all the candles except for the one he carried in a shell to avoid the hot wax.

Kemet watched Eyla sleeping soundly and after covering her body with a cloth sheet he went down to meet with the legionnaire.

Bradek was a strange man, the wizard had realized that the broad warrior pretended to be slow and dumb, but soon he discovered his charade. “Keep playing your 'dumb as a kank' game, except with me and it will be our secret,” he had said to him several years ago and he turned out to be a good ally.

“What's going on outside?” inquired the bearded man while lighting several candles. “There's talk among the town-folk, they say that an army of giths approaches Chatka,” explained the broad human. Kemet set his cane aside and carefully rested on his wooden chair; his strip covered hand fondled the hairs of his thick beard, “there was a scout party, but it never made it to our village. That does not mean they can't find it, we must be on alert,” explained the wizard. However the stone-broad face of the man did not change, he had something else to say.

Bradek moved closer to the desk as if to whisper something and motioned the bearded man to do the same, “there's talk among the legionnaires, some say Urvas is the one luring the gith.” Kemet studied the man, he was not lying, but he was not entirely sure if the rumors were true. “Why would Urvas risk it all with the gith?” inquired the wizard. The broad legionnaire shifted in his wooden chair uncomfortably, his rock colored-eyes looked around restlessly, furniture creaking.

“To kill you master,” finished the legionnaire with concern. 

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr VIII

Staros brown eyes widened when he saw four arms protruding from the dark corridor at the other end of the arena. “A b'rohg... This will be most interesting,” muttered the Balican with some concern, his dust covered hand gripped the hilt of the serrated obsidian shortsword.

Before the tall human was a lumbering slim human-like monster with giant blood, pointy ears and a flat nose. The creature had burnt orange skin and four strong arms, one of them wore a bone forearm axe; its extra appendages sprouted just below the armpits. The primitive creature roared wildly, its sharp, angled features made him appear more ferocious and its dirty mop of hair reached the waist. The b'rohg only wore a long-scaly loincloth.

A hot breeze fell upon the arena as the bronze skinned human fearlessly sprinted towards the hulking gladiator, who also ran to meet him, sand exploded beneath each of its heavy steps. The crowd roared excitedly as both gladiators were about to crash into each other. Staros saw the giant's shoulders shift and soon guessed its next movement, the Balican made a horizontal somersault avoiding the slashing forearm axe that the b'rohg swung close to his flying back. Staros crouched and without losing momentum he sprang towards the fifteen feet tall creature. With a quick slash the Balican cut the giant's tendons behind its right knee, the wound released a gush of blood that bathed the white sand of the arena. The crowd cheered while a painful scream escaped from the b'rohg's wide mouth.

The orange skinned giant made a double-fist swing with his two lower, weaker arms, Staros hurriedly parried the first one and crouched to avoid the second attack. The Balican felt a feeble wind from the sheer strength of the creature. Taking advantage of the opening the tall human grazed the hip of the b'rohg with his sword, a thin red line appeared and some scales fell from its loincloth.

With confidence the bronze skinned gladiator moved to strike the b'rohg, but the beast reacted faster than he expected, one arm pulled a fist towards him, but Staros danced away from it. The hulking beast had already prepared its move, as if he was trained to do. A second arm painfully struck the Balican on his shins and he went down, quickly Staros rolled to one side and rose, only to see a fury of three-four-fists heading his way.

“Your Balican knows how to fight,” said a thin but fit Urikite merchant with short blond-silver hair.

“He knows how to entertain the crowd,” added another while sipping wine from a wooden goblet.

“Aye he does, Staros of Balic, some say he's better than Brams. I don't care as long as both of them keep filling my purse,” snorted the chubby merchant while pulling the voluptuous woman into his lap.

“He's down!” stammered a third merchant wearing a cheap garb.

The fat trader left his cushion filled seat faster than his weight would allow it, the wench nearly fell to the boarded ground, while his owner peered through the balcony of the stand with a worried stare. “Not so cocky now are you Grelen,” added the Urikite with a mocking tone, a winning smile appeared on his angular but firm jaw.  

Grelen saw Staros laying in the ground partially covered by the sand, the b'rohg raised two of his four arms to finish the human with a single crushing blow. A silence fell upon the poorly built coliseum, the crowd watched anxiously as the match seemed to come to an end, suddenly the Balican opened his eyes and with a quick movement of his arms and feet he lunged himself into the air with a backwards flip. Two fists exploded right below his head, white sand sprayed up the searing wind, some of it fell on the giant's eyes. The b'rohg roared and swung his arms madly, reaching blindly around him.

The Balican was still dizzy from the powerful punch that the b'rohg landed on his torso just a few moments ago. Staros had trouble breathing. A broken rib or two, he pondered while eyeing the faces of the excited crowd, quickly he raised his obsidian short sword. The blood thirsty expectators cheered at him wildly. Staros watched crimson streaks running from the cuts he had made on the giant's belly and soon ran towards his opponent, slamming his armored shoulder to the inside of its unhurt knee. The b'rohg lost its balance and crashed to the ground. The Balican leapt atop his broad back and with a deft movement he plunged the sword into his neck, blood sprouted like a crimson geyser, the b'rohg gurgled and fell to the ground heavily, his four arms tried to stop blood and pain.

Breathing with difficulty the gladiator stabbed his sword into the bloodied white sand and raised his arms in triumph, the crowd erupted in cheers, they loved him and he loved it.

“Don't worry Grelen, the b'rohg will live, we have a sand cleric working for us, he'll see that it does not die, but you'll have to pay for it, unless you want to hunt me a new one,” added the Urikite patting the chubby merchants shoulder as he left his side. Grelen meaty cheeks were red with anger. “Get me Malander now!” ordered the fat merchant to one of his guards.

Malander returned from his late night rendezvous with one of Yorjan's wenches, the captain of the guards had a serious expression on his scarred face. His gaze studied the camp around the two story caravan, the tents of his men were already set and a few fires lighted the cold night here and there. Two guards approached him pushing a female captive he did not know. Soon a lewd sneer appeared on his face and his mood improved.

“We caught this one trying to sneak into the caravan,” said one guard to Malander, while the other restrained a lanky female half-elf with cropped hair and skin the color of sand. The prisoner's face had angular features with almond shaped pale green eyes and thin lips. Her hands were bound tightly behind her back, a rag was knotted in her mouth to prevent her from talking or screaming, but despite all of this, the half-elf maintained a defiant stance. Malander eyed the sweat stained halter that covered the woman's petite breasts and the dried blood on her naked belly, there were several fresh stab wounds, suddenly his eyes narrowed and quickly grabbed a partially healed wound. When he tightened his grip, the half-elf gasped through the rag in pain and her legs quivered. After taking away the fight from the prisoner he loosed his grip and added, “take her to my cabin,” a wicked sneer appeared on his scarred face.

The guards nodded and carried the weakened half-elf from her bound arms, dragging her feet through the sand since her legs no longer supported her weight.

---

Kemet awaited near the caravan, in hole called the slave pit, an entire day had passed. Did Staros and Brams died in the arena? Wondered the troubled young man. The Tyrian could feel the heat increasing, with a dry throat and cracked lips he waited in frustration. Without warning a movement above captured the attention of the captives, the thick wooden bars were opened and someone was tossed inside the pit. The score of slaves moved away to avoid being hit by the new prisoner as it tumbled down into the bottom of the gutter. One of the slaves, a rough looking woman with thick black hair, a large jaw and broad shoulders demanded, “We be hungry!”

A tall robed figure stood near the entrance, its shady face watched in the direction of the prisoners. The brown-ash haired youth thought seeing a smile on the hooded figure, then the defiant slave gasped and staggered, her hands grabbed her head and began to jerk it rapidly with pain. Shortly after the heavy woman fell to the muddy ground, saliva poured from her mouth, Kemet could see that her stare was lost in another place, a place he did not want to know. Thin trails of blood ran freely from the woman's flaring nostrils, only then he realized she was still breathing.

“The Way...” said a whispering voice behind him, the Tyrian turned to see the new captive, a lanky female half-elf of his same height with cropped dark hair. “I know you,” muttered the youth under his breath. The pointy eared woman shifted nervously against the earth wall of the pit. Kemet saw her reaction, “easy now, what I meant to say is that I saw you being stabbed by two hooded men,” he explained while pointing at her partially healed flat belly. “How did you survived that?” asked the youth curiously. The half-elf ignored him and rested her back and head against the wall, the pain of her wounds kept her weak, but her mind was beaten by something else. She remembered her late night torture vividly and the persisting soreness between her legs.

When Malander had finished he stood from the bed and buckled his trousers. The female half-elf lay naked breathing heavily. “So you want to leave Farrek's, why should I help you?” pondered the scarred man with short black hair. The woman did not reply for her mouth was filled with blood and her face had some fresh bruises as well. “You can't travel with me... but you can travel with the slaves,” he paused for a moment and added, “if you learn anything from them that I can use, like if they are planning a riot, you'll get your wish and maybe something else,” he winked at her. The movement created some ugly wrinkles and lines in his already scarred face making him look even more disgusting. The half elf managed a feeble nod, Malander watched her sweaty frame and sneered maliciously as he began unbuckling his trousers.

“I am Kemet of...,”

“Of Tyr,” interrupted the half-elf rudely remembering where she was. “Your accent gives you away,” she paused for a moment, “you are far from the Free City and Farrek's Arena is not a good place to start.” Kemet watched the woman's frame, her legs trembled. “You are not well are you?” he inquired. The half-elf's head began to spin, the image of the youth in front of her became blurry, suddenly someone grabbed her, she tried to struggle but her arms also felt weak. “... Breath... breath...,” she heard a familiar faraway voice and gentle arms deposited her in the muddy ground, afterwards everything went dark.

“You are back!” said the Tyrian with some relief when the half-elf squinted her eyes. “Wha... What happened?” inquired the lanky woman supporting her body on the dirt wall. The young man watched her, “you passed out, sun fever maybe... I don't know,” he paused for a moment and glanced at her belly, “it could be your wounds.” The half-elf looked around, the rough looking woman still lay in the muddy ground, her unblinking eyes gazed nowhere in particular, yet she still breathed the foul smells in the pit.

“Why aren't we in the caravan?” demanded the woman, Kemet eyed her raising an eyebrow. “How should I know, we are slaves and slaves don't have a say into things...” chortled the human youth bluntly.

***

The Tyrian couple walked through the cold night in the desert leaning on each other. Eyla was still drowsy from the attack, and Kemet could not support himself on his battered leg. The lovers traversed the small dunes with the help of the twin moons that scarcely illuminated their path, their trail was soon erased by the cold winds that ran from dune to dune creating thin waves of sand.

“We can't let them see us arrive at the village together,” explained Kemet as they watched the torches in Chatka, pale white breath followed after his words. At first the female gladiator did not understood him, then she remembered the tunnel and it all made sense. As they moved closer to the village, the wizard felt that his leg could explode at any moment from the amount of pain he experienced. “What's your plan?” inquired Eyla as he limped behind her, the warrior woman could feel the cold freezing her bones. The Tyrian wizard quickly replied, “your friend, the red haired legionnaire is guarding the northwest entrance, you should walk through there,” he paused for a moment, “you need to fake your wounds, she will not ask many questions and blow the alarm horn, by that time I'll come to pick you.”

Eyla studied him for a bit and said, “When did you planned all of that?” Kemet smiled lightly, “when we first saw the torches; I know you trust your friend's loyalty if not to me then it's to you,” with that the wizard left her to sneak back into the tunnel and head for his room.

The bearded man slowly walked through the far dunes behind the main building of the village until he saw a large half-buried rock, Kemet crouched and tapped the cracked stone with his cane until he found that hollow space, hunching himself as he moved through a low carved corridor of crude dark stone. The tunnel appeared to have been excavated in a hurry for its stonework seemed like the afterthought to the construction of the original building. Black sand scoffed beneath his curated hide boots until he stepped onto a solid stone. The wizard cast a small cantrip and with a fickle of his fingers he produced a small light, soon he found the ladder rope close to the wall. Kemet had always been weary of the tunnel, once he traveled it with a lighted torch but a cold wind blew right past him and turned it off, he was certain that the odd breeze carried a wail. After that he had not tried to do it again.

Kemet had just finished covering the tunnel entrance with the furniture, the pain in his leg had made the task of climbing the ladder rope a hard one. “I need to find a druid,” muttered the wizard while catching his breath. As he began to sit on his bed, the alarm horn sounded. Kemet sighed and moved towards his door, Bradek was almost going to knock it when he opened it, the broad man with cropped black hair gaped at him as if caught unaware. “Well don't just stand there move and go see what was that about!” snapped Kemet. The legionnaire nodded and trotted immediately while the bearded wizard followed his lead limping, but lost him when he went down stairs. Kemet passed through the candle-lit corridor of the building until he reached the door, after crossing the stony frame he saw Urvas glaring at him.

The lightly build rebellious legionnaire rested against the peeled wall next to the door, with crossed arms. Urvas had a clean shaved jaw, his eyes always seemed like narrow slits and a shell adorned helmet covered his head most of the time. The legionnaire's face had some lines and he carried himself like a commanding officer. A breastplate made with interlocked mekillot shells protected his torso and an emblem-brooch hold his raggedy crimson cape. The only remarkable object the sinister man wore were the iron arm bands that gripped his upper arms. Despite being a legionnaire like the rest, Urvas still carried his overseer barbed whip coiled in his right hip and a bone dagger in the other side.

“You want something Urvas? Or you are just standing there while others help around like you usually do...” remarked Kemet with contempt as the former commander moved towards him while keeping a sword length distance from each other. “It's a cold night and Eyla did not inform me or anybody about leaving the village, maybe she doesn't answers to you anymore,” replied Urvas with disdain. The wizard sneered, he had always wanted to scorch him away. “You'd like that don't you... why don't you make yourself useful and check the perimeter,” ordered the bearded man.

“One day you'll take orders from me...” mustered Urvas angrily, while his boots carried him away from the wizard.

“The day I take orders from you, is the day that Chatka will burn,” spat Kemet bluntly. 

[wandererwriter]

The Merchant Runner

The golden dunes of the Tablelands resembled a dry sea of waves when the strong winds blew sand from one dune to another, some of it disappeared into the morning olive-tinged sky. The clawed paws of an inix, a large, 16-foot long reptile, plowed the already searing sand as it moved leaving a fading trail with its long lizard tail. The inix wore a harness bit in its broad mouth, according to Jix it could swallow a small creature with a single gulp.

“This heat is gonna be the death of me,” complained Jix with a laugh while reaching for his waterskin, “What do you think Rodak?” The tough mul that walked ahead of the inix didn't turn to meet the half-elf. “You are by far the worst travelling companion I ever had, I have known humans that whine a lot less than you,” snapped the mul brusquely. Jix sneered and slurped a small quantity from his waterskin. The athletic half-elf had his black hair with a top knot, the sides of his shaved head had already began to grow a little, his pointy left ear sported a polished obsidian earring that resembled a spearhead. A hard leather sand colored vest protected his torso, and a large red rag was tied around his neck. The half-elf's triangular jaw and chin was covered with a three-day scruff that was getting thicker.

His companion kept walking a few steps from the large lizard, the grey colored eyes of the heavily muscled mul remained on the dune filled horizon. “We are still far from our destination,” he muttered under his breath. Jix nodded he knew that they were at least one day late. The hand of the former Tyrian gladiator rested on the hilt of his thanak which was attached to the thick leather belt around his waist. The torso of the mul was protected by a thick mekillot shell, one in his chest and another on his back. Brown knee high breeches with heavy leather stripes sewed on its sides covered his strong legs. Rodak's feet were protected from the burning sand by inix leather sandals tied with thin strips.

On top of the lizard, Jix rested inside a large howdah, the enclosed compartment had a thick leather top and some hemp curtains on its three sides, enough to protect him from the harsh elements. The half-elf merchant set the reptile into a steady pace and began to observe its cargo, food, spices, grains, seeds, chunks of wood, ale and some liquor for Ileka, obsidian swords and bone hand axes also filled the compartments of his howdah, among other items that hanged on the sides of the beast. The half elf retrieved an expensive light-weight crossbow and the five iron-tipped bolts, he had to bargain hard for such ammo, “I wonder how many of these bolts would I need to craft me an iron dagger,” he muttered to himself while his fingers caressed the metal pointed projectile.

“Look ahead!” alerted Rodak's thundering voice, immediately the half elf watched a small robed figure approaching them. Jix loaded the crossbow and aimed it against the traveler, despite the fact that it came closer with his hands up in a harmless manner. The merchant could see that the six feet tall human was lightly tanned and wore a sand colored robe, his messy slick back dark brown hair was sunburned, the wanderer's face had edged aristocratic features accompanied by ruthless light-brown eyes, his forehead was covered with a wide-blue and sweat stained bandana, a thin beard of several days covered his jaw.

“Dune trader, I am in need of some water and supplies, I can pay you well for it,” said the robed human with a strong Urikite accent, although his words weighted with some command.

Rodak eyed the man without hiding his suspicion, the mul took a step closer to the wanderer while tightening the grip on his thanak. The Urikite saw the man-dwarf's threat clearly.

“If I were to attack you or ambush you we wouldn't be talking,” he said with a calm tone as his gaze went from the grim faced mul to the mounted half-elf that had crossbow aimed at him. “Now about that food and water? What does one silver buys me from your supplies?” Jix sneered when he saw the human raising a single silver coin.

“Slow down Perusia,” said Jix with a light tone while pulling the driving lines and the beast came to a resting stop. “Do try to not make any sudden moves, my friend here has a short temper and quick arms,” added the half-elf with a sarcastic tone as he began to climb down the reptile with a slim bag on his back. The human tossed the coin to the mul, who immediately caught it with his gladiator reflexes, “fast arms indeed,” muttered the Urikite.

The merchant approached slowly and left the bag close to the Urikite's feet, “One silver buys you three fully filled waterskins and food for four days, and that’s a bargain.” The human nodded and picked the bag with a quick movement, his arm moved fast, the mul could see that this was no ordinary wanderer. Jix eyed the man intrigued, “looking for some place in particular?” The Urikite stopped inspecting the bag, his light-brown eyes shifted from the half-elf to the mul, “now why would I say anything about that?... our transaction is done you can be on your way and I can resume mine,” his voice was definitely commanding, like templar commanding.

Rodak gritted his teeth in anger, for he knew that the man before them was or used to be a templar of Urik, yet he had not attacked them. When his hand began to draw the thanak on his belt, the Urikite stepped back, “that it’s not wise man-dwarf.” Jix saw his companion intentions, “Stop it Rodak! The merchant's code prohibits you!” urged the half-elf raising both hands one to detain his companion action and the other towards the human to avoid any bloodshed.

“I am no merchant!” roared Rodak taking a step forward, but Jix blocked his path.

“You should listen to the dune trader, he has the best interests for you man-dwarf,” replied the Urikite, revealing a steel longsword beneath his robe. Jix eyes flashed towards the metal blade, but then he saw it, the medallion of the lion that hanged on the wanderer's neck, his gaze went to the human's face, his ruthless eyes were fixed on the mul. The half-elf's quick wits helped him, his hand tried in vain to stop the fierce steps of Rodak. “There's a large village not far from here, it has walls and a lot of trade, even an inn, I can give you directions, free of charge.”

The light brown eyes of the Urikite templar met the merchant's stare, “sounds like a trap to me, a dune trader giving something for free is not something I hear often.”

“I swear it on the merchant's code, the village is called North Ledopolus, you can reach it in three or four days if you walk in a straight line to the southwest,” replied Jix with some desperation.

“If you get your man-dwarf on top of the howdah and move on, I will believe your words dune trader,” commanded the Urikite templar. Jix eyed the human with contempt, his hand already gripped the steel longsword’s hilt.

The half-elf exhaled, “you heard this templar filth... get on Perusia so we fulfill the code,” said the merchant with some command in his voice. “You can't be serious!” snapped Rodak surprised, “you out of all the people taking orders from a templar, this will not end well,” finished the mul angrily as he slapped the half-elf's hand. “Do it or he'll use that medallion and the Lion of Urik will see our faces and then that's it for us,” explained Jix.

“You are a smart man dune trader,” muttered the Urikite templar, “here this is for the trouble,” he added while producing another silver from his leather pouch. For a moment Jix thought of not accepting the coin, but the human had approached him and extended the silver to his hand. “You are an odd templar... wanderer,” finished the half-elf as he took the coin and the man walked past him.  

Jix slapped the back of Perusia's thick scaly leg and the large reptile began to move, he could feel the angry stare of Rodak, the mul rested in the howdah. The dune trader observed the figure of the templar moving away from them. Soon the waves of heat made his frame seem like a mirage and the half-elf had to wonder if the meeting really happened, but the silver coins were real... -

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr VII

Kemet was nearly blinded when they were flushed out of the wagon, the scorching sun burned fiercely with orange tendrils that spread through the cloudless sky. The guards tied their leather manacles with thick ropes made of giant hair, and forced them to walk. The youth winced in pain as his bare feet pressed the hot yellow-orange sand, “Don't mind the pain,” said Staros voice from a couple of slaves behind. Kemet concentrated on his anger, on the thugs that had beaten him to slavery, but above all he cursed at Duurlyn for abandoning him.

The dark sun was at its burning point, despite the searing heat, several people wearing hoods, straw hats, loincloths, skirts, sandals and loose hemp shirts watched the parade of slaves, some pointed at the tall elves and the giths, others stared with luscious eyes at the more attractive half naked women. The Tyrian saw familiar expressions in the faces of the crowd, they reminded him of Talu's thugs. Suddenly someone yanked him from the front and he moved forward, sand still baked his blistered feet.

“Move along!” ordered several armed caravan guards as the slaves trotted the burning sand in a single row, one overseer's whip cracked the back of an elderly half-elf, who fell to the ground with a yelp. Brams reacted quickly, his bound calloused hands hoisted the elder only because it was in front of him and he didn't want to taste the overseer's three-headed-whip. “Move old-bones! Or my hand will crush that skull of yours,” urged the bulky dwarf as he slapped the scarred back of the grey-haired half-elf. The overseer sneered maliciously and whipped the dwarf's back once, Brams growled beneath his breath. “That’s for doing my job, slave!”

The village was like an official bandit outpost, surrounded by mekillot ribs tightened with studded leather sheets and thick hairy ropes. The walled settlement was filled with several sunburned brown huts that were reinforced with crooked wooden frames, packed mud walls with small windows. As the slave row moved at a slow pace, Kemet's gaze went into a narrow alley were two hooded men attacked a lanky female half-elf with cropped hair. The humans stabbed her in the belly several times with small obsidian shivs. The woman went down into the sand grabbing her stomach with both hands, blood rivulets ran through her mouth and fingers. One of the men kneeled and began to grope and search every part of the dying half-elf, the second man watched his surroundings, he met the Tyrian's eyes and pulled a hidden long bone knife from his leather vest. When his partner raised a small hemp pouch, the other man plunged the weapon between his shoulder-blades.

“That's Farrek's Arena,” whispered Staros as he watched the criminal ran away from the two bodies. The slave youth stopped when he saw the woman trying to crawl. “Move!” screamed the overseer, his whip struck Kemet's back three times, the last one cut his bare skin. The youth howled with the pain of all his injuries, but managed to support himself, blood trickled through his back.

The row of slaves reached what resembled the village market, with several large and wide tents made with curated leather and thick ribs from an unknown beast. Kemet watched in awe the green grove in the center of the market, there was a small pool of water guarded by a hulking half-giant wearing a shell armor that covered most of his torso. The muscled brute carried an obsidian battle axe larger than Staros and he was a tall human. Before the ill-reputed villagers could fill their ceramic jugs and wooden buckets they had to wait in line to pay some bits to a brown robed, whip-thin man with a wispy brown-grey beard, a balding pate and a thieving smile.

The guards led the slaves up a wooden platform were they stood feeling the burning sun cooking their heads and shoulders. One brawny guard, which seemed to have more authority, tilted his head towards the thin man, who in response said something to the brute and walked to the platform. Kemet watched the half-giant shove away the people closest to the pool of water, some villagers fell like twigs before the massive half-giant, others protested with angered screams and insults, but all of them went silent when the hulking guard raised his battle axe menacingly.

“I'll pay the usual fee for Brams”, said the raspy voice of the whip-thin man while climbing the creaking wooden stairs of the platform, his brown robe moved in the feeble wind as he began to study the slaves. The thin man gripped Staros tattooed shoulder adding, “This one will fight too, I'll give you 20 ceramics for a single match.” The Balican eyed the weak man before him, “flesh monger,” he muttered under his unkempt beard, one guard struck Staros torso with the butt of his spear, but the Balican almost did not flinch from the blow. “I like this one,” chortled the flesh merchant excitedly. “Stop it Staros!” screamed the captain of the guards. He approached the thin man while removing his spiked skullcap, three scars crossed the middle of the blocky features of his face. “I'll take nothing less than 60 ceramics for the Balican.” The thin man shook his head negatively, “35 pieces.” The captain narrowed his dark eyes, “Yorjan you cheap bastard... 40 and one of your wenches,” Yorjan eyed the rest of the slaves, “deal.”

Three armed guards surrounded the tall human. “Don't cause me anymore trouble Staros, just win the match, I don't care if it’s for you or the master, do it for your own sake,” added the scarred man. The Balican's grim expression did not change and let the guards' escort him away. Kemet watched his companion descend from the platform without saying a word.

The flesh monger walked through the three rows of sweaty captives, Kemet could feel the thin man's gaze on him. He winced when one bony finger poked his bruised torso, “this slave is rotten, I'll take it for free if you want to get rid of it,” added Yorjan. The guard eyed the youth, “Don't mind him, the master has other plans for the boy, you should look at the selection of women.” The flesh merchant smirked lusciously, “ah yes the women, your master has a fine eye for buying them.”

Rotten slave... Other plans for me..., Kemet felt the weight of being a slave crushing his freedom, but still he could not stop wandering what were those plans. The youth was overwhelmed by all the slave-trade, the murder and commerce happening all at once in one place.

Yorjan studied a row of ten half-naked female slaves wearing nothing more that raggedy halters and loincloths, his crooked nose smelled them closely while his lecherous fingers ran through their sweaty flat bellies. The women flinched when bony hands groped their breasts and squeezed their thighs. “Well they are healthy at least, a bath should take away the stench. I'll buy this two Malander... right now, I want to taste the goods,” said the flesh merchant eagerly motioning towards a young human woman and a perky half-elf; the captain nodded.

“Take the rest back to the caravan now!” ordered Malander to his fellow guards.

When a cool breeze began to blow inside the ribbed walls of Farrek's Arena, the crowd of the small coliseum grew. Villagers started betting for their favorites as the gladiators paraded the white sand filled arena surrounded by wooden walls flecked with dried blood. The walls themselves were embedded with jagged stone spikes, fangs and other dangerous obstacles. Above the wall were several wooden stair like tiers filled with sand and blood sport fans, and some elaborated grand stands were merchants, drink, bet, wench and carry out shady deals while the gladiators fight to the death for profit and entertainment.

When the battle horn blew, Staros stepped into the arena wearing a hard oiled leather armor with a polished shell in his right shoulder, his ears ringed with the cheers of a filled coliseum. The Balican sneered, he felt a very excited crowd, his eyes travelled across the arena, and focused on their caravan master, a portly human with a clean shaved head and fat cheeks, the merchant wore a rich tunic and a worn-blue cloth cape. The would be gladiator could see his master groping a fleshy woman that was naked except for the thin white halter that almost covered her big round breasts and a silky silver loincloth. The caravan master's chubby hand squeezed the woman's thighs and laughed heartily with other patrons in an elaborated stand with a golden flag that sported the waving banner of a pair of crossed black scimitars.

“House Stel is here,” muttered Staros under his breath. Suddenly a barred door at the other end of the arena opened. The Balican smirked when he saw the approaching shadow of a lumbering creature. The bronze skinned gladiator grabbed the white sand of the arena and squeezed it through his hands ceremoniously.

***

“Magic is not...” Kemet paused for a moment, he had feared this would happen. “A long time ago someone once told me, magic can be a powerful ally if it’s used wisely.” The legionnaire did not met his stare, her legs quivered and she fell to her knees. Kemet rushed to her side to hold her, Eyla did not reject him, but remained stone still. The wizard felt his hand wet, and when he moved it towards his face it was stained with dark-red blood. “You're hurt!”

“You are a damned wizard!” muttered the woman bitterly, blood ran freely from the wound in her stomach, “your kind... your magic destroys the world,” her tone was filled with anger and contempt. Kemet tried to ignore her, and immediately looked through his worn leather satchel, “you need to drink this now,” ordered the wizard with a serious tone as he produced a wooden vial from his bag. Eyla's pale face met his intense blue eyes and roughly snatched the vial, the legionnaire drank the thick liquid while staring at Kemet. She felt a warm sensation spread through her entire body, suddenly the pain from the wound in her belly and shoulder diminished and her strength returned slowly. The woman gasped as she felt a wave of vigor ran through her veins. “What did you give me?” demanded the red clad legionnaire.

Kemet picked up the empty vial and began to stand with the support of his cane, “magic has healed you,” he paused for a moment, “Get up soldier! We need to move now!” ordered the wizard angrily. Eyla stood defiantly not meeting his stare, the bearded spellcaster started to walk a step ahead of her. Despite feeling with renewed vigor, the legionnaire was still drowsy and did not followed the wizard immediately.

The cold night fell rapidly as the pair walked, sand hissed under their boots, and white pale breath left their mouths as they climbed yet another steeped dune. “Why?” demanded Eyla, “Why what?” snapped Kemet looking her over his shoulder, “Be a wizard...” muttered the legionnaire. The bearded spellcaster stopped to massage his throbbing leg, the pain had spread all the way to his hip. The warrior woman reached to touch his shoulder tenderly. Kemet sighed, “It wasn't that I looked for this, I never said or thought 'I want to be wizard!'” he stopped and gazed into her sand colored eyes, “it just happened; one day I saved an old man from some thugs in an alley of Tyr and the next thing I know is that the old coot turned out to be a wizard, he offered me a chance to be something else and I took it.”  

Eyla's fingers ran through Kemet's brown-ash hair, “You said magic can be a powerful ally if it’s used wisely... what does that mean?” The bearded spellcaster grabbed her shoulders, the blood of her wound had already dried off. “I preserve the nature, I take the right amount of its life-force to cast my spells. I don't defile the land, that’s the difference, there are other sorcerers who care only about power, like Kalak, it's because of them that Athas is the wasteland we struggle to survive in,” explained Kemet with his usual confidence. “Then you are more than just my ally,” chortled the woman coyly.

The Tyrians hugged tightly when a gush of cold wind blowed right past them, the yellow sand swirled around and moved on to an unknown path. “You wanted to show me this weren't you?” whispered the black-haired woman, “For a long time I have tried to tell you... now you'll see what magic can do for us,” finished the wizard. The pair reached the top of the dune, Kemet's blue eyes watched the dark sky, “the messenger did not come to Athas...” his tone showed some concern. “The messenger?” asked Eyla intrigued. “I read about it... it’s a comet that soars the sky of Athas every 45-years... it hasn't come, that's... that's not good,” added the man. Soon he kneeled, his hands began to search beneath the sand, Kemet smiled when his fingers touched some roots he was expecting.

The wizards smile faded when he saw Eyla's confused expression, “A comet?” Kemet sighed and replied “According to some books, comets are like big chunks rocks that roam way up, passing the skies, that’s the simplest explanation I can give you.” Eyla slapped him on the shoulder, “You're a fool you know that, and don't believe all of what your dusty books say.” The wizard smiled and rubbed where she hit him, he knew that not knowing something angered her.

Kemet pulled a forked twig from his patched satchel and gathered a fistful of sand, he placed the twig inside the sand and then held it over to the outstretched palm of the other hand. Slowly, the bearded spellcaster let the grains slip between his fingers. At the same time he muttered and whispered arcane words to cast a spell. Eyla felt a queasy sensation in her stomach and also fell to her knees. A sinister finger rose from the sand that fell in his left hand and pointed in a specific direction. “Jix erdlus are at least a day to the northwest from Chatka, we must gather a search party,” explained Kemet as the sand-hand disappeared with the night breeze leaving a broken forked twig in the wizard's palm.

Eyla's pale face watched the power surprised, “I... I never knew magic could be that harmless,” whispered the woman in astonishment.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr VI

The burning sun was high overhead, beating down the rocky wastelands that surrounded the caravan's path. Kemet could feel the unbearable heat baking him along with the persistent foul smell of many body odors. “We're going to Farrek's,” muttered the tall slave while peering at the rock filled dunes through two barred windows set in the heavy wooden doors on the end of the hold. The youth gaped at him confused, the human with graying short hair, sighed with frustration and said, “Farrek's Arena... is one of the many vipers’ nests for all the scums that roam this blighted land.”

“So... what did you do boy? Stole from the caravan master or something?” inquired the man with his strange accent. The youth rested his sweaty naked back against one of the wagon's walls and bent his knees. “A gang in Tyr sold me...” said Kemet emphasizing the last. The man glancing at him added, “they are the ones who gave you them scratches,” the youth nodded feeling the weight of his new existence. “Why didn't you fight back?” asked the man seeing Kemet's distraught face. “Don't know how...” answered the youth shamefully looking aside.

“Staros of Balic will teach you how, ain't no one better than me with a blade in his hand,” declared the man near him. “What will it cost me? I have nothing,” snapped Kemet. A sneer appeared beneath Staros unkempt beard, “When the time comes you'll know boy,” the young Tyrian watched the man intrigued and said, “Kemet, my name is Kemet.” Staros nodded in approval.

The brown-ash haired youth had counted two nights on the road as the caravan's solid stone wheels plowed the sand relentlessly. The pain in his torso had diminished, its purple bruises also began to fade, more importantly the swollen left side of his face hurt a lot less and as well as his bitten leg. During those two days, Staros realized that Kemet was smart enough to understand the basics of how to fight with a dagger. “A fine blade, be it of obsidian, bone or metal means nothing if you don't know how to wield it correctly and how to make it deadly,” explained the Balican with an assertive tone. Staros performed a couple of movement with his arms, and said “Now you repeat them.”

“For how long?” countered Kemet; the tall man scoffed, “Until your arms do them without you knowing it... and then do it some more.”

For the remainder of the day the Tyrian practiced two movements, a quick thrust with his hand and a quick horizontal slash. The wagon was large enough for them to practice behind the prying eyes of jealous slaves or the caravan guards. Kemet's movements were rough and without strength, “you'll do better when your body heals...” the youth glanced at the Balican briefly. “Don't stop now boy!” snapped Staros sternly.

When the third night fell upon the caravan, Kemet stretched his sore arms and wondered about their destination. As the night embraced the wagon of slaves he caught the Balican gazing through the whole in the ceiling, “Why are we going to Farrek's Arena?” asked the young man rubbing his cold hands. Staros blinked a few times and focused his eyes into Kemet's face, “To make some coin for sure, the caravan master must have a thin purse or a thirst for flesh and blood, or both,” the tall man paused for a moment to drag himself closer to Kemet, “Brams will definitely fight in the arena, after all he's a seasoned gladiator,” added Staros. The Tyrian nodded, pale white breath left his mouth from the cold air of the night. “Maybe I'll fight too,” chortled the tall man looking at the broad form of the sleeping dwarf.

When the searing heat fell upon the wagon, Kemet opened his eyes slowly, soon he found himself gazing through the hole at the early morning olive-tinged sky. Suddenly the youth rose from the sticky floor of the wagon. Ignoring the pain, Kemet blinked his eyes, “Wasn't sure if your left one was gonna make it...” muttered Staros. The Tyrian could hardly contain the relief of having his both eyes.

“The caravan lost his way while you slept,” added the Balican while peering through the barred windows. “We should have arrived last night and not today, somebody will pay for that, somebody always pays Kemet,” finished Staros while gazing at the two half-giants that guarded the reinforced mekillot ribs that surrounded the entrance of Farrek's Arena.

***

A crushing big and bony hand clawed Eyla's torso, if it weren't for her hard leather armor, the claws of the massive gith would have teared the flesh from her side. The woman howled in pain when sharp-dagger-like nails cut through her ivory skin deeply. The legionnaire could feel hot streaks of her own blood trailing from the wound. With a vicious movement, she stabbed through the giths bracer, Kemet's dagger bit and dark blood oozed from its forearm as it released the red clad gladiator. The savage creature roared in pain and fury, Eyla ignored the threat and lunged herself into a spin, her bone sword parried one claw attack, her feet moved with swift strides. The legionnaire crouched reflexively to avoid the second claw, her belly burned with pain; as she got closer Eyla slashed the gith's thigh with a horizontal swing of her sword, spattering the dark blood of the creature into the sand.

A dark spear flied near her ear, its tip sank deeply in the sand with a quiet thud. Eyla swung to her left dodging a double swipe from the giths sharp claws, crouching like a predator, the legionnaire sprang towards the large gith, her left hand gripped the dagger's hilt and stabbed it in the creature's torso. The gith roared while Eyla's right hand aimed the bone sword at the beast's ribs. Two quick deep slashes found their way into the pale-green leathery skin, hot dark blood coated the bone blade, and the large gith let out a painful howl.

The savage creature staggered, its clawed hand grabbed its ribs as dark blood gushed freely from the wound. Eyla heard another gith approaching, the woman spun around partly avoiding the thrust of an obsidian tipped spear. The legionnaire jumped back, but the stony-point grazed her ribs, drawing a thin line of blood. Eyla sighed in surprise when she saw the last four figures approach her with spears and death in its black eyes.

Kemet watched the fight from a dune, his hands moved creating arcane symbols that he could see only in his mind, summoning the power for a spell that would help Eyla. Mystical energy rushed through his arms as the bearded man muttered the incantation that would shape his spell. Kemet joined the fingers of his right hand, in a painfully slow dance his thumb and pinky went to the middle of his palm, which now resembled a spearhead. Soon his hand blazed with arcane crimson fire and the wizard hurled the magic blast from his hand towards the figures surrounding the gladiator.

The legionnaire gripped her bloodied blades and prepared to meet the four attackers with a loud cry, “Who dies first!” Suddenly four flaming rays of fire struck the backs of the gith scouts. A reddish flame consumed the band of gith in front of the legionnaire, dark night was illuminated when the creatures burst into flames that seemed to lick away their leathery flesh as if it were paper. The giths desperate screams quickly became nothing more than a weak wail, and their scorched forms fell to the yellow sand, their bodies leaved a trail of orange smoke.

Eyla gasped astonished, her sand-colored eyes did not blink, she had to force herself to do it and focus on the approaching limping figure. Without warning three bright dart-like missiles swarmed from the dark figure towards her. Eyla tried to advert her face from the attack, but the darts avoided the legionnaire entirely and struck something behind her. The female warrior turned in time to see the large gith fall with a thunderous sound. The creature's kank plate was shattered and three burning holes filled its torso.

“I told you to trust me,” said Kemet in a serious tone. Eyla turned slowly, her eyes watched the scorched rubble of the burnt gith and the grip on her weapons grew tighter. The bearded man could see her forearm corded muscles, she feared him now.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr V

A cold darkness surrounded Kemet as he saw the blurry faces of the four thugs that were beating him into a bloody pulp. His body felt like a disfigured and twisted blot of skin and fire, and it was falling. Evil smiles swirled around him as they began to fill the black darkness that consumed him with sinister laughs.

Kemet was awakened by the intense heat and the strong smell of several sweaty, unwashed bodies. As the wagon rolled on, his body was shaken with the rough movements of the caravan. He tried opening his eyes, but only his right one blinked, only then he felt a searing pain in the left side of his face. The brown-ash haired youth slowly moved his hand to touch it, suddenly a burning sensation spread from his ribs to his torso, his leg was on fire too. “Don't move,” snapped a harsh voice near him.

With his one good eye, Kemet could see very little around him, the only light that filled the wagon came through a round hole cut in the leather cover of the transport's ceiling. The youth watched a faint reddish dust sheet floating around the slaves; soon he began to lose consciousness again as a wave of pain washed over his body.

Kemet felt fresh water bathing his cracked lips but could not swallow it beyond his parched throat, he coughed heavily. “Easy now boy! Don't spill your ration, the overseer won't give you a refill,” said the same voice. When he finally relaxed, the voice added, “More water?” Kemet managed a nod with his head and he felt a bowl touching his lips; this time he drank slowly.

After being able to remain conscious for a long time in the sticky wooden floor, the bruised youth sat up with some pain and looked around the slave filled wagon. There were over thirty people with him, the overseer had chosen many races, including a couple of elves, some bound giths and one heavily muscled dwarf, among others. Those that looked threatening were bound at the wrists and ankles with heavy leather manacles tied to the wall with ropes attached to the thick collars around their necks. Kemet realized he only wore a hemp breechcloth, a dirty rag covered his thigh, where the jozhal had bit him. His fingers grabbed and pulled the collar around his neck. He was a slave now.

“Slavery was abolished in Tyr a year ago...” gasped Kemet, he remained silent for a moment, his body moved with the wagon's rhythm and soon he figured out that Talu had somehow sold him into slavery, but he wondered where was Duurlyn.

“Consider yourself one of the unlucky ones,” replied the harsh voice. The youth turned to face the person that had helped him, a thin bronze skinned but muscular human with graying short hair and an unkempt beard. The man was slightly shorter than six feet and had brown eyes with a perpetually serious expression in his face, and he too only wore a breechcloth. On his shoulders the slave had tattoos that resembled a jagged whirlwind and some old scars in his back from years of lashes. Kemet observed the man with his good blue eye, “Where are we going?”

“To Urik, these slavers smuggled us out of the Free City, no doubt there's a lot of money involved for such a risky operation,” explained the man with a strange accent. The youth pondered his next words, but before he could ask more questions, a dwarf two people beyond him growled, “Quiet you two!”

“Don't make me silence you again Brams,” the man spat back at him. The dwarf eyed the tall human with contempt but remained quiet.

***

A cold evening breeze swept out of the dune foothills and descended into the dark cove of golden sand followed by a rough whirlwind that travelled from the steeped dune. The couple watched the shadowy figures move below them. Eyla's eyes studied the creatures’ movements and soon recognized the threat.

“There must be eight of them,” whispered Kemet; the female legionnaire's grip tightened on the hilt of her bone sword. “It's a gith scout party... they are looking for something...” muttered Eyla with anger. “They are looking for Chatka,” finished Kemet.

The eight gith moved quickly through the dunes with their spindly legs. While crouching behind the tall dune, Kemet studied the race of grotesque humanoids that seemed like a horrible blend of a lanky elf and a green-skinned lizard. The creature's face had protruding lipless-jaws filled with sharp teeth, and in their long gangling arms some carried wicked spears, with large razor-sharp heads made of obsidian. “I need you to distract them,” ordered Kemet to the legionnaire.

Eyla was about to protest, but the bearded man added, “Trust me on this.”

The female legionnaire reached to her back a pulled a sharp steel dagger, “I believe that's mine,” sneered Kemet. “Now you want it!?” snapped Eyla, the bearded man shook his head, “You are all the protection I need remember,” and before she could reply, Kemet kissed her soft red lips lightly and shortly after rolled down the dune in a different direction. The woman watched him amused as he stumbled through the sand. Eyla sheathed her bone sword in the scabbard and waited gripping the steel dagger's hilt.

When the last gith of the scouting party passed by, the gladiator ran down the steeped dune, her leather boots protected her ankles from the rough descent. The female legionnaire followed the creatures’ tracks aided by dim moonlight, soon she found the first gith who was lagging behind tiredly. Eyla narrowed her eyes and slowly dragged her steps, not wanting to draw all the attention on her just yet. When she was close enough, she stabbed repeatedly the distracted gith in the back, Kemet's steel dagger ignored the inix-shell armor it wore; and the lizard-like creature went down in silence into a pool of its oozing dark blood.

The legionnaire crouched and moved forward while drawing her bone sword, suddenly she heard a scream in the raspy voice of the creatures. Had Kemet been discovered, wondered the red clad legionnaire with concern. The moment of distraction almost cost her too much as one gith got close enough and surprised her with a swing of a massive obsidian axe. Eyla easily ducked under it and brought her short sword into the creature’s stomach. A gush of hot dark blood stained her weapon as the gith gasped and fell forward trying to grab her crimson cloak.

The female warrior retrieved her blade from the gith's gut just in time to parry the thrust of an obsidian tipped spear aimed at her chest. Her experience as a Tyrian gladiator allowed her to make a spin beside the long weapon's shaft and with a swift stroke, Eyla slit the surprised gith's throat.

Her victory was short-lived as a hand clawed her in the arm, Elya spun around gripping her bone shortsword and dagger. The woman saw a tall wide shouldered gith, stronger than its lanky brethren, it wore a large protective kank shell over his chest and thick leather bracers embedded with obsidian spikes. The gith's black eyes watched her with hunger, and it opened and closed its three-fingered hands with opposable thumbs in a menacing expression. The legionnaire could see the vicious wicked claws, one had already drew first blood on her.

Eyla roared a battle cry and launched herself against the brawny gith.

[wandererwriter]

Duurlyn's Gamble

“You hit me too hard Talu, that was not part of the deal,” replied Duurlyn, his hand grabbing his fat swollen belly, a purple-green bruise lay where the mul had struck him. “Don't whine like the wench you are,” argued Talu from a stocky wooden chair not looking at the half-elf. “Have you forgotten that it was you who choose the alley, I risked a lot for you street scum. Our deal was fulfilled, your good-for-nothing friend paid your debt with slavery and now you are no longer my concern... unless you want to work for me, maybe I have decided that you still owe some silver,” he paused briefly, “there I decided it just now,” added the mul with a sinister tone.

Duurlyn swallowed hard, he knew he had ran out of options, “Sure I can work with you,” added the half-elf trying to free himself from Talu's apparent request. “Work for me!” corrected the mul angrily, “my men will help with your pitiful charades, I will earn my fortunes and you'll get the crumbs or the next time we meet in a dead-end alley it will be knife in your fat belly and not my fist.”

The heavy half-elf watched the mul and the score of ill-reputed men behind him, and soon accepted his fate. The gang rested in a building in the western end of the Warrens, near the tradesmen's district. Unlike his battered home, Talu's hideout had some repairs along with furniture’s, wooden boxes with many stolen goods lay piled in a corner. Some of the cracked walls had been boarded up while others had fresh painted marks with a similar symbol. Duurlyn soon realized that it was the first draft for the badge of Talu's gang. A couple of thugs rested on the hammocks that hanged between the four strong wooden pillars that supported the second floor of the abandoned warehouse.

The con-artist breathed heavily, his hairy chest was in agony but it was not from pain, Duurlyn took a few staggering steps towards a large barrel with water. He needed to drink the fresh liquid for his throat was sore from all the retching of the previous night. He did not remember much, someone had dragged him or was he carried, Duurlyn could not recall, all he knew was that Kemet was gone and his deal with Talu fulfilled.

As the half-elf got closer he saw a wooden bowl floating in the middle of the barrel, Duurlyn licked his parched lips with the tip of his swollen tongue. The chubby half-elf's anxiety betrayed his feet as he tripped and fell near the barrel, his face hit the dusty wooden floor hard and blood filled his mouth. The thugs laughed loudly.

“You want some water?” said a brawny human with a missing eye and a fully shaved head. Duurlyn tried to say please, but his throat was so sore that all he could was grunt. “What was that?” said the thug with a mocking tone as he cupped his hand to an ear, and got closer to the fallen half-elf. “...Pl... please...” muttered Duurlyn dryly. “Sure, here you go,” said the man with a friendly manner as he filled the bowl with water, he took a short drink and poured the rest back into the barrel. The heavy half-elf managed to sit, and the man spit the water in his mouth into the empty bowl. Duurlyn averted his face from the man as he extended the bowl towards him. “That'll be one silver for the drink,” added the thug with a laugh. When the burly half-elf was starting to stand up, the man kicked him viciously in the side, near his kidney, Duurlyn screamed in pain and fell again, “I said that's one silver you owe me street scum!”

The half-elf remained on the floor as the man kicked him a few more times just for the fun of it. Duurlyn's chubby frame moved like a sack of meat with each blow. “That's enough for now Balar!” screamed Talu raising from his chair. “We have work to do!” said the ugly mul watching his men with an intimidating gaze. Talu got close to the beaten half-elf, and after grabbing Duurlyn by the neck he hoisted him to his feet. The former gladiator tightened his strong grip, “now go out there with Balar and bring me my money,” hissed the mul while pushing the heavy half-elf towards the exit.

With slumped shoulders Duurlyn felt queasy and his quivering legs took several weak steps towards the tall wooden doors of the warehouse, his stance showed the poor morale of the defeated half-elf. “If he gets into trouble, kill him,” ordered Talu to the brawny thug with the shaved head as he put Duurlyn's bone knife in his hand.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr IV

Duurlyn took a clumsy fighting stance in front of the ugly mul, the burly half-elf shifted his bone knife from one hand to another. “Come on! You want your silver? Come and get it yourself man-dwarf!” roared Duurlyn ready to meet his apparent demise for Talu was a former gladiator with several victories.

The ugly mul's eyes flared with anger at the insult, his broad chest rose, revealing many deep scars and some older ones in his muscled arms, his stony round face showed hawk-like nose and a nasty gash that ran from his forehead to his left cheek. Talu wore a thick leather girdle with many cuts, the armor that protected his torso also had a heavy strap that crossed his chest up to a kank scale in his left shoulder. The mul's legs were naked except for the breechcloth he wore and the tough hide ankle boots that covered his feet.

“You want to play Duurlyn,” replied the former gladiator while extending his brawny arms to the sides and taking two steady strides towards the half-elf.

Kemet saw the scene unfold a few spaces from him, his blood-stained hand gripped the bite of the jozhal thief. He watched his burly friend lunge against Talu while attempting a feeble stab against him. The mul easily dodged the attack and with a snake-like speed, Talu's right hand grabbed the half elf's knife wielding hand and twisted it violently in an awkward angle.

Duurlyn's scream of pain turned into one of surprise as the gladiator pulled him towards himself. The mul quickly brought his left fist into the half-elf's fat belly. To Kemet's eyes the movement was so fast that it looked as if Talu's knuckles sank deep into his friends' meaty stomach. Duurlyn dropped the bone knife, and fell to his knees while grabbing his torso, the half-elf's tanned face suddenly went white and he retched all the oghna's he had eaten earlier. Duurlyn's breath came in labored gasps as he puked one more time over himself, his mouth and legs were covered with the thick and sticky remains of his orange tinged vomit.

The brown-ash haired youth studied the two thugs approaching him, Kemet raised his free hand as a sign of surrender, but his would-be attackers kept moving. The brawny men wore hard leather vests with bone studs, and their faces had menacing looks. Kemet knew what was going to happen next; his face tightened as he took a deep breath and prepared for the upcoming beating.

Talu grabbed Duurlyn's orange stained chin, his calloused fingers pressed so hard unto the half-elf's skin that it seemed as if they were going tear it. The burly man with dark curly hair could not speak, his gaze was lost somewhere else, and tiny bubbles of vomit bursted when he tried to talk. The mul watched Duurlyn with disgust and hurled him to the dirty ground. Talu's gaze went to his men approaching the youth and said, “Don't beat him too much, he's worth something to someone.”

The men sneered and began pummeling Kemet, by the time he received the first strike he had already figured out what was going to happen afterwards. The youth was struck in the face by a big bony fist, he felt another blow in his left rib, his body twisted. A kick in his bitten bloodied leg took away his balance and as he fell to the ground two hands grabbed him by the shoulders followed by a crushing knee strike that took the air of his lungs. Kemet went down hard, the men kicked him in the dusty ground until the pain faded into darkness.

***

The sun was a ball of fire sinking below the western horizon when Kemet and Eyla walked through the yellow dunes in the outskirts of Chatka. The dark sun was dying rapidly as the twin moons Ral and Guthay climbed to the top of the sky. “So you know of Urvas... aren't you worried?” said the legionnaire with a lingering question, the strong warrior walked a step ahead of the bearded man. “I have known for a while now, he's just waiting the right time to take over,” Kemet replied, his gaze went from the two moons to a tall dune that blocked their path. “He was the first to protest when I ordered Rodak to allow the entrance of wanderers. He wasn't happy about it, that much is obvious,” finished the bearded man as he began to climb the yellow dune.

“What is it that you can't risk?” added Eyla intrigued as she walked through the steeped dune. With every step she took her boots sank ankle deep in the sand. The legionnaire could not imagine what was so important for him to show her, this dune was certainly a demanding task and she had two strong legs, while Kemet had only one good leg and his cane. “Something happening to you...” he paused catching his breath. “I can't risk that.” Eyla smiled, but did not showed it to him. “Rodak would not allow it,” she added gruffly. “Rodak is not here, he left with Jix remember, and Grucan remains in Blue Well, if he's still alive,” replied Kemet with somber seriousness.

“What does that leave you?” demanded Eyla near the top of the dune. The bearded man fell silent for a moment and said, “Ralston and Bradek.”

“They are not gladiators,” snapped the warrior woman. “Neither is Urvas, and he has a few that will follow him when the time comes,” finished Kemet while watching the fading crimson sun.

“It will be night soon Kemet,” added the legionnaire when she reached the top of the steeped dune. “A bit farther... we are almost where we need to be,” replied the bearded man, he had to catch himself with his cane, before getting near Eyla. His leg was throbbing with pain, but he was determined to do this.  

Eyla stood vigilant on the top of the dune. The female warrior's soft, long-black hair framed her round face, her sand-colored eyes peered down to the sandy gulch in front of her, wide and alert full of contained concern. Kemet watched a shift in her stance as she moved in her thigh-high black leather boots, which almost framed her strong legs perfectly. The legionnaire studied her surroundings. “Something is out there,” she replied while silently drawing her bone shortsword.

The bearded man remained still, not drawing a breath, he thought seeing a dark figure darting from one dune to another, he was wrong for there were many more stalking the growing shadows. “Get down!” hissed the legionnaire while crouching, Kemet followed her movement as fast as his leg allowed him.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr III

The human youth and the broad half-elf walked through a narrow sand-filled alley that lay between several gray-brown brick buildings with fading colors, age old households that had been battered by the harsh elements. Similar structures bordered the crowded market with many elven traders. “Pay attention Kemet!” snapped Duurlyn angrily as he moved through the tall elves that blocked his path to offer him useless-overpriced trinkets. Kemet saw the growing commerce around him, and his companion's mood always darkened around his thin half brethren cousins.

As they passed through the dusty streets of Tyr's Elven Market, Duurlyn took a few steps ahead while the brown-ash haired youth watched in awe the great ziggurat that lay in the distance. The towering structure was crafted with glazed bricks of many colors that ranged from indigo, azure, and green to fiery orange and a several more. Kemet cautiously studied the only staircase at the center of the gigantic pyramid were a pair of bastions marked each one of the seven levels. He could not stop wondering what it would be like to climb the huge steps of the staircase that flanked each bastion and reach the summit. Did Kalak want to touch the moons?, pondered Kemet with his blue eyes fixed on the top of the ziggurat. Then a quick and violent movement yanked the basket from his hands.

Duurlyn instantly rushed between several merchants, but the youth could not see what he was chasing. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw one elf turn and look down as if something had grazed him, then another. It's a small thief, realized Kemet and soon his feet sprang following the raucous trail left by his burly companion.

“I said pay attention!” growled Duurlyn as he ran after the thief, Kemet followed him with long strides. As fat as his friend was, the half-elf still had elven blood in his hairy legs. The con-artists raced through the market following the small hooded figure that carried their stolen fruit basket. The runaway thief knocked several thick straw baskets to block the path of his pursuers, Duurlyn kicked one with anger and did not stop, an elf trader cursed at him as he passed by. Kemet jumped aside and kept running.

The two men dodged merchants and sidestepped three-wheeled wooden carts, while chasing the cloaked figure. Kemet could see that the four feet tall thief had reptile legs and a skinny tail escaped from its dirty brown cloak. The small size of the creature allowed it to move swiftly between the posts and tents of several merchants, who barely noticed his passing.

“Over there!” screamed Duurlyn pointing at a narrow alley, Kemet followed his companion and together they reached a dusty dead-end with several wooden crates. The alley's outer coating of the cracked walls exposed the bricks underneath it. The sweaty half-elf breathed heavily from the chase while the youth studied the surroundings of the empty alley trying to recover his breath. Suddenly Duurlyn took a few short steps and pulled a bone knife from his heavy leather belt. “Where did you get that?” demanded Kemet with surprise, the half-elf's halfhearted answer was lost as his worn sandal stepped on the brown cloak of the thief. Before he could warn Duurlyn that something was wrong, a mouth filled with needle sharp teeth bit him on his leg, Kemet howled in pain as thin crimson streaks ran through the wound.

The brown-ash haired youth recognized a jozhal, the small two-legged reptile had a torn linen scarf on its long flexible neck, probably to hide it’s a narrow, elongated snout. The thief with a snake-like tail had lanky arms wrapped in leather thongs, and its three-fingered hands had an opposable thumb. Kemet heard the creature hissing at him as its scaly skin changed from the color of the gray walls to a more human like skin-tone.

“Well... well... well Duurlyn. How are you gonna escape this time?” said a raspy voice, the duo recognized the newcomer immediately. Talu, the mul gang-leader whom Duurlyn owed 10 silver coins.

Kemet watched the strong mul with contempt, and the four men behind him that carried wooden garrotes embedded with obsidian pieces. “Your work here is done Xymas, you can leave now,” said Talu while handing the jozhal a silver piece.

***

After hearing what her lover had said, Kemet remained quiet for a moment, many of her words were true. His decision was made and in a swift movement he stood up ignoring the throbbing pain of his leg, and began to don his dark sand colored trousers. “Where are you going at this time? It will be dark soon, you know that?” demanded the warrior woman, her relaxed demeanor changed into a serious one.

When she realized Kemet was ignoring her, she added with concern, “that b'rohg could still be out there... you said it yourself, the group missed one.” Yet there was no response from the bearded man who was buckling his leather belt. When the woman approached to grab him, Kemet quickly turned towards her.

“Come with me, I want to show you something,” added Kemet with his serious, assertive tone, the striking legionnaire began to protest, but was interrupted when the bearded man gently grabbed her hand. “I will answer your first question... this time there will be no subterfuges, no comeback questions. The truth,” said Kemet with a calm expression, as if he was ridden himself of a long burden. The legionnaire watched him intrigued, her sand-colored eyes studied the face before her.

“Lead the way,” she added quickly.

The bearded man grabbed his leathery patched satchel that hanged from a hook in the wall next to the large bed along with his walking cane. “You're forgetting your dagger,” added the legionnaire with a low tone while holding the sharp steel weapon, she wasn't quite sure what was happening, but it didn't felt wrong. “I don't need it, you're with me that's all the protection I need,” replied Kemet while placing an old torn poncho over his bare shoulders. As his head went through the poncho he saw the legionnaire walking in the wrong direction.

“Where are you going Eyla?” asked the bearded man as the legionnaire headed for the room's heavy wooden door, the black-haired woman eyed him strangely. “Aren't we leaving?” she refuted crossing her arms across her chest, the movement showed the lean muscles of an experienced gladiator.

Kemet smirked, “yes, but not through there, Urvas has too many eyes to see us leave near the sunset. Can't risk it, he could make a move if he saw the two of us leaving into the night.” Eyla sighed with frustration and said, “stop playing games Kemet,” her tone grew impatient. The bearded man walked to the corner of the room and pushed a wooden furniture, soon it revealed a small trapdoor. Despite the fact that the couple slept in the second floor of the building, when Kemet opened the contraption it revealed a round hole, it was wide enough for them to enter one by one, but a muscled mul would have trouble squeezing through.

Eyla's eyes narrowed and bit her red upper lip as the bearded man tossed a rope ladder through the escape route. “You do know how to keep secrets,” replied the legionnaire while moving towards the apparent exit.

“Only Jix and me know of this hidden tunnel, it passes through a wall of the first floor,” Kemet paused, “now you do too... and it’s best if we keep it that way,” he added. The legionnaire's shapely figure climbed down and disappeared into the dark tunnel.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr II

A strong wind swirled the dust around Kemet and Duurlyn as they walked through a ragged crowd that filled their murky alley in the Warrens. Every fifth or sixth step the chubby half-elf had to reach down and tug up his heavy leather belt. Several destitute men, women, and children dressed with dirty loincloths blocked their narrow path. The former slaves looked as hungry and thirsty as they were dusty and weary, when the duo approached, the now freemen extended their calloused hands and desperately begged with sad eyes in hopes of receiving some coin.

“Watch the hands,” snapped the burly half-elf as he slapped a few near his round waist. The human youth dodged a several outstretched fingers here and there that tried to grab their fruit basket and his torn poncho. Kemet was not too happy keeping their stolen food for themselves, but he knew better, the moment he gave one of their oghna's, these people would boldly fight for more, and they already were a mob.

“Where to?” asked Kemet while cleaning the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand. Duurlyn hesitated, the half-elf watched the raggedy crowd moving behind them and then his brown eyes shifted towards the turning point that had two paths. “The elven market, Shiral is still doing business,” he replied sourly. Kemet sighed, he has never been too fond of the thieving elf’s and the elven market was just that. The odd duo walked with haste, the twin moons Ral and Guthay were rising and the temperature was already starting the change, the extreme heat of the day would soon turn into a deadly cold for anybody outside warm walls and a burning fire.

When the pair followed the shady path towards the elven market a dark wind moved Kemet's raggedy poncho and several dust particles poked his shins. The brown-ash haired youth could feel a strange cold running down his spine, he didn't liked how it felt, “I have a bad feeling about this Duurlyn, sell it somewhere else.”

“Nonsense, Shiral will pay well enough to rent a room and maybe a wench,” replied the chubby half-elf with a crooked smile. “Maybe one room and one women,” countered Kemet with contempt. Duurlyn ignored his friend's remarks and after adjusting his heavy leather belt he took longer steps, his belly growled and the prospect of female company along with some wine made him forget about his troubles and soon began to walk faster.

***

Kemet rose from his bed and sighed as he approached the small wooden window were he began to watch over the wasteland that persists outside of Chatka. The bearded man's gaze fell upon the crimson horizon, orange-red tendrils filled the sky as the sun already started its long descent. His blue eyes darting from one yellow dune to another. “That group isn't coming back Kemet, but Grucan will,” said the naked warrior woman that rested behind him, “You're probably right... but Jix will definitely want his erdlands back,” replied the bearded man while grabbing his curated hide boots.

As the strong woman began to gear up, she looked at him while tying her halter around her chest, she held her breath for a moment and gazed at her armor. “Are you a wizard?” finally asked the legionnaire strapping her hard leather armor, the bearded man eyes narrowed to near dark slits. “How long have you known me?” demanded Kemet trying to dodge the question. The woman laughed, “Same old Kemet, answering a question with another... I'll tell you what I know,” the man watched her amused as she struggled to put on those thigh-high leather boots that he liked on her. “Go on then, let me hear you,” added Kemet not looking away from her woman's strong body.

The legionnaire finished covering her firm legs with a grunt and said. “First of all you are always reading parchments and books, and those strange tattoos on your left thigh... I've seen you studying them too,” Kemet smirked. “What else you got?” he said with a serious tone. The warrior woman laughed, “Don't get mad love, I know that like me you were a slave at some point, but you don't have many lashes on your back so you probably were born a freeman.” Kemet sat on his bed, the legionnaire approached him moving her hips provocatively, “you are obviously from Tyr like me, but your face is lined with faint aristocratic features that are not all from the common people... perhaps a noble ancestor,” added the warrior woman as she caressed the cheek of the bearded man.

Kemet could see her forearm corded muscles, sinews moved under her ivory skin as she tightly buckled her sword belt around her waist, none-the-less the black-haired woman had attractive features, a round face with a delicate nose, soft red lips and sand-colored eyes. “And we have shared the bed for almost four years... so I know you more than you think Kemet of Tyr,” finished the female legionnaire with a coy smile.

[wandererwriter]

Kemet of Tyr I

Kemet and Duurlyn, the two small time conmen survived the first year in the sun-baked free city of Tyr, but this does not come with the goodness that many would expect. The Tyrian citizens now face new threats as gangs of former slaves now prowl in the slums and no one, not even the Templars are safe of their restless brutality.

“You better catch up Kemet,” said the dry voice of Duurlyn, his companion, a surly half-elf with a sun-burned fat belly and dark curly hair. The odd duo walked through a long corridor between abandoned buildings that restricted their movements, until they reached several tents with mekillot leather flaps near the Shadow Square. The patrons filled every corner of the market trading various goods. The merchant tents were filled with murmurs and babbling of the bartering customers, Kemet had to dodge people here and there with careful hasty steps. “Hold up you street scum!” howled the thin brown-ash haired youth. The chubby half-elf turned around with his hands on the sleeves of his loose cotton vest, a heavy leather belt hold his loincloth, “Who you calling street scum? You baazrag face!” he screamed.

The Tyrians that surrounded the pair barely stopped doing their businesses and eyed them suspiciously, eager to see the apparent dispute unfold. Duurlyn took a menacing step towards Kemet and clocked him with a single punch in the jaw, blood filled the mouth of the human as he fell to the dust filled street. The youth with messy hair coughed heavily as the sandy dust filled his mouth, after a few drowning barks that left him with a sore throat. Kemet spat blood to the dirty ground and slowly began to stand up.

Some patrons laughed at the fallen youth, others continued with their usual businesses under the burning sun of Athas. However no one noticed that amid the distraction of the quick brawl, Duurlyn grabbed a small wooden basket of oghna fruits from one of the tents. Pushing people aside as if in a mad stupor, the sweaty half-elf reached a narrow alley hidden behind two food stands, Duurlyn gave Kemet a reassuring glance and disappeared. The human spat more blood and smashed the dirt with his fist. Shortly after Kemet left the scene in a different direction while avoiding any direct contact with the merchants and their customers. A vagrant breeze swirled the dust in the market and he was gone. Suddenly a scream was heard in the distance, “I've been robbed!”

Sometime later when the fierce sun already began its descent and the two moons, Ral and Guthay started to rise, the duo met in a sprawl of unoccupied houses known as the Warrens, the slums of Tyr. Inside a ruined building with reddish cracked-walls and half of a fallen roof, the two figures discussed. “You hit me too hard with that last punch Duurlyn,” complained Kemet massaging his now swollen jaw.

Fading rays of the crimson sun filled the dark room through its many cracks, dust particles could be seen dancing around them. The chubby half-elf tossed him a juicy fruit, “don't be such a lady Kemet... at least we got our bellies full this day.” The thin human grinned, he wore a raggedy red poncho and dark sand colored trousers. Kemet's feet were protected by worn leather sandals with straps that also covered his shins. “I could say that your belly is the one that is full these days,” the half-elf chuckled and eyed the basket with some fruits. “We could sell some of this for a couple of bits... and maybe we'd have enough to buy us a few of drinks at the Drunken Giant.”

Kemet remained quiet while chewing the last of his oghna, “You should pay Talu first,” chortled the human resting his back against the peeled wall, and as he tossed the bone of the fruit added, “We had luck dodging his men twice,” he said with a serious tone. “Ever the thinker Kemet, stop thinking up ahead and live the moment,” replied Duurlyn with a bored expression as if it's an old matter between them.

***

“Wake up love,” said a soothing female voice, the man woke up slowly and after squinting his blue eyes a few times he observed the hidden runes at wooden ceiling of his large room. A warm breeze flapped the curtains of the small wooden window near a corner of the wide bed. Kemet could feel the woman's head upon his chest, he watched the striking and strong woman that rested next to him. The female legionnaire had a thin crimson strip in her forehead and her long jet-black hair reached past her shoulders.

The woman's sand-colored eyes studied the tattoos in his leg with intrigue. Kemet saw her, he watched her sweaty naked body with firm round breasts, her athletic torso had some scars from her time in the arena of Tyr and a few tattoos in her shoulders and thighs.

“You certainly know your way around a woman,” replied the female warrior with a flirting smile, after catching Kemet gazing at her body. Her fingers began caressing his chest, trailing through his flat belly as they worked her way down. The bearded man with brown-ash hair smirked. How did I get this lucky..., wondered Kemet, suddenly he felt the throbbing pain in his left leg and he remembered.

[wandererwriter]

The Hedge Pilot

Inside the pipe filled storage building of the city guards barracks, Captain Stavros LeBrouche, the famous war veteran removed his sword belt before climbing into a massive weapon, a large iron construct that scarcely resembled a walking full plate armor with a cabin. “Today we will learn how to operate your basic Iron Walker”, said LeBrouche with a coarse commanding tone. The pilot with thick gray mustache and thin-muscled frame, rested inside a compact cabin supported by hydraulic legs with several tubes to protect the wires that move them. The Iron Walker, as most soldiers in Granss called the fighting machinery, was composed of metal plates that protected the pilot in the compartment, it looked like a metallic cocoon due to the interlocating plaques. It had two powerful arms, the right one ended with a massive dented long blade. The other was set upon a left shoulder with a steel framework, the extremity had a worked greywood bear faced battering ram that also carried a large arbalest. In the cabin, the veteran pilot's long face twisted after he inhaled the reeking fumes that emanated from the grease and oil coated gears, bolts and screws of the machine. Soon he started to put what looked like a leather armor with several cables.    

The contraption Stavros was strapping on himself resembled a leather jerking, except that it had numerous brown cables attached to it. Extending in various directions, the cables ran through fastened iron brooches on his arms into a complicated system of pulleys fixed to the machine frame. The hedge pilot took his time. Rushing this job might mean a snapped cable and resultant of a useless arm, which in the battlefield meant a certain death. Shortly after completing the standard inspection and the harness was firmly secured, the captain settled in the small padded chair and immediately pulled down a redwood lever with a small crank. A hissing sound erupted from the back of the Iron Walker as the energy from the red stone, safely stored behind the cabin, began to flow through the cables and wires that gave life to the metal machine.

Stavros felt the rush of energy shake the massive weapon, soon he could smell the dark murky smoke that escaped from the back of the Iron Walker. “This sulfurous smell will wanna make you puke your guts out. You'll get used to it..., you all will.” The hedge pilot's smile was hidden under his thick gray mustache. To test the legs, the Captain pressed the pedals under his leather boots and the legs of the Iron Walker reacted accordingly. Stavros turned the Iron Walker to face the young pilots before him.

Metallic steps echoed in the dark wooden roof of the storage as the of the machine moved and its engine began to roar. The veteran pilot felt his muscles flex, recalling the time when the pull of the wires and that sinister energy did not bruise him. That was a couple of decades ago, he thought with a quiet smile as the walking armor began to trot. He could see the recruits watching his wired leather vest. “I wear this control vest because it keeps the cables in easy reach, prevents them from getting tangled,” he raised his cable covered arms. “This is how you stay alive in one these,” Stavros made a quick-side-pull of the cables in his right arm and raised the sword-like arm, the blade as thick as a battle axe cut the air with a loud swooosh as it went down. The soldiers backed a step in awe.

“What about that huge arbalest, is it automatic Captain?” said a young small framed soldier with long light brown hair.

“Cadet Dalton right?” replied Stavros, and the young man nodded.

“This piece,” he pulled the wires of his left arm to his chest and the auto-crossbow on top of the ram moved closer to the cabin. “This piece would had been very useful in the war,” said the pilot with a chuckle. Dalton half opened his mouth to ask another question when a loud racketing noise was heard in the distance. Stavros keen hearing told him precisely where the explosion happened, and that place meant bad news. 

[wandererwriter]

Retrospectivas de noches siniestras

Revisando su sangrienta pata de cabra, el Padre Desmond, observaba al nuevo integrante del transporte blindado. Un latino atormentado que portaba una espada samurai y una escopeta, pero tras un enfrentamiento entre él y el líder afroamericano del grupo, fue esposado a uno de los pasamanos del vehículo. Cuando el Padre le preguntó en español su nombre, el hombre se sorprendió y respondió: "Ulises y ¿tu?".

El caído predicador respondió: "Me puedes llamar Padre Desmond... ¿cómo es que has sobrevivido tu solo todo este tiempo?", Ulises se disponía a responder cuando el chillido de las llantas cortó la conversación, pronto el bus blindado comenzó a perder el control y tras volcarse todo se oscureció temporalmente para sus pasajeros.

El predicador recuperó el conocimiento pocos minutos después, tras escuchar la voz de Ulises discutiendo con Marlon, diciéndole que lo libere y él los ayudaría. El afroamericano consideraba la propuesta mientras observaba a su familia y a las criaturas que se acercaban como movimientos bruscos al vehículo.

El Padre se reincorporó con ayuda de Nicole, una joven de cabello rubio que portaba una uzi que había conseguido del cuerpo de un policía. Mientras se levantaba, Ulises continuaba esposado, "Marlon libéralo... sino vamos a morir aquí..." dijo el predicador.

El fornido afroamericano, lo observó con los ojos entrecerrados "tu responderás por él..." y le pasó la llave de las esposas. Pronto el extraño latino extendió su mano señalando su espada y armas, rehacio Marlon le entregó una pistola y la espada "No hagas nada de lo que te puedas arrepentir...", dijo mientras se la entregaba.

Cuando el grupo estaba preparado para salir, Marlon hizo un conteo, su esposa e hija, Nicole, el sacerdote escoces, el enfermero Jay y Ulises. Tras quitar el seguro abrió la puerta de una patada, él y Ulises salieron primero, mientras el Padre Desmond, y Jay alejaban a la familia de Marlon, por su parte Lilly los cubría con ráfagas de su uzi, el pequeño grupo se veía rodeado por todos los flancos, pero ante los disparos de Lilly la horda de no muertos comenzaron a moverse hacia ella. 

Fuera del transporte caído Ulises se debatía entre huir, despachar a Marlon antes que él lo mate, o ayudarlos, de pronto un no muerto lo agarró del brazo y antes que pudiera clavar sus putrefactos dientes, el latino se liberó con una patada improsida. Ulises se percató que portaba una familiar pistola plateada cuando lo miró se dio cuenta que era Khon Johnson, su amigo de vicios con quien se encontró mientras huía, pero fue mordido y posteriormente se separaron.

En ese momento Ulises apuntó su 9mm hacia la cabeza de su ex-amigo "Lo siento Khon..." cuando le disparó en el centro de la frente, todo pareció moverse en cámara lenta, el latino podía ver como salía un chorro de oscura sangre de la parte trasera de la cabeza de Khon, vio como Marlon comenzó a correr, mientras las criaturas se acercaban cada vez más hacia ellos.

[wandererwriter]

Las primeras noches

Tras el brote de no muertos, muchas personas se refugiaron en la Iglesia del Padre Carlyle, un cura escocés que era conocido por organizar eventos deportivos en el barrio. Pero en esa noche, cerca de 20 personas lloraban y temían por sus vidas, incluso las oraciones no podían ocultar el horror de las calles, gritos, disparos, explosiones, y choques pronosticaban una noche incierta.

"La sociedad cae por los pecados del hombre... hay que prevalecer y resistir estos tiempos oscuros..."

Antes de que pudiera terminar su oración, la puerta reforzada del templo se quebró tras la colisión de una ambulancia. Sus conductores salieron violentamente por el parabrisas del transporte. El sonido de la sirena se desvanecía mientras atraía a los no muertos que merodeaban por las calles, despavoridos los refugiados comenzaron a correr cuando los paramédicos, con huesos quebrados y movimientos grotescos, se levantaron y comenzaron a arrastrarse hacia los civiles.

Gritos de dolor y sonidos desgarradores retumbaban en los atorados pasillos del templo, sin aviso la ambulancia prendió en llamas, el humo y calor comenzaron a esparcirse por las bancas del templo. El Padre Carlyle intentó apagarlo con un extinguidor, pero mientras lo hacia uno de los paramédicos lo atacó. El cura se defendió golpeándolo por reflejo, con un movimiento horizontal, el barril metálico abrió la cabeza del paramédico no muerto y este cayó al suelo. Sorprendido el Padre retrocedio y pronto un doctor con acento inglés lo agarró del brazo y lo alejó de los zombies que se acercaban.

Mientras el dúo escapaba el Padre volteo a ver como la iglesia donde había trabajado por varios años ardía en llamas.

"¿Padre Carlyle está bien?, ¿no está herido?", preguntó el doctor, mientras se limpiaba el rostro.

"En este mundo oscuro, puedes llamarme Padre Desmond...", dijo el predicador cuando su rostro se iluminaba por el fuego que consumía la iglesia donde había predicado. 

[wandererwriter]

Arena en mis botas

El noble no podía creer que escapó de la masacre, su familia asesinada brutalmente por atacantes desconocidos, bandidos que sabían exactamente donde golpear y a quien derribar primero. Los pensamientos del noble hechicero corrían por su mente como los sortilegios que usó para defenderse y lograr huir con su vida.

El sol carmesí caía y pronto el frío de las arenas reemplazaba el calor del día, sin perder tiempo logró armar un refugio improvisado que le permitió pasar la noche. Aunque sus recuerdos no lo dejaron descansar su mente divagaba en quien los había atacado y porqué... pronto la respuesta era obvia, otra casa noble se quería apoderarse de su negocio y tierras.

La tormenta de arena forzó al hechicero efectuar un ritual de protección a su alrededor y poder evitar los peligros del mortal clima. El tempestuoso viento dificultaba su labor, dibujar símbolos arcanos en piedras y arena no era una tarea fácil, pero tras colocarlos alrededor de su refugio, el urikense sobrevivió una larga noche.

Tras despertar cubierto de arena, el noble pudo retroceder sus pasos y llegó dos días después a su antiguo hogar, solo para encontrar sus tierras arruinadas y la mansión de su familia destruida, salvo por unas secciones de la casa. Muchos de los cuerpos de sus parientes fueron quemados y otros desaparecidos. Su rostro se enardeció de ira cuando vio a uno de los soldados muertos encima del cuerpo de su hermana. Por reflejo el noble movió el cadáver de encima y para su sorpresa ella aun respiraba.

Al parecer su casta tendría una segunda oportunidad, mientras atendía a su hermana vio a un esclavo escondido que vestía la túnica del líder de la familia o lo que quedaba de ella, rápidamente el noble liberó un sortilegio, y del suelo salieron viciosas raíces que como látigos se ataron alrededor del cuerpo del esclavo, deteniendo su huida.

Con la daga en mano el noble urikense le grito: “Aun soy tu dueño y mientras yo respire harás lo que te ordene”. El esclavo asentó con la cabeza y no volvió a mirarlo a los ojos. Una siniestra sonrisa se posó en el rostro del noble, mientras se formaba un plan de venganza en su mente.

“Hermano tus botas están llenas de arena y sonríes...”, dijo su hermana sarcásticamente mientras el esclavo la atendía.