Tides of Fate

by Sean J Leith

  Kindro continued kicking the taller guard’s throat and head until they fell to the ground, unconscious. The taller guard’s jaw, nose, and arm were certainly broken; Zaedor was astounded at Kindro’s raw strength.

  After the guards were both out, Zaedor quickly grabbed the two sets of keys and began unlocking the cages. All the cages in the room corresponded to their own room lock—except that there were 16 keys on the ring, and some with symbols instead of numbers. He scrambled to find the number seven key as their room was numbered. He rushed to Lirkosh’s cage, and the key worked.

  “What’s your plan?” he hissed, backing away.

  “Free everyone. Two can unlock. The more guards we take, the more keys we get. The more captives we free, the faster we all leave,” he said quickly. “We take two rooms at a time,” Zaedor whispered. Each guard carried blades on them. So he mouthed, be careful. “We can’t get out alone! We need the others, but we must get free! They can no longer hold us captive. We fought for them, now we fight for ourselves!” he whispered fiercely with a raised fist, and the others nodded in agreement.

  They split into two teams to make their escape. First there was Zaedor and the ones he freed, second was Freya and Kindro. They opened the doors creeping in quietly, taking the guards with ease, four on two. They unlocked the cages as fast as they could. Their pace accelerated. The next four rooms were taken at once, with the multitude of prisoners growing in strength. More guards arrived from the noise, but were taken with a few beatings by two of their men.

  The prisoners banded to Zaedor, following his confidence without question. He showed no fear, knowing that this was their victory for the taking. They ran to unlock the final six doors, each leading to new halls. They split up, each team moving to check the halls. The crowd’s cheers roared from the pit. They were clueless as to what was happening with the captives. Zaedor ran down the first hall, leading around in a curve to the other side of the pit, and the second set of prisons. Lirkosh went back to alert the other teams.

  Teams three and four returned, claiming a dead end, other routes to the pit, and food and storage rooms. They joined forces and freed the next four rooms of prisoners there. Zaedor heard yelling coming from all angles. The jig was up, but there were too many prisoners set free now. They can’t stop us all, Zaedor thought.

  The halls were endless. Zaedor ran to a strangely ornate door that seemed out of place, with a granite tablet reading, Maroia Fallad beside it. Zaedor sent his team down the hall, having business to take care of. Zaedor kicked the door down. Fallad was readying himself to go to the pit for the fight.

  “What in the hells?” he drew a small blade quickly, slashing at Zaedor as he approached. Zaedor deftly dodged it as he would fists in the pit, calm as a breeze. He knew Fallad was weak. Zaedor grabbed the knave’s hand, striking him across the face, again and again. He clobbered him to the ground, striking more and more out of rage, rather than necessity. Not only for him, but for every man and woman imprisoned there.

  Maroia was broken and bruised, spitting up blood. “Wh—what do you—what do you want?” he croaked.

  Zaedor glared into his beady eyes, teeth clenched. He grabbed the small blade from the ground.

  “Justice.”

  He stuck the pathetic man with his own sword, through his silk doublets and into his heart. His eyes quickly gave way to death. Zaedor rose, victorious.

  I’m not out yet, he remembered. He looked around the office, seeing a small chest at the back against the rough rock wall. It wasn’t locked, so he opened it. It contained various trinkets: bracelets, necklaces, clothing, and rings—his ring. Zaedor placed his ring of Amirion back on his hand. Don’t forget us, Noah had said.

  Zaedor found one other thing he recognized in particular, a velvet tether necklace interlaced with silver rings and rubies. He grabbed it and placed it in a satchel that he found beside Maroia’s desk. He picked up the chest and brought it with him.

  “Zaedor!” Kindro yelled. “Everyone’s out, they found the exit! Everyone, even the guards and spectators, is running! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  He looked back to Maroia’s office with contempt. “Let’s go.”

  Through winding hallways, he passed the corpses of guards, slashed in pools of crimson. I’m sorry, he thought. Zaedor felt responsible for their deaths. But they’d imprisoned innocent men and women, and it had to be done.

  A light echoed from a tunnel heading upward, growing the closer and closer he came. He felt the warm breeze, and smelled moisture and plants and sand enter his nostrils.

  Freedom.

  He looked to see a hundred prisoners all around him. Each cheered for victory, survival, and freedom. Many horses, camels, and carriages rode off in all directions, fleeing the scene of the pit.

  “To Zaedor! The man with no plan!” Lirkosh yelled.

  The rest cheered, fists raised in the air. They were surrounded by palm trees, sun-scorched sand, and a large lake. Where are we? he wondered.

  “It’s the Scorpion’s Oasis. A day’s walk South of Zenato,” Freya said, as if reading his mind. Zaedor raised a brow. “What? You looked around like a newborn animal.”

  The cheers slowly settled. Zaedor placed the chest down, allowing everyone to find their personal belongings. A couple of fights had to be broken up, but no man cared for materials now, just the fresh air in their lungs.

  “Zenato is north of here. To those who are coming with, follow us!” Freya yelled, dragging Zaedor and Kindro behind her. Some followed, some went east, and others went south. Each man and woman thanked the others. Wherever they went, they knew they were now free.

  The Hydris from the pits held out a scaly hand. “You have my thanks, Amirionian. I’ll see you again—potentially,” Lirkosh said.

  Zaedor shook his hand, which suddenly burned white hot. He released it quickly and waved away the heat.

  “Ah, apologies about that,” Lirkosh chuckled. “My blood runs hot out here.” He smiled, walking south.

  The sun was scorching, but welcomed. Zaedor remembered his trek to Zenato the first time. If he didn’t have the waterskins and rations he found as he left Amirion, he’d be dead. He wouldn’t have been able hatch a plan to save the prisoners of the pit if he hadn’t been captured. He was proud that he made a difference.

  He didn’t need a god, a city, or a king—he did it as Zaedor, with the help of his comrades. He stood tall, shoulders back, and walked with a slight strut.

  “Looks like someone is feeling good about himself,” Kindro said. “Looks like the victory went to his head. Better hope we don’t get kidnapped again.” His oily black hair was lighter in the free sun, and he seemed even more hairy. He slapped Zaedor on the back, who almost coughed from the pain.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” Zaedor said.

  “So humble.” Freya laughed. “All it took was a bit of yelling.” Her fair skin glistened in the desert sun. It reminded him of his wife, Eryndis. He missed her fiery orange hair, pale green eyes, and strong personality. He didn’t know where she was, whether she was alive or dead; he simply knew his path was west, in Solmarsh.

  * * *

  A day passed, and they arrived to Zenato just after dark.

  Exhausted, thirsty, and starving, they knew they needed somewhere to stay. Many went their own ways, shaking hands and exchanging thanks and goodbyes. Eventually, it was just Kindro, Freya, and Zaedor left. A few guards questioned them, but they didn’t have manacles on. Zaedor just said they were poor and homeless and, since there were so may others living on the street, the guards let it go. “We need somewhere to sleep. I know just the place.”

  “Isn’t this the way to the slums? You better not be pulling a fast one on us, Blondie.”

  “Maybe he’s in withdrawal from a lack of fights,” Kindro said.

  Zaedor hoped he would be accepted there. Sand blew softly through the streets over the cobblestones, and people gasped and giggled at their appearances. They wore nothin
g but dirty clothes, barely covering their unmentionables. Zaedor doubted anyone would mug them, considering how they looked, and doubted anyone would be able to even if they tried. They came to the old tavern and inn, Leena’s Lagers.

  Leena washed the bar, cleaning up after a day of work. She glanced to the door, seeing the three sandy, dirty, sweat-covered individuals. She froze for a moment, speechless. After a pregnant pause, she piped up. “Oh my, Zaedor what happened? It’s been weeks!” she squeaked in a panic. All patrons of the bar looked to stare from their stools and stables.

  “It’s a long story,” Zaedor said, looking to the others. Rubbing his matted hair, he let out an exhaustive sigh. “Although, we may require a bit of help.” He carefully sat down. “We need three meals, anything you have, and three beds,” Zaedor pulled the ring from his finger, eyeing it closely. Do I give this up now? I’m sorry, Eryndis, maybe I should let you go, too.

  “I—we don’t have any money. I can give you this, however,” he said unevenly. He held out the ring to her.

  Leena’s eyes widened. “Oh no, I can’t accept that! That’s your ring! It has Amirion’s symbol on it, doesn’t it?” she gasped, holding her hand to her mouth.

  “Yes, but I cannot walk in here and ask for something for nothing.” Zaedor smirked as he spun the ring in his hand. “I don’t need it anymore.” He outstretched his hand, ring in the center of his palm. “It’s made with silver.”

  Leena reached out and closed his hand. “No, you’ve been through a lot,” she smiled sweetly, her ivory skin shining in the torchlight, accentuating sparse freckles. “Everything is on the house. You can have rooms four and five. They’re open.”

  Zaedor couldn’t believe it.

  He didn’t deserve such generosity. He may have helped his comrades escape, but she had no part in that. Not to mention, Leena’s inn was not the most well off. “I can’t accept that. I don’t want to be a burden. I want to help,” Zaedor said.

  “Don’t worry, I can cover it. The hairy one can stay in my room,” a gruff voice said from the tables. Footsteps approached; it was Rodrick. He placed a set of copper coins on the table.

  Zaedor flinched as the hairless Rodrick stepped toward him, and stumbled on a bar stool, expecting a steel fist across the face as their last encounter.

  But the peculiar, small man began to tear up with a thousand-yard stare—no, he was simply looking past Zaedor to—

  “Brother—” Rodrick said quietly. “I’ve been searching for weeks.” His eyes were locked with Kindro’s as they approached each other. They tightly embraced in a hug. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I’m alive, brother. I’m okay.” They released, and Kindro looked to Zaedor. “We were caught in an illegal fighting ring in the south. People are kidnapped and forced to fight,” he explained, looking back to Rodrick’s eyes. “Zaedor finally hatched a plan to get everyone out,” he smiled with a sigh. “If you could call it that. Simple, but effective.”

  Rodrick analyzed Zaedor’s eyes closely, as if staring into his soul. After a moment, he gave a subtle, warm smile. “You look different,” he said to Zaedor, holding out his hand.

  He’s still a shapeshifter, but Rodrick couldn’t be that bad, could he? He refused to believe that a brother of his friend could be evil. His mind was clearer now. He held resentment for a single person, not a whole people. He remembered the knock to his head with the steeled fist. Zaedor knew he provoked the fight. He charged a man who seemed to be unarmed. Zaedor struggled with his resentment. Rodrick didn’t hurt your people. He gave you what you deserved and instead paid for your bed and food, he thought to himself. Shake his hand, you know it’s the right thing to do.

  “I suppose I have a broken nose, an askew jaw, and a few extra bruises.” Zaedor took Rodrick’s hand, and shook it strongly. “I apologize for provoking you, and thank you for paying for my room and board.”

  Rodrick smiled, and his droopy brown eyes seemed to shine brightly from the return of his brother. “You were mourning,” Rodrick began, nodding. “A man needs his time to mourn before he can live again. It seems you’ve made it.”

  Leena sat at the bar, murmuring to Freya, both looking at the two brothers curiously. “Hey gents, I hate to interrupt your romantic moment,” Freya piped in. “But why is one of you as hairy as a dire bear, but the other is hairless?”

  Rodrick let out a chuckle. “Kin here never let me live it down. Commonly, shapeshifters have typical forms they take, and borrow traits from them. I form into Golems, and they are absent of hair.” His laugh stifled, turning to a sarcastic smile. “Although, being hairless up in the ice forests of Kholrani doesn’t help me much.”

  Zaedor thought of Cloaker. A man in a wolf cowl, thickest stubble I’ve seen, forming into a bear, but he had so many other forms. He screwed his face into a frown.

  “Something wrong?” Kindro asked.

  “I just remembered something.” Zaedor said bluntly, sitting on a bar stool, still in thought. He noticed that everyone was staring. “Rodrick, do you know the name ‘Cloaker?’” Zaedor asked. He did not know the size of the shapeshifter clan, or what kind of people they truly were.

  Rodrick’s expression darkened. “Yes, I know of him. His real name is Roker, mind you. What of it?”

  Why is he so resistant? Zaedor wondered. He hoped they weren’t in league with each other. “He’s the one who killed the king and a good friend of mine, in Amirion.” Zaedor said.

  Rodrick turned away, closing his eyes. “He was the head of the tribe,” his voice turned as hoarse as a dying beast. “He betrayed the council, killed two members, and fled, joining some religion we care nothing for. We haven’t seen him since.”

  A religion? This followed his theory from before. “Which?”

  “Lornak.”

  Zaedor shot off his stool. “Lornak?” he exclaimed. Everyone jumped back. He steeled himself again. The orb must have been him. But what did it do? “Lornak is powerless, isn’t he?” Zaedor asked. In his teachings, it was said Lornak was fated to be released…

  “I don’t know anything about that. Roker seemed pretty sure of the opposite. He tried to convince us to join him, and—well, you can guess the rest when everyone refused.”

  “I’m sorry that he damaged your society, as well.”

  Kindro placed his hands on both his brother’s and Zaedor’s shoulders. “All right, let’s cheer up. Tonight is a night to celebrate! Drinks are on my brother, here!” he boomed.

  Leena’s cooks brought out food of all kinds that were exports from the region: luscious fruits and vegetables that came from the oasis, meat from desert boars and pigs raised and bred in Zenato, and different insect ichors that were sweet and salty and crunchy and gross, but Zaedor even forced himself to eat those.

  The mead was passed around countless times, along with stories of travels, societies, and moments in the pit. The fights, the regrets—but most of all, the joys of freedom were told. Zaedor’s head grew fuzzy from mead, but he had no rage to fathom.

  Rodrick told stories of his land, the frozen forests of the northeast—Kholrani, as he put it. They lived near Shiada’s tomb in a secret location, first there to protect it, but lost their belief in it centuries prior. They remained due to tradition. It was their home, and they would die to protect their camps and tribes. The shifters were a simple people living in small camps and huts. They lived day-to-day hunting dire bears and other animals. They only took what they required and lived in equilibrium with the land around them.

  Zaedor found it all fascinating; some in Renalia were born with the ability to shift, and some of whom could choose to live in the ice forests with them. There are probably many shifters no one knows about, or even that they know of themselves, Zaedor thought.

  Kindro listened and laughed loudly at Rodrick’s terrible jokes, painfully slapping him on the shoulder. Rodrick was much shorter than his brother, but the brother had hands of transformative iron.

  Freya went on a long tangent a
bout nobility in the north, and the level of hypocrisy that thrived there. Nobles followed the law and promoted family values, but she told that it was far from promoted in their homes. She did not go into detail, and none dared to ask what she meant.

  Zaedor wished to see her fight but would not want to see her angry. He saw it once, and to his luck, there was a cage wall between them. She had a sweet and lovely personality, usually. Zaedor had her to thank for pulling him from the pit of his own sorrow with her harsh treatments. He wondered what kind of family she had, and why she was in the deserts, of all places. Did she run from something? If so, what from?

  As the night grew late, Kindro and Rodrick retired to their room, laughing, hooting, and hollering from upstairs. The bar cleared for the most part, except for Leena, who cleaned the tables, and Zaedor and Freya, who sat at the bar quietly, drinking together. She placed a hand on her collarbone, running her fingers along it.

  “Freya, why haven’t you mentioned your family?” Zaedor asked. He lost a bit of his filter due to the libations. Not like it matters. What’s she gonna do, hit me?

  “It’s personal. I have my reasons, Blondie.”

  “You can’t run forever. I ran from my problems and look what happened to me.” Zaedor chuckled and pointed to his nose. Damn, it still really hurts, he thought. It shot with pain when he poked it clumsily. “You helped me realize that I was being juvenile, pushing my problems onto others in my anger.” He nodded and looked to her with a hopeful eye. “Practice what you preach.”

  Freya laughed. “Damn it, don’t tell me that now. Looks like the learner is the master, is he?” She shot in close and stared between his eyes. “Gimmie your head.” She grabbed his face and placed a thumb on either side of his nose.

  “Hey, what are you—”

  “Sit still, damn it. What’s your favorite animal?” Freya asked. Why does she want to know that? “I don’t know, a wolf?”

  “Wolf!” she yelled. With a crack, a rush of sharp pain shot through his nose as she shoved it back into place.