by Ben Wolf
Then again, he hadn’t attended any type of ceremony in years. He couldn’t claim even remote expertise in this area.
But as the ceremony concluded, the priestess raised her hands over her head and looked toward the crystalline ceiling. She put her left hand into the stream of light, now angled toward the temple’s eastern wall thanks to the setting sun, and she closed her eyes.
When she pulled her hand away from the stream, the light still clung to her hand, and an arc of light traced from the stream of sunlight down to where she’d lowered her hand and hung in the air. Then she molded the light into a small orb, twice as bright as the streams of sunlight.
Kent watched the sight in awe. He’d seen plenty of forms of magic in his days of fighting Inothians, but he’d never seen anyone manipulate light itself before.
The priestess turned back toward the image of Laeri and raised her hands again, this time with the orb glowing between them. She released it, and it hovered in the air over her head. Then it slowly rose up to Laeri’s chest and lodged in the hollow, dark circle under her breasts.
As it did, the statue itself began to glow, but not on its own. The orb was casting light throughout the statue, and millions of microscopic cracks glowed with the warm afternoon sunlight the priestess had captured.
Incredible. And an incredible tribute to the Goddess of Light.
Kent wondered how the priestess had managed such a feat, but more so, he wondered what practical value the magic had outside of illuminating a statue.
He didn’t get a chance to ask the priestess. She walked behind the statue of Laeri and disappeared, possibly into a back room.
Kent caught a temple worker afterward and tried to get a meeting with the priestess, but the temple worker refused to accommodate him. So Kent explained what the soldier had told him, and the temple worker escorted him through the temple to a separate chamber.
Kent found himself standing among dozens of foul-smelling, disheveled people, waiting in some sort of line. He surveyed the room and realized he’d stumbled into some sort of communal sleeping room.
Unlike the pristine whiteness of the sanctuary, this chamber housed simple wooden beds stacked three high and spaced no more than a few feet apart. The line curled around the beds to a wooden table set up at the far side of the room.
Another temple worker, distinct because of his white robes, sat at the table and scribbled on a piece of parchment for each person who approached. Then the person at the front of the line would leave and meander through the forest of beds. After what looked like intentional searching, the person would claim one.
Kent realized the beds were numbered.
He’d slept outdoors for nearly a week, and while he would’ve preferred not to share sleeping quarters with dozens of filthy street people, it beat actually becoming one of those filthy street people by sleeping on the street that night.
And with winter drawing to a close, the nights were still cold, even so much farther south than Muroth. So Kent sighed and resigned himself to his fate.
The line took a little less than an hour to get through, and Kent claimed a bed—number 268, a bottom spot.
Shortly after he did, the doors to the chamber closed, and no one else was let in, despite much shouting and complaining coming from just outside. The temple’s shelter service must’ve capped around 300 beds.
Temple workers ushered the human mass into another larger chamber, sat them at worn wooden tables like the one where Kent had received his bed number, and fed them a hot, albeit bland, meal.
Better than an empty stomach.
Back in the chamber of beds, Kent made his way back to number 268.
When he got there, a large, bare-chested man was laying in it.
The man was chatting at a young woman in the next bed over who appeared as if she wanted nothing to do with either him or the conversation they were having.
“Excuse me, sir,” Kent said to him. “But I believe you have the wrong bed.”
The man looked up at him with brown eyes so dark, they were almost black. “Piss off.” Then he resumed his talking.
Kent squared himself with the bed. “I said, you have the wrong bed, sir.”
The man looked up at him again. “An’ I said, piss off.”
“I apologize, but I will not be doing that. Now, will you comply nicely, or
must you be made to cooperate?”
The man scoffed, then he rolled out of bed and stood to his full height— a good six inches taller than Kent.
His skin carried a grayish, ashen pallor, albeit faint, and black, bristly hair sprouted from his chest, arms, neck, face, and shoulders. Kent
imagined it must’ve carried over to his back as well, but he decided he’d rather not know for sure.
His scarred face seemed swine-like in shape, and when he spoke, his teeth looked abnormally large for his mouth. He looked strong, but in an unrefined way. His thick arms lacked tone, and under his sagging chest muscles, his gut lolled over his belt.
Still, he had to weigh a solid seventy pounds more than Kent, and in a fight, that would make a considerable difference. Avoiding a scuffle, if possible, was Kent’s prerogative, but if one were to start, he would end it quickly.
“Who in the third hell d’you think you’re talkin’ to?” he growled.
Kent wrinkled his nose. The man’s breath stank like day-old, half-digested mead and rancid meat.
“Perhaps I was not clear,” Kent said calmly. “I do not care who you are. I only care that you remove yourself from the bed allotted to me for this evening.”
The man’s mouth opened, and he blinked. Then he carried on as if Kent hadn’t said anything. “I’m Trag Gadzag. Ya mus’ be new in town if ya don’ know who I am.”
Is he slow in the head? “I simply require my allotted bed. Please step aside.”
“No one tells me what t’do. I’m the best fighter th’dockmasters ever seen.”
Definitely slow. But if he was telling the truth about his status among fighters down by the docks, then Kent had cause for concern.
Kent had engaged in only a few street fights in his day, nearly all of them as a youth. But he’d learned one thing through his extensive combat training over the years: street fighters usually didn’t know much actual technique.
However, many had more tenacity than even dedicated soldiers. And that made them dangerous.
But Kent had handled far worse in his day. “Trag? As in, Trag-ic? Tragic? Is that your full name?”
Trag squinted at him. “No. Just Trag. Trag Gadzag.”
Kent shook his head. “No, I am certain it is short for ‘Tragic.’ With a face like yours, that name is perfect.”
The young woman Trag had been talking to stifled a giggle, but she slid off her bed and watched from behind it.
Trag’s fists tightened, and his pitiful chest puffed. “You’re gonna pay f’r that.”
By now, a loose crowd had encircled them. Their presence had all but necessitated that Trag choose to fight, especially since Kent had publicly damaged his ego.
Kent was ready for it. As the smaller man, he had the advantage of speed and added mobility in a smaller space.
“Last chance, friend,” Kent said calmly. “Walk away, and I will have my bed, and you may return to yours.”
Trag smacked his chest with his right hand three times, loosed a piglike roar, and swung a big overhand right at Kent’s head.
Chapter Four
Kent slipped under the punch with ease, got on Trag’s right side, and used his momentum to smash Trag’s head into the wooden bed rail where he’d just been standing. Quick, hard, and decisive.
Trag went down hard.
Fight over.
The crowd gasped, and Kent casually sat on his allotted bed. But then Trag stirred and began to push himself up.
Kent scrambled to his feet. Fight not over.
“He’s half-orc,” someone hissed from behind Kent. “Thick skull.”
Th
at explains a lot. And it wasn’t just his skull—all of Trag’s bones would be thicker due to his half-orc heritage. No wonder Trag was the best fighter the dockmasters had ever seen.
Kent readied himself.
Trag turned around slowly. Rage abounded in his dark eyes, and dark blood streamed from his nose and bubbled from between his large teeth. He beat his chest three more times.
Tenacity. Street fighters have tenacity.
Kent had to make the fight not worth continuing, and breaking Trag’s half-orc bones would prove too difficult.
Joints, though—no species that Kent knew of had impossibly strong joints. Movability meant vulnerability.
So when Trag swung again, Kent didn’t bother with counter-punching or throwing a kick or an elbow. Instead, he avoided the punch, repositioned himself, and latched onto Trag’s left arm with both hands.
He raised his left shin up to Trag’s hip, then he jumped off of his right leg, swung it over Trag’s head, and planted his heel in Trag’s face.
Kicking Trag’s face was just a bonus. The real effect was that Kent’s weight pulled Trag to the floor.
They hit the ground, but Trag’s resistance ensured Kent a soft landing. Kent shifted and squeezed his knees together, and he straightened Trag’s arm along his torso.
Trag grunted and struggled, but Kent raised his hips hard.
SNAP.
Trag bellowed, and Kent released him and rolled up to his feet. Trag remained on the ground, clutching his broken elbow joint and wailing.
Now the fight was over.
A bright light burst into view between Kent and Trag, blinding Kent with pain. He tried to shield his eyes, but it was too late. He couldn’t see anything.
Something swept him off of his feet, and he hit the floor on his side.
“Stay down, both of you!” a sharp male voice commanded.
Kent still couldn’t see. The light continued to blaze, and he didn’t want to open his eyes to face it. Something curled around his body, and it lifted him off the floor with ease.
What is happening?
He scrambled and strained, but he couldn’t break free. The form kept him restrained, all while it seemed to carry him along—though he couldn’t be sure. He still couldn’t open his eyes against the bright light.
A moment later, he hit the ground again, and the light vanished. He opened his eyes and sat up. The Temple of Laeri loomed over him, a black void against the starry night sky.
What…?
He looked around. He was in some sort of alleyway paved with crumbling stones and framed by the temple’s black exterior wall on one side and a handful of other stone buildings on the other.
The stench of rotting fruit and urine hit Kent’s nostrils, and then he heard a wheezing, moaning sound nearby.
Kent turned to his left and saw Trag lying on the ground next to him, writhing and clutching his injured arm.
Did they… throw us out?
He stood and hurried back to the temple walls, but he couldn’t find a door anywhere. It didn’t make any sense—how had they removed Trag and him without carrying them through a door? Was the door just hidden within the wall?
Or was it magic, perhaps? Light magic. It explained the brightness that kept him from seeing anything while it was happening. And with Laeri being the Goddess of Light, it made sense.
Kent wished he better understood how it all worked.
“Ya bastard!” Trag shouted from behind him.
Kent whirled around, ready, but Trag still lay on the alley floor with his elbow broken.
“Ya broke my damn’d arm!”
Kent relaxed. “I gave you ample warning, and you chose the wrong path.”
“An’ you got us kicked out f’r the night!”
“Again, that was your doing. I did not start the altercation.” Kent smirked. “I simply finished it.”
A river of profanity spilled from Trag’s mouth, some of it in Orcish, presumably.
But Trag was right about one thing—they’d been expelled from the temple. That meant finding other accommodations for the night. And with no coin or other resources to speak of, it likely meant sleeping on the street.
Kent scanned the alley again, consumed by indecision.
For all Kent’s knowledge, he knew nothing about such lifestyles. He didn’t know the city, so he didn’t know his way around.
He didn’t know which areas tended to harbor more criminal activity and which areas tended to harbor less. He didn’t know whether other institutions offered shelter, and he didn’t know if they’d let him in at such a late hour anyway.
Trag struggled to his feet, wincing.
Kent faced him again, wary and ready. “I do not need to warn you again, do I?”
Trag glowered at him and pointed with his good arm. “I never wanna see ya again.”
With that, Trag turned and headed out of the alley, his left arm hanging limp and awkward from his shoulder.
Kent watched him leave. If there were anyone Kent might observe to see how such a life was to be lived, Trag exemplified the lifestyle. So Kent followed him out of the alley at a distance.
Trag’s hulking form staggered through the streets amid dozens of others out and about at night—a fraction of as many as Kent had seen during the day. Trag maneuvered through them all, heading east, toward the coast and the harbor.
It made sense; if Trag genuinely was the best fighter the dockmasters had ever seen, then he would know the area. He’d likely even worked on the docks at some point.
Sure enough, Trag led Kent to the harbor, and he took up residence on a wooden bench against a massive warehouse of some sort. Or perhaps it was a building where they constructed ships.
As with homelessness, Kent knew little of the practice of shipbuilding, thanks to living in a landlocked province of Muroth all his life.
Kent watched Trag from afar, and he ultimately elected to steer clear of him for the rest of the evening. It would be far better if Trag didn’t happen upon him while he was sleeping.
Revenge is far easier if your target is asleep.
Kent thought of Fane. He definitely wanted Fane awake and comprehending every detail when Kent finally claimed his vengeance.
Instead of further pursuing Trag, Kent headed down one of the docks toward one of the smaller ships. He’d picked it out because it appeared unoccupied.
And what could be better than a covered lodging that offered the added benefit of rocking him to sleep with the push and pull of the waves?
He boarded the vessel with ease, found his way below decks, and lay across a pile of some sort of fabric. Not as comfortable as the bed he’d inadvertently vacated at the temple, but it beat sleeping on the street or on a wooden bench.
Within minutes, the waves coaxed Kent into fitful dreams of his father and brother.
“What in the third hell are ye doin’ on me ship?”
The voice snapped Kent awake, and he recoiled from the direction of the sound.
A man in a fine coat and trousers pointed a curved sword down at him. “I asked ye a question, mate.”
“Forgive me, sir.” Kent raised his hand as if to submit, but he also used it to gauge his distance from the man’s sword.
There, on the floor and on his back, Kent could only hope for mercy or a mistake.
“I have only just arrived in town and needed a place to sleep,” Kent continued. “Your fine vessel looked inviting, so I took it upon myself to—”
“I want ye off me ship in ten seconds, or I’ll flay yeer skin into strips and use it as bait.”
The man wasn’t as big as Trag, but from the way he carried himself, Kent could tell he knew how to handle that sword.
“Yes, sir. Right away.” Kent stood slowly so as not to surprise the man or give him a reason to attack.
“Ye’ve got seven seconds,” the man said. “I suggest ye hurry.”
Kent nodded and maneuvered around him, then he charged up the steps to the main deck and bac
k onto the dock, leaving the ship behind.
In the distance, massive merchant ships and Inothian Navy frigates floated under the golden sunrise, poised to set out on whatever new adventures lay beyond the bay.
Goldmoor, indeed.
“And don’t ever come back, ye hear?” the man called from the ship. Kent wouldn’t come back. That was for certain.
He headed west, and the city swallowed him whole. He passed several beggars in the streets and wondered if he’d soon end up sharing their lot in life.
No, Kent reasoned. He had a lifetime of applicable skills in economics, combat, and business to rely upon. Certainly he could find some way to put that knowledge to practical use.
But where? And how? He walked the streets for hours, searching for answers.
As he wandered the north side of the city, a loud commotion arose from one street over. It intensified as he proceeded onward, and he heard a flurry of screams next.
Kent cut through an alley toward the street. If someone was in danger, he wanted to be on hand to help, if he could.
When he got to the scene, he found two men facing off in the middle of the street, surrounded by an ever-growing circle of scattering people.
One of them, a short man wearing a dark robe with red accents, was drawing black symbols in the air with his fingertips. Shafts of eerie red light swirled around him like vipers pursuing prey.
The other man wore a hooded brown-and-gray cloak. A dozen fist- sized rocks floated around his body on their own. He held a brown stone in his left hand, and he extended his right hand toward the man in the dark robe.
The rocks orbiting him shot toward the man in the dark robe, but as they drew near, the red light swirling around the man in the dark robe accelerated, spiraling faster and faster.
The rocks hit the red light, and it crushed them into dust. Then the red lights slowed into their snakelike shafts once again.
“You’re weak, bounty hunter!” the man in the dark robe shouted. “And no match for my dark runes.”
