Lore Of The Lost

Chapter 3.

Daella edged closer to the wrought steel bars, her attention riveted on the shirtless man who entered the ring, his muscles aglow with sweat beneath the flickering tongues of burning torches. His short, jet-black hair clung to his forehead as he stepped into view, like shadows cast upon the moonlit canvas. Tattered, brown pants adorned his lower half.

Unsure of what to expect, I found myself gravitating towards Daella's side, my gaze locked onto the solitary figure in the heart of the arena. A cacophony of sound erupted from the Scarrans as the man turned to face the eastern direction of the ring, an audible wave signaling the imminent commencement of the tournament.

Keen I watched.

My emotions were a whirlwind—unsettled, uneasy—as I grappled with the surreal reality unfolding before my eyes.

“He would win,” Daella's words, uttered almost in hushed reverence, reached my ears. For a fleeting moment, I studied her, then tore my gaze away, reorienting my focus on the lone contender standing resolute in the ring.

With measured steps, he retreated as the cheers subsided, each movement deliberate and poised. Every calculated stride brought him a few paces from the center. Along the perimeter, a man stationed there tossed him a lone weapon—a spear.

“How can you tell?” I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper above the rising tension.

“It's in his eyes.”

My brows rose and I turned to the man in the ring whose back was to us. I could tell from his stance he was prepared for whoever was to come. His back was a bit hunched, a large haunting scar marred across his right side to his backbone, and a few other minor scars on his left shoulder. Almost mouthing my words, a metallic resonance echoed through the arena—a substantial gate extending from the eastern section of the ring's perimeter, casting a shadowy path.

Eagerly, I watched. I waited. And then it emerged. Initially concealed, all that pierced the darkness were the twin, luminous orbs of golden eyes, radiant like molten gold in the night. The arena hushed into an eerie stillness, even the muscles on the man's back paused in their movement.

Concealed in the shadows, it advanced, gradually revealing its monstrous form—a creature with a visage akin to a wild wolf but infinitely more nightmarish. I shivered involuntarily, my fingers curling around the cold, rusted bars for a semblance of support.

The horror clung to me, an indelible imprint. While my knowledge of such beasts might be limited, the golden-eyed creature exuded an aura of menace. Talons that could rend stone, a maw lined with razor-sharp fangs, sinewy, powerful arms capable of snapping trees like twigs—no trace of fur on its ashen skin, veins running along its uneven form. This was no ordinary animal. The air itself seemed to quiver with its strength, and the mere rustle of its movements intensified the fear that gripped me, made me fear the fate of the man a few paces from it.

For my part, I would have cowered, paralyzed with fear, yearning for a swift end to life itself.

"What could a lone spear achieve?" My words echoed my own doubts, and Daella couldn't help but agree with my unspoken sentiment. She probably had seen the same fate that loomed before us.

The beast soon lunged forward, its powerful limbs propelling it with terrifying speed, the man sidestepped, dodging the creature’s initial attack. To my chilling surprise, a faint ripple of disappointment swept through the onlookers as the beast's attack missed its mark.

Daella's voice broke through my thoughts, her words something awe and concern. "He's nimble, isn't he? But that beast... it's unlike anything I've seen."

I nodded, unable to tear my gaze away from the unfolding battle. The man's agile leap over the beast's snapping jaws left me breathless, a gasp escaping my lips as he managed to evade the creature's deadly bite.

"He's armed with the spear now," Daella observed, her voice threading a fragile strand of hope. "Maybe... just maybe, he can do it."

With a low growl, the creature pivoted on its massive paws, golden eyes narrowing as it recalibrated its approach. The man crouched low, muscles coiled, poised to spring into action.

I may not know how long I waited. Watched. Every second of it. Every moment held weight—when the man crumpled to the ground, when the creature retaliated, when he lost his spear, and when he reached for the fallen weapon just beyond his grasp.

Every breath felt—harsh.

The creature charged again, its massive form hurtling toward the man with bone-crushing force. Every other sound faded. Sand spewing with each galop the creature made. My throat clenched.

Time slowed to a crawl and the man shifted his weight, his feet digging into the dusty ground as he braced himself for impact. Slow yet fleeting. Barely could my eyes tell. At the last moment, he sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the beast's gaping maw. He lunged forward and drove the spear toward the creature's exposed flank. It lashed out, its powerful claws raking across the man’s side– yet his grip on the spear remained and then he twisted the spear deeper into the creature’s flesh, then wrenched the spear upward, aiming for the beast's skull. The spearpoint found its mark, and in a burst of gore and bone, it pierced through the creature's jaw and into its brain.

Time seemed to stand still as the beast's body went rigid, its golden eyes dimming as life fled from them. With a deafening thud, the creature crashed to the ground. Dead.

Silence descended upon the arena, then the cheering—roaring—

Silently, beyond words, I watched. He stepped close, pulling out the spear and driving again into the creature. The sight was gruesome, so I looked away.

My eyes shifted to the upper tier, where Declan sat, the male with the shave sat next to him. He must have arrived while I was focused on the fight. On the other side of Declan, the man who had called his name sat, sun-kissed tresses of short, golden hair gracefully framed his cheekbones.

Declan’s eyes left the man on the ring, and in a short time, they fell on me like he had earlier known my standing. A pulsing kind of air hit me in my stomach as those eyes I'm yet to know their shade bore on me. I forgot to think as I gazed up to those eyes. They were silent—no, curious. I could feel it. But hard to place.

The young man whispered something to Declan, prompting him to turn away just as Daella's voice reached me.

“Now we know.”

I barely spared her a glance when my eyes returned to find his seat empty—he was gone, like a wisp of cloud. I sighed, peeling myself from the rusty, cold bars, brushing my hands to rid them of the dirt that clung against my damp palms.

Leaving her standing by the bar, I retraced my steps to settle on the unforgiving mattress, its worn fibers emitting a mournful creak.

My gaze traversed the meager chamber, tracing the ashen walls etched with jagged crevices. A solitary sheet, frayed at the edges, adorned her wrecked cot … the grim reality of my dire situation crept up on me, akin to a relentless beast's talons digging into my consciousness. It was an agony that permeated every fiber of my being. Even the frigid breath that emanated from the stone walls seemed to whisper tales of suffering.

So entranced was I in my contemplation that I remained oblivious to a few torches flickering out in a blaze of quickfire along the passage being quenched, rendering the arena dim. I failed to register the fading echoes of Scarrans departing, and even the return of Daella to her makeshift mattress. Instead, my mind was consumed by alarm, terror, and an unyielding quest for an escape route, a loophole, as I futilely devised plan after plan, each more desperate than the last.

The sound of metal striking the bars jolted my head in its direction, wrenching my thoughts from their relentless upheaval.

“Hey, ya!" A coarse voice called from the opposite side of the barred entrance. A weathered, orange-tinged beard emerged through the openings, bearing a tray weighed down with two plates, which were thrust beneath the barrier, causing them to skid across the stone floor.

The man grunted, a discontented rumble emanating from his throat. He raised his head, scanning our dim cell with a gaze that lingered uncomfortably. A serpent-like click of his tongue against his teeth preceded his departure to the neighboring cell, his voice echoing down the dim passage as he tended to others, tray screeching.

Daella reached for the plates, accepted them from the tray, and extended one to me. "It's not the finest fare, but you should eat it. They don't bring meals often." I didn't need her to reiterate, so I took the plate she offered.

“Thank you," I mumbled, my gaze dropping to the unappetizing sludge within the bowl. My throat clenched, and I battled back the bile that surged within me as I beheld the unsavory mixture.

“Yeah, it's so,” Daella said, as though she could read my thoughts clearly. “Tastes worst even.” She settled onto her mattress, clutching a spoon, and slowly stirred, staring down at it as if willing it to look more appetizing.

Attempting another glance at the bowl, I recoiled at the repulsive sight. The rice formed a dull, mushy mass, and the other ingredients remained unrecognizable, concealed in a murky broth. With each passing second, the soup began to resemble something unpleasant, something I didn't want to think about. And as I recalled the grisly sounds of the spear striking flesh again and again, the broth took on a reddish hue, as though it was now a macabre concoction of blood and viscera.

I shoved the thought away, but my stomach recoiled, and I dropped the plate before hastily retreating to the corner near the steel bars. I clung to the cool stone wall, unable to stifle the sound of my retching.

“You’re emptying your belly, mate. Staring at it for too long was never a good idea if you wanted to keep what little your belly holds.”

She was right, and now I feel thoroughly sick.

With trembling limbs, I rose to my feet, shaking uncontrollably as I wiped my mouth. I dared not glance at the mess I'd made, fearful that the sight would reignite my nausea. I took a deep breath, attempting to steady myself. My stomach felt empty, hollow, the air sour in my throat. I felt utterly wretched. Horrible.

Sighing through my nose, the acrid taste of vomit still clinging to the back of my tongue. I walked back to the mattress, trying to ignore the sour tang of bile that lingered in my mouth.

"Here."

I caught the canteen she threw to me, twisting off the cap and taking several long sips of the cool, clean water. The liquid soothed my throat, washing away the bitter taste. I replaced the cap and handed it back to her.

“Thank you. Sorry,” I told her at last. There was no place I could have run to. My eyes inadvertently roved over her almost-empty plate, and I struggled to suppress the urge to retch once more.

“You won't endure long in this place," she stated matter-of-factly, her gaze assessing my frail, emaciated form. "You're too pallid, too fragile for this environment. Your best hope is a swift sell." She spooned another portion of the viscous rice soup into her mouth. "The guards don't take kindly to wasted food. They'll come in and beat you, just as they did to the lass in the adjacent cell." Her full lips twisted with distaste as she swallowed, clearly unimpressed by the taste. I gulped in response.