Lore Of The Lost

Chapter 2.

The man’s grip constricted around my arm as he led me through a convoluted maze of dim passages, each twist of the labyrinth intensifying the gallop of my heart. The gravel beneath my feet felt ashen, the walls the same, an odyssey of shadows and gloom.

I could feel my bone beneath his aggressive fingers. He never slowed. Every step through the pathways was too brisk, too light, overly soon carrying me to whatever torment and nightmare awaited in the slave quarters.

This wasn't the end, right? There had to be some crack in this nightmare, some loophole I could exploit.

The corridors we traversed seemed endless, the echoing footsteps and the sound of my anxious breaths the only companions in this eerie journey down a few stairs. My surroundings shifted from cold, stone walls to narrow passages that seemed to stretch on forever. The anticipation of what lay ahead weighed heavily on me, my steps growing slower with every passing moment. But I wouldn't dare stop.

At last, after what seemed like an unending expanse of time, we arrived at a place that made my heart skip a beat. High above, the open roof allowed the sun's dying rays to filter through, creating intricate patterns on a massive metal ring that dominated the center of this space. The bars surrounding it resembled the confining bars of a cage rather than an arena. The implications of this space made my stomach churn.

The ground within the metal ring was rough, covered in sand that contrasted sharply with the cemented pathway where I was being hauled along.

Above, a semblance of a settlement, seats arranged around the perimeter, granting a clear view of the ring below. It was as though every detail had been carefully designed to ensure that all eyes were on the center. On the ring. The encircling walls were fortified by steel bars, forming cells numbering over forty, along the path I was led.

Gray. Black. Brown. That's all. No other color.

The man finally came to a stop in front of one of the steel bars, my heart battering in my chest. This was it—the moment of truth. His hand moved to unlock the bar, the metallic sound echoing in the silence around us. My gaze locked onto his face, searching for any hint of what was to come. Perhaps this was to be my fate now, a destiny I had no control over.

The bar swung open, its rusty hinges protesting as I was thrust into the dim cell. Resistance was futile, and I entered without protest. His scornful snort followed me, and I pondered what Eowyn might have thought if she could glimpse my present circumstances, ensnared by the very forces she had warned me against. I had to suppress those thoughts, the ache for familiarity that came unbidden.

I took a step and the bar snapped back into place behind me, sealing me in this shadowy haven. There was no window. The only light was supposedly pouring through the slats of the bar, and it was fast retreating. Two mattresses, worn and haggard, pressed against the rugged wall, offering the only semblance of comfort.

A young woman sat on one, I could sense she was older, perhaps by one or so. I took another step, my eyes hovering over her. Her thick, black hair—like an ever-ending black, braided and long, reaching down across her breasts. Her skin was one I had never seen before. Not like I have seen much until a few hours before.

Copper-brown, like a windfall autumn leaf, and as smooth as a moonstone. Beautiful.

Her obsidian eyes narrowed slightly at the way I watched her. Such interesting eyes—a tiny crystal gleaming through them.

“How long would you keep standing there?” She seethed, although it was in Scarran tongue, her voice clipped with an accent I’d never heard before which made me believe she wasn't actually from around here.

I blinked. That was probably not a question but an indication for me to sit or get off the way.

She watched as I reached for the vacant mattress. The single sheet that lay across it was brown, not the exact color it was meant to be but from timeless usage. Too thin to repel the cold. Dirty. It almost made me cringe as I pushed it to the corner.

I turned and caught her staring. Curious. “Why do they bring you here? You're a Scarran, and it's unusual for them to harbor one of their own in this place. Have you committed a crime? Taken a life, perhaps?" Her eyelid arched.

I wanted to respond–but stifled the urge to say a word in Scarran tongue. “I’m Elfen,” I replied instead, my words in Elvis's tongue— Sindarin and watched a flicker of surprise cross her black eyes.

“An elf in Vendura?” She struggled with the words in Sindarin, the syllables emerging disjointed and jagged. Pitiable, how they stumbled off her tongue, sounding like patched-up fragments, "I thought you," she trailed off, struggling to find the appropriate words in my native language.

Even as those words died off, I could see her remaining thoughts alive, especially as she added, “I've never known an elf before. Seeing one is a rarity. What made you leave your land?”

I contemplated telling her I had never been to Caelmir, that this journey was merely a quest of mine. East I was told to go, but here I am. “Well,” She continued, “now we're stuck here,” I wasn't sure if that was what she meant to say, “thanks to some men, you should at least get to open up a bit.”

I stirred—a mere ripple in my posture, uncertain of how to respond but I had no intentions of resorting to Sindarin, not after her struggle with its basics. While withholding the Scarran language might have been my initial stance, it wouldn't aid me in knowing about this place if I was ever going to succeed in a plan to flee.

“I'm part Scarran and part elf,” I revealed and watched as her arched eyebrows knitted together, whether in response to my use of Scarran or that I was…nobody, I couldn't be sure. “I was crossed by the Scarrans on my path to Caelmir.”

“You speak Scarran,” she observed.

“I do,” I simply said, forgoing an explanation of how or why. “How long have you been here?”

She shifted. “Thirteen nights.”

I only needed to know how many passages lead out of this city. Soon enough, with a stroke of luck, those walls would be behind me once I reclaimed my satchel. "Is there a way out?" The urgency in my voice betrayed my anxiety.

She watched me like I had just uttered the most ridiculous word she’d ever heard. Her pert nose released a sound. “Pray to the gods you find a master who treats you well."

I wasn't sure what she meant so I asked, “Master?”

“It is said most female slaves get to be used as common laborers or servants. The attractive ones, however, are sold to High and Noble Lords for…other purposes," she explained, her words dripping with a stark truth that made a chill spider walk down my spine. “You're a rather attractive one, so perhaps you should begin praying to your god.”

A lump formed in my throat, stifling my response. "I don't—" My voice wavered, unable to articulate the chaos within me.

She ran those dark eyes down me. “The Scarran only use their slaves for fun or labor. There's no in-between. You either find yourself in one or the other and unless you possess a god capable of intervening, escape is unlikely."

I tried to swallow but my throat was tight with conflict. “Is there no other means of escape?" I clung to a glimmer of hope, refusing to accept such a grim fate.

She shrugged. “It's your fate now. By the way, I'm Daella,” she introduced.

I swallowed. “Galwyn.”

Didn't bother to say another word with the disarray storming in my mind. I see. That's what the men outside had been all about. But she had said it like she was less of a goddess if I had imaged one with such skin. I was drifting from one uncertain thought to another, trying to sort through the jumble, when the noises from atop the roof coerced my eyes to dart through the bar, across the metal ring, to the space above, which now held a small gathering that wasn't there when I was being led by.

The last ray of the sunset had long departed, the place now lit by the many fires set in the torch bearer that encircled the arena’s periphery.

“What's going on?” I whispered, my voice low and wary.

“Oh, above us is an arena set, where they stay to watch the fight.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the ring. “A deathmatch,” she murmured.

“A death match?” I breathed. I knew the Scarrans were wildly skilled in combat but I never thought of such barbarity.

My eyes returned to her. “Why would a Scarran accept such fate?”

Daella’s night-dark eyes flickered. “No, no.” she piped, her head making a little motion. “Not the Scarrans, but the male slaves. The Scarrans watch. As I said, the Scarrans only used their slaves for fun or labor… You may call this their version of fun.”

My stomach turned. Eowyn was right. “I heard this would be the last fight of the man fighting tonight,” Daella went on, “He's emerged victorious in his previous battles, and rumor has it that this final fight won't be against another slave."

I might have snapped my neck with the way I turned to her. “What? Then against who?...what?”

Her eyes shuttered. “I haven't stayed long enough to find out. We'll learn the answer soon enough."

I was indeed feeling ill—ill and jumpy. And hesitantly my eyes returned to the above exposed arena. Now swarmed with Scarrans.

I stifled a breath as my eyes fell on the figure that came into view—Declan. He was dressed differently now. There was no large white fur over his shoulders, nor the brown leather baldric across his broad chest and forearms, or even the sword that had tipped above his right shoulder. Unlike then, now he wore a plain black shirt that exposed more of his chest than needed. A one-sleeve olive attire crosses to his right side.

On the bare expanse of his chest, remnants akin to ancient ruins sprawled artistically. He plopped into one of the well-situated seats with an unobstructed vista of the arena. His hair, pale as the first rays of dawn, glimmered with an otherworldly luster that seemed to hold within it the very essence of timelessness. The light ray shadowed one side of his face, while the other, vibrant and elegantly sculpted by his chiseled cheekbone and strong jawline, basked in its glow. He was so…

The thought didn't sit well, and I shoved it away—along with the part of me that marveled at something I wasn't sure of.