Chapter 2
Talear
Town of Dewleigh
The Sandstorm Saloon, a rustic tavern with wooden rafters covered with sand dusted cobwebs and stone walls creaked from age, was the main gathering place in the small desert town.
The room's vaulted ceiling hid dimly burning oil lamps whose shadows danced across the room.
The scent of stale ale, spicy roasted meats and sweat permeated the air.
The tavern hummed with excited conversation, boisterous laughter and shouts of argument mixed with the sound of clashing tankards.
Townsfolk gathered around a worn circular table in the center of the room.
Some climbed on benches and water barrels to get a better view of the match.
Others crowded on the wooden stairs or on the upper floor with their legs swinging through the rail.
Energetic servers danced around the patrons with practiced ease.
They carried trays of drinks and food on their arms and laughed and bantered as they worked.
Seated at the center of attention, Reyne inspected the barrel-chested fugitive across the table and grinned as he placed his elbow on scarred hardwood, hand outstretched. His mark was a lumbering brute with a bald head, symbolic face tattoos, and misplaced confidence.
The fugitive returned his grin, flashing a set of crooked teeth. “I’m going to enjoy beating you, stranger.” His meaty elbow hit the surface, his fingers fidgeting to get the match started. “Just as I am going to enjoy taking your tokeneks.”
“My wager is on Koreric,” shouted someone in a clear attempt to be heard over the clamoring crowd. “He never loses.”
“Ha! Maybe it’s about time someone defeats his cocky ass.” A patron chuckled, causing loud bouts of laughter to circulate through the tavern.
“My bet is on the stranger,” announced a buxom brunette who extracted a small glass from her overloaded tray and placed it on the table before him. “This one’s on the house, love.” She winked at Reyne with an inviting smile.
He returned her wink, causing a blush to stain her cheek. He downed the amber liquid in one deep swallow, enjoying the feel of whiskey burning a trail down his throat.
Reyne shifted his focus to his eager opponent and said, “we shall see.” The ebony marker—a leathery strip clutched in his left palm, would be ready to do its job.
Wagers flew and tokeneks—the universal form of currency—changed hands as local patrons, curious townsfolk, and servers alike placed hasty bets.
Once their hands were firmly clasped, a young Taleari boy with stringy dark hair that fell over his forehead, leaned over the worn railing at the top of the stairs and began the countdown. “Three, two, one, go.”
Locked arm to arm, biceps bulging, they both leaned in, fighting hard. The fugitive was the bigger man, and with brute strength he easily took the lead, grunting while putting all his weight behind him.
The excited crowd cheered as Reyne’s arm dipped precariously close to the wooden surface.
After biding his time to point of boredom, he decided to end the game. He locked his muscle and thrust back so hard it took only a mere second for the fugitive’s knuckles to knock wood.
Koreric’s eyes bulged in disbelief.
The fickle crowd gasped in astonishment, then erupted with applause.
The fugitive’s nostrils flared, his clenched fist pounded the table. “Rematch. Two out of three.”
With a quick nod, Reyne agreed.
Their entwined arms returned to the starting position. The fugitive gazed at their connected wrists as his thumb pressed down with determination.
Reyne clutched the marker in his other palm while his grip on the fugitive tightened.
“On second thought.” Reyne smirked and with lightning-speed he slapped the dark leathery strip against his opponent’s wrist. “I don’t think you will have time for a rematch.”
The strip encapsulated his wrist, melding together until a hardened unbreakable shackle remained in its place.
Koreric jumped as if he had been burned by hot coal, his chair scraping against the worn floorboards with a grating screech. He stumbled backwards while clawing at the invading metal. “What the fuck. Get this damn thing off me.”
“Koreric Agusta, you are hereby marked by the Ramachii for your crimes against Talear.” Reyne shrugged off his drab hooded robe, revealing a sleeveless grey tunic and muscular arms. Even in the dim tavern light, there was no mistaking the intricate silver wide cuff-like armband that clung to his left bicep—the one marking him as hunter for the Order of the Ramachii.
“Guards will be along soon to collect you for sentencing.”
Harmonious gasps of horror spread like wildfire, then panic set in.
Wooden planks creaked as some patrons fled to the stairs, while others sprinted towards the door. Others ducked under tables or hid behind stacked barrels of water and ale.
Koreric pounded his wrist on the edge of the wooden table several times, trying to break the shiny shackle and when that failed, he began gnawing on it with crooked teeth.
Watching the fugitive’s futile attempts, Reyne shook his head, rolled his eyes and peered at cobwebs littering the layered wooden rafters.
The reaction to the mark was always the same. Always.
Three fugitives down, Reyne thought with a sense of relief. One more to go and his current mission would be over.
“Is that Mordrick?” someone whispered from beneath a table. “Looks just like him.”
“How would you know?” someone whisper-hissed back. “Now shush, before that monster turns his attention on us and we end up marked for death like poor Koreric.”
Reyne's jaw tightened at the comparison, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. Although he shared Mordrick's dark silky hair, chiseled jaw and piercing gaze, the resemblance was a bitter pill he refused to swallow.
Koreric cursed again, resorting to smashing the manacle with a heavy metal tankard this time in yet another wasted attempt to break it.
“It’s not coming off you damned idiot,” bellowed a seemingly bored tavern owner from behind the weather-worn bar. Cloth in hand, he dried a glass with slow deliberation. “Only one of Mordrick’s druids can remove it.”
Koreric lunged at Reyne with a gleam of vengeance in his dark eyes. “I’m going to kill you, you fucking filthy Mordrick-loving henchman.”
Reyne dodged his attack with little effort, knocked him to the dirty floor with a sharp elbow jab to the back of his head, and yanked an arm behind his back, his heavy boot pinning him to the floorboards.
“I’m a hunter. I hunt murdering scum like you who feel you are above our laws.” Reyne dug his boot in harder, allowing himself a small satisfaction at causing this fugitive pain.
The Order of the Ramachii were divided into three groups—four trackers, identified by an arrow, four assassins identified by a dagger, and four interrogators, identified by an ax.
Reyne was no one’s henchman.
“Tokeneks, I can pay you. Just tell me how much.” Koreric pleaded in desperation, spitting dirt on the floorboards. “I swear I can. Just please get this damn thing off me.”
“Ramachii have no need for money.” Reyne stepped off. To prove his point, he tossed a silvery tokenek coin to the tavern owner who snatched it mid-air as if it were a common occurrence. “And it’s like the good barkeep here just informed you, only a druid of the fortress can remove it.”
“I’ll cut my hand off,” Koreric vowed as he frantically waved his shackled wrist in the air. “I swear I will…someone get me a knife.”
Onlookers, peering at the scene from the safety of their hiding places, watched in mute horror.
“Go right ahead,” Reyne suggested as he tugged the heavy wooden door open, allowing light to steam into the dingy room, illuminating dust particles hanging in the air.
“My job here is finished.” He crossed the threshold.
Behind him, someone suggested a tree saw over a mere knife, another suggested a bottle of whisky to dull the pain, and another a stick to bite down on.
Rancorous laughter broke out as the door closed with the gritty sound of wood scraping grains of sand.
One more to go, Reyne reminded himself again as he strode towards the stable.
After that, he would be free to escape Talear for a while, which would be a welcome respite.
Once inside the stall, Reyne heard a buzz while he tended to his fidgeting mount, a lumbering hooved beast with two curved horns and a sway back covered with a worn leather saddle.
He swore under his breath as he grabbed the vibrating device—a sleek, palm-sized communicator crafted from brushed titanium, from the saddle bag. He flipped it open. “What?”
“You are needed at the fortress,” said a familiar snide voice that he despised. “An order from Mordrick, and he gave me leave to remind you that you are Ramachii.”
“Of course, he did.” Reyne muttered mostly to himself and sighed. As much as he was loath to bow and scrape to Mordrick’s demands, he was overdue for a bath and change of clothes. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The silver hand-held device closed with a sharp snap.
He stepped into the stirrup and hoisted himself atop his loyal mount. Just as he began to leave the dusty town behind, he was approached by a small group of armed Taleari soldiers riding several hover-crafts—one designed for a single rider and two carrying multiple troops sitting on benches.
The engine of the single-rider hovercraft hissed as it slowed to crawl. “Reyne.”
“Asher.”
“Why do you insist on riding that beast?” Asher’s expression twisted with disgust. “You are crazy for wanting to be in the sun any longer than necessary."
Reyne leaned forward and patted his mount’s neck.
“Because he is reliable and doesn’t break down from sand exposure and leave me stranded…
unlike those things.” He gestured to Asher’s vehicle.
Hover-craft engines were prone to seizing-up due to Talear's unpredictable sandstorms. “Besides, if I rode one of those, I'd stick out like a sore thumb.”
“That’s fair, I guess.”
Reyne pointed over his shoulder, towards the sun-bathed town behind him. “He’s in the Sandstorm. Big ugly bald man, tattoos, bad teeth. Probably trying to saw his hand off.”
“They always do,” Asher agreed with a chuckle that lacked humor.
“Indeed.” Taleari dungeons were filled with one-handed prisoners.