Chapter One—The Bazar of Atoulia
It was market day and the bazar of the city Atoulia was packed with local townsfolk, municipal farmers and travelers from out of town. Both humans and demi-humans alike roamed the streets, buying, selling and haggling in the early morning heat.
The sun had crested the desert dunes on the river Yara only hours before and already the heat was making Shiro’s back itch. Thankfully he had never needed to get used to this much drier heat.
The heat of his homeland had been almost wet. In the summers, it was cloying and sometimes difficult to breath.
The stranded and deeply indebted samurai did not miss it in the least. But he still wanted to find his way home.
With the headsmen hunting him—Shiro had had a run in with them thirty leagues to the south in the tiny valley oasis of Oshir—he needed to make some money, and fast.
With the loot bags he had just purchased, he shouldered his way through the crowds. The meat sellers, with their sizzling kebabs made his stomach grumble. Shiro was so poor right now, he had spent the last of his money on these bags. But they were good bags, leather, stitched well. They would last and do quite well for whatever they found.
There would be loot. There had to be, or he was finished.
Ali wasn’t the most reliable of partners—and it was said by some that he was unreliable and untrustworthy, but what did the herb smokers know of adventuring in dungeons?
Ali was waiting for him on the edge of town near the river. They had provisioned fresh camels for the trip and many jugs of water and some dried meet.
They would head out into the desert, through the Valley of Knives and to the dungeon, of which only they knew where it was.
Shiro felt the inner pocket of his leather vest, checking to make sure his half of the map was still intact. He had been so nervous he would lose it, constantly checking it dozens of times daily.
Hopefully that crazy old man who sold it to us wasn’t running a scam.
“Yes, yes,” he had said, nodding vigorously with a mouth of mostly missing teeth. “Legendary loot!”
“Regendary loot?”
“Yes! Legendary!”
He had purchased the map and split it in two with Ali’s wavy blade.
Now, walking through the dusty, sweaty bazar and looking over his shoulder—he did that a lot these days, what with the headsmen after him for his inability to pay back his loans—he strode off the pal treed thoroughfare of sand stone structures, awnings and stalls, and cut his way down a quiet side street.
A woman from above yelled at him, then dumped something out her window.
Shiro stepped to the side, dodging the chamber pot contents. “Watch out!”
“No, you watch out, foreigner!” she growled and shook a fist. “Infidel!”
The rudeness of these barbarians was hard to get used to, even after being in these lands—through no action of his own!—a year. Had she been a man, Shiro would challenge him to a duel here on this walk!
The young samurai came to his business partner at the edge of the river. In the distance, some women were scrubbing laundry atop the rocks, their children there to help as they laid the clothes out on the green grass to dry in the hot sun.
He had said he would meet Shiro in the bazar, and he never showed up. Oh, did he like the punctuality of his countrymen from his own lands.
And of course, he found Ali, lying down against a palm tree, his leg propped up on one knee and his arms behind his head. He chewed on a wheat grass twig, the seed pod bouncing about. “Ah,” he said, smiling largely. “There you are, my good adventurer friend.” He got up. “And I see you procured our loot bags, haha! Wonderful!”
“Yes,” Shiro muttered.
“Come now,” Ali said, scratching the black stubble of his beard just below his turban. “Don’t be so dour my friend.” He put his arm around Shiro’s shoulders.
It was far too hot for this nonsense as Ali guided his eyes off into the hills, “By the gods! Legendary loot awaits us!”
Shiro hummed thoughtfully to himself, nodded.
“See? See! We have every reason to be cheerful—so smile.”
The nature of his partner made him sniff with mild amusement, and he shook his head as Ali clasped his hands together.
“Two bags,” Shiro said, sliding one of them off his shoulder and handed it to the other man, who has his jacket undone, his shaven chest completely visible.
Even Shiro wore the low neckline vest that so many men preferred to wear in this region, but he didn’t parade about with it open.
Ali needed a bath. “Now,” he said, tucking his bag onto his camel. “We ride to our destination. Do you have your half of the map?”
“Hai.”
“Then bring it forth and let us divine our path once more to be sure.”
Shiro did just that, and the two men set off toward the dungeon, called by the map by the name Akarilion.
