"Do you recall the first time we met?"
"Why? Are you worried I'd forget you, Eiph'ck?"
The serpent frowned at the iguana's boyish form of address. "How old are you, Quye'ck?"
"Twenty and three." He watched the red-stained bowl fall from his quivering hands. Spattering. A shower of rubies, quickly turning garnet. "Like you..."
"And where are we?"
He grunted and shivered as his neck and head tingled. A powerful rush thrust through his skull. Deafening. He raised his head. The image of his donor came dangerously in and out of focus...
"Son of Clan Lexlar." The familiar voice floated from behind the serpent's sealed lips, "Where are we?"
His tongue felt swollen. "So it's you... son of Clan Hartim... I knew it was you..."
"Answer me."
Steel slicing through the air. His shallow breaths and the calm ones of his feast. Lucidity raced to meet him as his grip molded to the pommel of his saber. "I need to ask you somethin'."
The serpent waved him away with a grunt as he painted a stripe of red down his throat, fervently praying.
"How many are you sendin' to Ishva today?" Not that.
"All of them."
They strode out into the arena. One freshly bled, the other freshly fed, both yearning for the glorious entanglement of iron, limbs, and death. The crowd roared to life—a beast of many heads and mouths.
One sacrament done, another just begun.
Speckled by patches of sun.
Caged by trunks, leaves, and vines.
Assaulted by jeering insects and birds.
Ceremonious, beneath the stifling, moisture-laden air...
They collided with the recognizable form of their foes. Kin.
A flash of silver.
Welcome to the Heartlands!
A piercing cry.
Welcome to the Heartlands!
A heinous squelch.
Welcome to the Heartlands!
YOU ARE READING
Man O' War
FantasyThis episodic collection of works will chronicle the lives, misadventures, and layered relationship of the affectionately known Lizardfolk Boatswains of the Angel's Lyre, Hartim and Lexlar. Its release will be chapter by chapter, with installments p...
