CONCEALED BY THE shadows inside the gladiator arena’s outer doors, Doom squinted from beneath his massive cloak’s heavy cowl. Two backpacks stuffed with other gear acquired for the pair sat beside him. A wagon made its way towards his hiding place, creaking and rattling ominously. The single horse that pulled it looked as old as the hills and ready to fall over at any moment.

Doom could not hide his dismay at the sight of the rickety contraption. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Zuneer, but are you sure about this?” He looked at the woman in his arms, wrapped in an old cloak to keep her both concealed and warm. “Tiwaz cannot take any more harm. If that thing collapses under us…”

“Juran’s hauled twice as much as what he’s loaded down with right now,” the arena master replied in a whisper. “Besides, we don’t have much choice. He’s the only way to get you both off of the estate. No other man who runs deliveries for Alimar can be trusted. Rumor has it he’s helped other cruel owners’ ill-kept slaves escape this accursed island with the emperor’s blessing. First time trying to get one away from him.”

Noticing Doom’s expression, he added drolly, “The Sphinx Emperor considers old families and kingdoms as sovereign and does not often interfere in how they behave on their own properties, even if they go against empire law. Slavery as Alimar practices is illegal, but proving his crimes beyond the estate has been nigh impossible, so they can do nothing. Trying to falsify evidence would risk the loyalty of all the other kingdoms within the Empire. Our suffering is a small price to pay when the risk is a civil war.”

Juran, a stooped old man so wrinkled he appeared skeletal, hopped off the wagon with more agility than men a fraction of his age. He beckoned to Zuneer. “Hey, help me wi’ this tarp. Don’t need no bat droppin’s on this load, ye know. Been flyin’ thick on the road b’tween ‘ere an’ the docks.” Zuneer walked out to help. He and Juran lifted the tarp up high to shake it out. The old man hissed, “Hurry it up! If I stays too long, the bastard’ll get suspicious I’m tryin’ t’ keep some of his nasty stuff fer meself or somethin’ equally daft.”

Doom realized the old man intended to use the tarp to conceal him and Tiwaz. He hurried out, putting her in the space between crates left for them, then crawling in after her, awkwardly wedging himself in the remaining space. He ended up half lying over the woman, forced to brace himself so he did not crush her. He watched the evening sky turn darker as they tossed the tarp over and secured it to the wagon. “Get th’ rest of that gear quickly, now, boy,” the ancient man scolded Zuneer. “I needs t’ get this to th’ docks, ye know.”

Once all was secured, Juran made his way back to the driver seat. He complained mightily about his age, his joints and other rambling things that made little sense to the young woodsman. The gromek looked up at the light knocking on the side of the wagon. “Good luck, Doom.” Zuneer’s voice held a great deal of emotion in the simple words, but the wish for their success was plain and honest.

Doom closed his eyes, swallowing nervously, and realized the magnitude of what he was attempting. A cold knot of fear settled in the pit of his stomach and he closed his eyes tightly, leaning over Tiwaz protectively as the rickety cart rolled along. He could hear the change in sounds outside when they passed under the archway leaving the estate.

After several minutes on the rural road between Shurakh Arln and the capital city of Golden Mount, Juran spoke in a low voice. “It be a brave thing ye be doin’, Son. Takes a good, strong, an’ noble soul t’ face their fears to do what is right.”

Unsure what to think of the man, Doom did not speak right away. Eventually, he replied in a low voice, “I am not brave. It is not noble. I am just keeping my word to my friend. She is the stronger one of us.”

Juran snorted. “Ye are young an’ naïve. Ye have lived in fear all yer young life. Rightly so. That sorcerer is a dark-hearted, soulless bastard. An’ I ain’t saying that jus’ to say it. Ain’t no human live as long as he has without outside influence. He ain’t got the power to rival a god’s, but he be formidable enough, and gods kenna interfere in th’ world so much as mortals believes they do.”

Doom scowled, silent for a time. A jarring bump distracted him briefly, his attention focusing completely on Tiwaz. The woman was as lifeless now as since her moment of defiance. He cupped her face with one hand, whispering her name with quiet urgency, but that brought no response. He sighed heavily. “Gods are useless.”

“Why do ye say that, Son?” Juran asked. “Because they don’t see all the evils, fix every wrong, mend everythin’ broken?” The man lifted the corner of the tarp. Brilliant, extremely pale blue eyes peered at the gromek. When he spoke, there was no accent, no hint of old man eccentricity, but a grave, serious demeanor. “Gods are not all seeing, all knowing, all powerful beings. Powerful, yes. Knowledgeable…” He smiled. “Well. I would like to think that some gods are.”

“What good are they? I prayed. I prayed for Alimar’s death. Tiwaz’s freedom.” He shook his head sharply, looking at the woman. “Once, I even prayed for both of our deaths. It went against everything I learned as a child, but it did no good.”

“Curious that you did not pray for your benefit alone.” Doom looked up sharply, frowning darkly. Juran lowered the tarp again, focusing on navigating the more treacherous section of road approaching the city. “Gods are not what most people think, Son. Even the gods themselves forget that sometimes. They forget there are powers greater than them, that they are caretakers for those who pray to them. They forget their power depends on the faith and belief and even the love of those who pray to them possess. Because that is their true source of power.”

Doom grunted when they hit a pothole, bracing his arm against a crate that threatened to slide into them. With a growl, he raked his claws across the symbol of Shurakh Arln in frustration, as if the crate was purposely trying to squash them. “What does it matter? We are insignificant to gods.”

“No matter what you believe, Son, you are not insignificant. But it has been thousands of years since the world fractured during the war with the high elves. Every race is still recovering. Even the gods bear wounds and struggle to regain what they once had. Hundreds of thousands of more years before that war, this world became a crossroads through the maelstrom. Races and species not born here came to call this world home. Few remember which ones were native born.

“There is a peculiarity surrounding the fractures. It goes beyond the visual. It is so much deeper than what the surface shows. The lands are their own worlds, like between this world of air and the world within the oceans. Separate. Yet they interact and affect one another. From the land, you can look into the water, but only for a short distance.”

“Light can only go so deep in water,” Doom stated. “I learned that from Urbin.”

“The borders are turbulent, especially magically. The resonances of energy are not the same. Alimar’s power is not strong enough to penetrate the curtains between the five lands.” Before Doom could ask why he told him this, Juran suddenly had his accent and mad demeanor back, cackling as he cracked the reins. The rhythmic sounds of boots marching approached, then passed by them. “Patrols ain’t lookin’ hard fer runaway slaves, but iffen they do find ‘em, they has a duty t’ return ‘em to their master.” Wisely, the gromek remained silent.

In the quiet, Doom could hear the sound of water slapping the sides of ships, the stonework piers, and the shore beyond the edges of the harbor. The salty smell of the ocean wafted under the tarp and the first stirrings of true hope made his heart beat faster. He looked at Tiwaz, hugging her carefully. “Soon,” he whispered. “Soon, we will be free. Just like I promised you.”

“Hush,” Juran hissed as he moved, the wagon swaying as he jumped to the ground. The old man called out at the approaching booted footsteps, “Ye be th’ captain of th’ Trade Winds, aye?”

“First mate,” a gruff voice answered. “Heard you have some ‘special cargo’ that needs careful handling and swift delivery. Best be quick. The patrol comes around every half hour or so and they’re due back around soon.” Doom squinted when the tarp was tugged back to reveal him and Tiwaz. He carefully got out of the wagon and stood to his full seven foot height, towering over the man by a good two feet.

The man, obviously a sailor by his garb, took a half step back, unnerved. He chuckled apprehensively. “Big ‘un, ain’t you?” He looked towards the woman with no lack of sympathy as Doom carefully drew her out and settled her in his arms. “No mistake. You must be the ones I was sent to fetch. Let me get the rest of your gear.” He took the heavy backpacks, and assortment of Doom’s weapons, from Juran. He grunted, squinting at the old man who tossed the gear around as if it did not weigh more than fifty pounds. “Come on. The captain wants to weigh anchor. Tide’ll be going out soon. Sooner we’re away, less chance we’ll be caught.”

“Wait.” Juran stopped Doom for a moment. “Almost forgot. Here, Son.” He pulled out a decent sized pouch and rested it on Tiwaz’s chest. “This comes from those who help you to escape.” He closed his eyes briefly before adding, “It comes with our apologies for not coming sooner to help you.”

“'Our’ apologies? Who are you?” Doom asked, suspicious. The gromek eyed the pouch, unable to clearly discern the insignia inscribed with faded dyes on aged, worn leather. He did not recognize it as Alimar’s or any of his allies. “I wish you were awake, Ti,” he whispered to the woman. “You know more about Alimar’s business than anyone else alive.”

Juran shrugged as he gave Doom a gentle but firm shove to follow the impatient sailor waiting for them. “You will find out soon enough. We cannot be spoken of here. Not yet.” He looked at Tiwaz, then towards the waiting ship. “Get going, Son. And good luck to you both.”

Doom frowned, hesitating a moment longer. “Why do you keep calling me ‘son,’ Juran?”

Juran bared jagged, broken teeth in a smile, cackling loudly. “Why? ‘Cause I likes ye, Son. Now, get yourself going.” Brow furrowed, Doom hastened to catch up to the sailor who waited by the gangplank on the dock. He navigated the narrow, treacherous wooden path, then disappeared into the cargo hold. The sailors, preparing to leave, completed the work once they had boarded. Dock hands used long poles to push the ship away from the dock. Once clear of the obstacles, the sails unfurled and caught a strong wind, pushing it out towards the dark horizon.

Juran watched until the ship was securely away, too far for anyone to stop it. The decrepit, disfigured old man turned away from the now horseless wagon, a sparkle in the depths of his ice blue eyes. He faded into the darkness as the crates suddenly burst into flames, drawing shouts of alarm from the dockside workers who rushed to extinguish the fire.