The road south from the fairgrounds grows dusty beneath your boots, the young man's stride eager beside you.
Ahead, the Olni's tributaries glint in the late afternoon light. A tarn caravan passes overhead, its shadow sweeping the fields of rence stubble. The young man shields his eyes and grins.
"Master," he says, falling into step, "the merchant at the stalls said the road to Venna forks two days south. One way by river barge, the other through the Voltai foothills."
The air smells of woodsmoke from a nearby peasant village. A herder drives tarsk along the ditch. Somewhere distant, a sleen barks.
You choose the river road.
By dusk you and the young man reach the landing — a rough timber wharf where a low, broad barge is being poled in. Its captain, a stout man of the Mariners with sun-browned arms, nods to you.
"Venna-bound at dawn," he says. "Passage for two — a silver tarsk each, and you work an oar if the wind fails."
The young man looks to you, then hefts your packs without being told and stows them near the stern thwarts. The Olni is dark and slow here, fireflies over the rence beds. From the village behind you comes the sound of a lute.
The captain tosses you a mooring rope. "Make fast, then rest. We leave with the current."
The night is warm. Do you camp on the bank with the young man, or sleep aboard the barge?
You wave off the barge deck and lead the young man to a flat rise above the bank, out of the damp.
He gathers driftwood quickly, strikes flint, and soon a small fire crackles. The smell of the river mud fades under woodsmoke. You share out dried bosk meat and a heel of bread from your pack. Across the water, the barge lanterns sway.
He sits across from you, whittling a stick, listening to the night insects.
"Quiet here," he says softly. "In the city there was always noise."
A tarn cries far off. The fire pops.
You nod toward his bedroll. "Sleep."
He unrolls the blanket near the fire without argument, though his eyes linger on the dark treeline a moment before he lies down. Soon his breathing steadies.
You sit with your back to the fire, blade across your knees, watching the river.
The Olni moves black and silent. On the barge, a mariner coughs, then all is still again. An urt splashes near the reeds. The moons rise — large and white above the southern horizon toward Venna.
An hour passes. Then another. The fire burns low to embers.
From the edge of camp, beyond the light, you hear a twig snap.
You rise silently, leaving the blade's sheath behind so it makes no sound.
You step past the sleeping young man and move wide around the fire, keeping the embers at your back so your eyes stay keen to the dark. The grass is cool under your boots.
Another snap — closer to the river path this time. Then a low rustle.
You freeze. In the moonlight you make out a shape: not a man, but a small river tarsk, rooting in your pack's edge where the young man left a scrap of bosk meat unwrapped.
It looks up, eyes glinting, then bolts squealing into the reeds.
Behind you, the young man is sitting up, alert, hand on his knife. "Master?" he whispers.
All clear — just a hungry thief on four legs. Do you return to the fire, or move camp closer to the barge for safety?
You lift a hand to settle him. "Only a tarsk. Back to sleep."
He exhales and lies back down, though he tucks the food sack under his blanket this time. Smart lad.
You feed the last of the driftwood to the fire and retake your seat. The flames rise again, throwing warm light over the small camp.
The rest of your watch passes quiet. The river murmurs, the moons climb.
Near dawn, you nudge the young man awake with your boot. He sits up instantly, rubbing his face, then quickly stamps out the fire and rolls the blankets while you shoulder your packs.
Down at the wharf, the barge captain is already shouting orders. Sailors loose the moorings.
The river road south awaits.
You lead the young man down the muddy bank to the wharf.
The barge is low in the water, laden with bales of rence paper and casks of paga bound for Venna. The captain waves you aboard.
You step over the gunwale, the young man right behind you with the packs. You take a place near the stern, out of the sailors' way. He sits at your feet, watching as the polemen push off.
The bank with your cold firepit slides away. The current catches the hull.
South, down the Olni, toward Venna.
The barge moves slow and steady with the current.
The young man leans on the rail beside you, watching the banks slide past — rence marshes giving way to low farms, then to scattered stands of Tur trees. A fisherman in a narrow skiff lifts a hand as you pass.
Mid-morning, the captain tosses you both a hunk of hard bread and a strip of dried fish. "Earn your passage," he grunts, nodding at a loose coil of rope.
The young man jumps up to help the mariners haul the sail when the wind shifts southerly. He works willingly, glancing back to you for approval.
By afternoon, far ahead, a smudge of smoke on the horizon marks a river town — likely the toll station at Sais.
The captain squints at it. "Toll collectors. Have your coins ready."
You stand as the barge nears the toll dock at Sais — a weathered pier with two guards in the colors of the local Administrator.
The captain mutters, "Good luck," and stays at the tiller.
You step forward, the young man a respectful pace behind you, head down.
"Warrior of Ko-ro-ba," you say evenly to the senior guard, resting your hand near your sword but not on it. "On urgent business south for my city. This barge carries me under guest-right of the river."
The guard eyes your blade, then the young man, then the cargo.
"All vessels pay," he says, but his tone wavers.
You lean in slightly. "Delay me, and it is Ko-ro-ba you delay. Would you have me tell my Ubar your toll post held up a military courier?"
A long pause. The younger guard looks away.
The senior spits into the river. "Pass. Quickly."
You nod once and return to the stern without looking back. The polemen push off hard.
Behind you, Sais recedes. The young man looks up at you with quiet admiration.
The river runs free and open south toward Venna.
The rest of the day passes without incident.
The wind holds fair, and the barge makes good time down the wide, brown-green Olni. The banks grow wilder — fewer farms, more dense brush. Twice you spot tabuk drinking at the water's edge, scattering as the hull approaches.
At sunset, the captain steers for a sheltered cove to anchor for the night. "No sailing the narrows in the dark," he says. "River pirates."
Fires are lit in braziers on deck. The mariners eat and gamble with dice. The young man sits close to you, sharing the evening ration of soup the cook ladles out.
He is quiet for a while, then says low, "You spoke well today. I would not have dared."
Above, the stars come out hard and bright. The river laps against the hull.
The captain posts a night guard, but looks pointedly at you — expecting you to watch your own gear.
You nod to the young man. "I'll take first. Wake me at the middle of the night."
He nods seriously and wraps himself in his blanket near your packs, but doesn't sleep — he sits watching the water while you doze lightly against a bale.
Hours later, a gentle shake on your shoulder. "Master."
You wake instantly. The deck is quiet except for the creak of the anchor rope and a mariner snoring by the brazier. The moons are high.
"All quiet," he whispers. "Only a distant tarn."
You take up your post while he curls up to sleep, trusting you completely.
Dawn comes pale over the eastern bank, mist on the water. The captain is already shouting to weigh anchor.
Venna is still two days south.
Second day on the river dawns grey and misty.
The barge gets underway early, the polemen silent. The young man wakes, splashes river water on his face, and brings you a cup of hot kalda from the cook — bitter and warming.
The narrows approach by mid-morning: the Olni squeezes between high, wooded bluffs. The captain orders oars out. Every man tenses. This is pirate country.
You stand, hand on your sword, the young man beside you with his knife out, eyes scanning the treeline.
A log floats past — then another. Too straight, too fresh-cut.
"Ambush," the captain hisses.
From the east bluff, a horn blares. Two small, fast galleys shoot out from a hidden inlet, oars flashing, men shouting.
The barge crew scrambles. The captain yells, "Repel boarders!"
One galley closes on your starboard side. Grappling hooks arc through the air.
You grab the young man by the shoulder and shove him toward the cargo hatch. "Below. Stay down."
He hesitates — wanting to fight beside you — but obeys, dropping into the dark hold among the bales.
You slam the hatch half-shut and turn as the first grapnel clangs onto the rail.
A pirate swings over, scarred and shouting. You meet him with steel. Your blade takes him in the shoulder and he drops back with a scream.
Another comes over the bow. A mariner goes down beside you. You cut the grapple rope, and the galley lurches.
Arrows hiss from the bluffs. You crouch behind a bale, pulling the hatch fully closed with your foot to shield the boy below.
The fight is furious for ten minutes — shouting, splashing, the crack of wood. Then the barge's larger crew tells. One pirate galley sheers off, the other is left drifting with dead oarsmen.
The horn sounds retreat. The river goes quiet again except for the groans of the wounded.
You lift the hatch. The young man climbs out, pale but unhurt, and throws his arms around your pack in relief before catching himself.
The captain claps your back, bleeding from a cut scalp. "Ko-ro-ba fights well."
The barge limps on south, toward Venna.
The captain binds his own wound and tends to his crew. Two mariners are dead, wrapped and slipped overboard with a brief rite. Three more are injured.
The barge is damaged but still river-worthy. The sail is torn, one oar shattered. You and the young man help haul water, patch rope, and clear blood from the deck.
By afternoon, you clear the narrows. The river widens again, calm and broad. The danger is past.
The young man hasn't left your side since the attack. He works silently, fetching bandages, then sits beside you as the sun drops.
"We are alive because of you," he says quietly.
The captain steers for a safe sandbar to camp the night and repair properly. He nods at you both. "You have passage to Venna free, by my word. No coin."
Night falls. Fires are lit on the sandbar, larger and safer now, with the whole crew together.
You and the young man make your bedrolls near each other, the river behind you, the fires in front.
Venna's lights will be seen tomorrow.
Morning breaks clear over Venna.
The barge ties up at the great stone quay among dozens of other vessels — broad merchantmen, sleek river galleys, small fishing skiffs. The air smells of spices, tar, and roasting meat from the market stalls lining the waterfront.
The captain clasps your forearm in farewell. "Safe roads, warrior."
You step onto the quay with the young man at your heel, packs on your backs. Around you the city roars: porters shouting, merchants hawking silks and steel, guards in Venna's blue and gold pushing through the crowd.
The young man looks up at the high walls and towers, eyes wide. "I have never seen a city so large."
You need supplies, news, and lodging for the night before deciding your next road.
You shoulder through the crowd away from the quay, the young man sticking close to avoid being separated.
Past the fish market and the rope-makers' stalls, you find a quieter side street where a wooden sign hangs: The Golden Tarn — a respectable travelers' inn, not too fine for a warrior, not too rough for safety.
Inside, the common room is cool and dim, smelling of ale and stew. The innkeeper, a stout woman with sharp eyes, looks you over.
"Room for two? One private, upstairs. Hot food, stabling for packs. Two copper tarsks a night."
You pay for three nights in advance — caution is cheaper than trouble. She hands you an iron key.
Upstairs, the room is small but clean: a wide bed, a straw pallet, a shuttered window overlooking the street, a bolt on the door.
The young man drops the packs with relief and goes to the window, then quickly bolts the door behind you as you taught him on the road.
"We are safe here?" he asks.
For the first night in many, there is a lock between you and the world.
You leave the packs locked in the room and head back down, the young man following.
The common room has filled with evening trade — river men, a couple of merchants, two off-duty guards drinking together.
You take a corner table where you can see the door. The young man sits beside you, quiet as you've trained him. The innkeeper brings bread, stew, and ale without being asked.
You listen first. The talk is of:
• A caravan leaving for the south in two days, seeking guards.
• Trouble on the east road — bandits hitting travelers near the hills.
• A new Administrator in Venna raising dock taxes, angering the captains.
You buy a round for the two guards. They loosen up.
"Ko-ro-ba, eh?" one says, eyeing your sword. "If you're looking for work, the merchant Torvis is hiring swords for his caravan to the south. Pays in gold, not promises. He's at the market tomorrow at dawn."
The other leans in lower. "And watch the east road. Three travelers found stripped and dead last week."
The young man listens intently, absorbing everything.
You finish your stew. The news is gathered.
You decide to stay awhile in Venna and learn the city.
The next days fall into a steady rhythm.
Mornings, you train the young man in the small walled yard behind the inn — footwork, how to hold a knife, how to fall without breaking. He learns fast, eager to please, bruised but uncomplaining.
Afternoons, you walk the city together. The great market with its silks from the east, the temple square with its chanting priests, the high walls overlooking the Olni where it bends south. You buy him a proper tunic to replace his ragged slave cloth, and a pair of sturdy sandals.
Evenings, you return to the Golden Tarn. He tells you haltingly of his past — taken young, sold north, never knew his family. You tell him little of yours, but he listens as if every word matters.
On the fourth night, as you bolt the door, he says quietly, "No one has ever... stayed with me like this. Not sold me on."
Outside, Venna hums. Inside, the small room feels almost like a home.
Your coin will last another week or so. The caravan to the south will be long gone.
You decide your coin is too low to linger.
At dawn you settle with the innkeeper, shoulder your packs, and join the stream of travelers leaving by the south gate.
The road south from Venna is broad and well-trodden, lined with farms giving way to scrubland. Other travelers keep their distance from your sword.
The young man walks beside you now, not behind — taller in his new tunic, knife at his belt, steps matching yours.
"Where do we go, master?" he asks.
You look south to the hazy horizon.
"Where the road takes us," you say.
And you walk on together.
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