Reparations

I hate the feel of sun-warmed mud on my skin. It felt too much like the blood from the arenas of Charkneth, and I had had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. The river lands of the formerly independent Zendel were very pretty even if they were wetter than my undershirt after a three-hour sword practice under the heat of then midday sun. My wife would have loved it here.
The refugee camp below, hugged between two arms of the river, was the last is the last of the list of places that might hold Lariendeskan’s family. The family of the man, who I once knew only by the name of his homeland… the man who gave his life to help me get mine back… they deserved to know what happened to him and, maybe I could help them. Somehow. Some way.
I waded into the busy camp. Everyone seemed to have something to do—packs went into carts, tents floated to the ground, ropes coiled and uncoiled. It took me a moment to realize that the camp was packing up and the anxiety permeated the air.
I pulled aside an elderly man shoving rags into a pack. “Grandfather. I am Aetran of Korria. I’m here to deliver a message to Lariendeskan’s family. Are they here?”
“I’ve not heard of them.” The elder turned back to his packing. “And you would do well to move on. A squad of Charknethans are on the way.”
The ever-greedy empire of Charkneth would decimate this camp. Just like they decimated everything else that got in their way. I plowed ahead, asking everyone I came across if they had seen Lariendeskan’s family, and every one of them shook their head or shrugged in ignorance. The camp was breaking up, scattering as I searched. With every minute that passed, the chances of finding the family of the man I owed my life to being gone, if they had ever been here, diminished.
The horns of a Charkethan squad sounded in the distance. It sounds like they are out for slaughter, what they called a bit of fun, instead of replenishing their pool of slaves.
I shouted, “I am seeking Lariendeskan’s family. Has anyone seen them?” Panic rose among the refugees, and most ignored me, but a woman with three children, the youngest the same age as my Aissa would be, stopped and stared at me.
I approached… hands held out to my sides, trying to make this scarred face seem less threatening. “Do you know Lariendeskan’s family?”
The woman glanced about. Then, she nodded. Her two youngest children clung to her legs. Her oldest stood at her shoulder and a step behind with his fists clenched. His jawline and eyes were Lariendeskan’s.
“Are you Syriallansa?” Her startled expression gave me her answer. “I am Aetran of Korria. Your husband fought for our freedom to his dying breath. I wanted you to know that he was a brave man who sacrificed his life so that I may live. Before he died, he asked me to tell you that you are the river in his fields; without you, there would be no life. If there is anything I can do for you, name it, and consider it done.”
She cleared her throat. “If Lariendeskan found you worthy, then you owe me nothing but to live a life of honor.”
Screams rose from the far side of the camp. “Go. Lariendeskan has taught me what it means to be honorable. I will carry on that tradition.” Then, pulling the blade from its sheath at my back, I turned and, using what Lariendeskan and the arenas taught me, and I fought for freedom… not for only me, but for others around me. The rivers would run red with blood but these refugees would live another day.