The Golden Knot: Book 1 of the Echo Land Chronicles (UPDATED WEEKLY)

Arella I

"... What is it that causes fights and quarrels? Maybe they come from the desires that are in conflict within you? Maybe they are from the indignities of our people? ..."

(Horris 4:1, Book of Kings)

Arella Chunat Draxler sat slumped in silence.

The soft light from the lodge's wall hangings was beginning to fade, mixing with the lazy haze of smoke that seemed to cling to every spec of air. Despite the hour, most of the men were still roused. Drink still poured and sloshed and spilled in merriment along the long tables, though a few men near the ends were lay sprawled out in a drunken stupor; they snored as trails of drool and spittles of saliva dripped from their perfectly manicured beards and moustaches. Down one of the tables chimed a loud chorus of voices, slurred in drunken glee. Whilst Arella understood what they were toasting, it still never ceased to stun Arella how the Pinks could so easily claim things for themselves.

"For-the-honour-of...Arella," slurred one man, and the rest cheered in approval.

Arella played his part and played it well. He smiled politely, nodded when necessary, and raised an empty glass. My honour. He let out a small chuckle, rubbed at his eyes, and clenched his jaw to keep a pressing yawn at bay. As he slumped deeper into his chair, he felt a sharp pinch on his thigh that made him jump. It was Draxler - his Dominus. On any other occasion Arella would have immediately stood, as per custom, though the last time he had shot to attention with his master so drunk, he was left standing for the entire night after the old man forgot to give him permission to take a seat before passing out in his drink. The old man lent into his ear.

"Do you wish to be excused, boy?

Sweet words, despite the sour on his breath. "No Dominus," Arella replied, "I only wish to -"

"Oh stop-it, don't gimme-that shit." He took another sip of red. "Bed or not?"

"I am indeed tired, Dominus," Arella said. "Bed would be welcome."

"Fine." He let out a poorly veiled belch and wrapped his knuckles softly on the table. The chatter quickly dissipated, and Ewan Draxler staggered to his feet. His body swayed a little as he cleared his throat.

"My friends," Draxler's voice rang hard, "what-a-sight to behold."

There was a loud cheer, followed by a rattling of cups.

"And to see you too, you old git!" shouted someone from the lower crowd.

Dominus chuckled. Arella winced. He might've spent the best part of his life in the company of Pinks, but the way they spoke to each other still appalled him. No damn respect for rank.

Dominus raised a hand. "Over my many years as the Ianista of this proud house, I have had the honour of breeding some truly remarkable fighters."

The horde banged their cups against the table in a low, expectant rumble.

"Barca..." with that name the men banged their cups harder, "Yonemite..." a roar of approval followed "...and Meteora, who now serves as our beloved Doctore. Yet who would've thought that a Burnt-man, a Burnt-man who was plucked from the Black Mines could rise so far?"

The men cheered Arella's name as one.

Dominus patted Arella on the shoulder, with a wide, if not somewhat languid grin, and then gestured dramatically to the crowd. "Eight bouts, eight glorious bouts -"

Nine, not eight.

"-and tomorrow, The Primus." Draxler finished.

More cheers erupted. Dominus raised a cup and the other men followed suit.