Ricko Daggerheart's Arc

Chapter 2 of 18

They rode north for two days, and every stop turned against them. At each waystation, someone stared too long at Ricko's spotted face and hyena grin. Torin heard the whispers. A survivor. The one the sultan wants. By the third waystation, a stable boy bolted the moment they arrived. Ricko knew he could not show his face again without a guard's spear finding it. "We keep moving and we die," Torin said. He steered the lizard toward a cluster of palms and cactus rising from the flat sand. Behind the green stood an old stone tavern, its sign sun-bleached and cracked. "In there, no one asks names. Rest, water, one night. Then we plan." Inside, the air was cool and thick with smoke. Ricko pulled his hood low and took a corner table. Torin fetched two cups. But the room had gone quiet the moment they entered. Ricko felt eyes on him. Rough men lined the walls, hands near their blades, all watching one figure at the center table. The panther did not look up from the knife he was cleaning. His fur was black, his outfit red and black, and his green eyes finally lifted to Ricko's face. "The whole desert's talking about a spotted ghost," he said. "The sultan's paying gold for him." He set the knife down. "You walked into my house, ghost. Give me one reason I don't sell you." Ricko's claws found his dagger. Torin's hand pressed his arm down. Fighting a room full of thugs was suicide. So Ricko chose words instead. He pushed back his hood and let them all see the face they hunted. "The sultan's guards rode down my whole pack," Ricko said. "I was the only one who ran. Now his gold has bought my face at every waystation from here to the coast." He leaned forward. "You're T'Zaro Panthara. You take his money, you become his dog. I don't sell my kin's blood. Do you?" The room held its breath. T'Zaro studied him a long moment. Then a slow grin split his face. "The sultan burned my last hideout two winters back. I've been waiting to spit in his eye." He waved the thugs down. "I won't turn you in." Ricko let out his breath. Then T'Zaro leaned close, and his voice dropped. "But your face is the problem, ghost. Every eye in Vay'Galia knows it now. You can't walk into the sultan's palace looking like his most wanted survivor." He tapped the table. "So you don't walk in as yourself. You come in with my crew. Masked. As one of us." Ricko understood. His face no longer just marked him for death. It made him useless to his own goal. The old plan was gone. Now his only road to the crown jewel ran straight through the assassin sitting across from him.