It all seemed barren, bleak and lifeless. There was hardly any life for miles around except the few sickly bushes and stunted trees that struggled to survive in the hard, dry wasteland. Everything was silent except for the grinding creak of the wheels of the caravan’s wagons, the grunting and laughter of the gnolls and orcs the caravan employed as guards, and the occasional quiet sobbing of some of the wagons’ occupants

Prologue

It all seemed barren, bleak and lifeless. There was hardly any life for miles around except the few sickly bushes and stunted trees that struggled to survive in the hard, dry wasteland. Everything was silent except for the grinding creak of the wheels of the caravan’s wagons, the grunting and laughter of the gnolls and orcs the caravan employed as guards, and the occasional quiet sobbing of some of the wagons’ occupants.

Denrik Glendowyr stared miserably between the bars of the prison that kept him locked in one of the prison wagons. There was little else to do during the hours of monotony when the caravan was on the move, unless he wanted to attract the attention of the orcs, the gnolls or the human slavers that employed them. Most of his fellow slaves couldn’t even do that, staring instead at the cage’s ceiling, weeping with their faces in their hands or simply sitting in a blank stupor.

Glancing at his fellow slaves before turning back to looking at the passing landscape, Denrik wondered what their stories were. They included men and women, humans of every ethnicity common to the Flanaess and a few people from other races, all of a variety of ages. Even if the caravan guards had allowed their cargo to speak, Denrik doubted many of the other slaves would be willing to communicate.

He wondered if any of them had been as stupid as him. Challenging one of Stoink’s most prominent warriors had been his way of attracting the notice of the city’s gang leaders, but he’d never stopped to consider what would’ve happened if he lost his duel. He was fortunate that Gustave decided not to kill him. Instead, Gustave just settled for giving Denrik a severe beating and selling him to a slave caravan heading west to Riftcrag, the city that overlooked the dreaded, monster-infested Riftcanyon.

In the four days since he’d been sold to the caravan, Denrik’s life had become a toil of sweltering in the hot cages under the summer sun, performing exhausting camp labor on the rare occasions he and his fellow slaves were let out of their cages, trying to subsist on one meal a day of half-rotten food and stagnant water, and trying not to give the gnolls and orcs a reason to kill him.

The monsters had made an example of some of the most defiant slaves on the caravan’s first day of travel. Not only did their actions help keep up the caravan’s food supply, the monsters also made sure to share their bounty with some of the other slaves. Their expressions made it clear to the slaves how unwise it would be to refuse their offer.

There was no trouble from the slaves after that.

Earlier in the day, Denrik heard one of the slavers say they were almost halfway to Riftcrag. The lucky slaves would likely be sold into the other Bandit Kingdoms, or further south through the cities of Greyhawk and Dyvers. The unlucky ones would be sold and taken into the Riftcanyon, dragged into the darkness to serve its masters.

From the way Gustave looked at him when he made the sale, Denrik knew that he was going to be one of the unlucky ones. He could only hope that Marcus delivered his letter to his brother Weimar. As it was, Denrik only had five days left before the caravan reached Riftcrag.

Five days before he was dragged into the abyss.