Shamat of Urik

Somewhere in the Tyr Region—Year of Wind's Vengeance in the 190th King's Year, Free Year 13

The sun beats down on the barren, ochre sands of the Tyr region, a hammer of heat on an anvil of stone. The air shimmers with rising heat. Shamat is a lone figure crossing the wastes, a dark spot against the endless, thirsty earth.

From behind a jagged spine of weathered rock, three figures emerge. They are lean, hardened by the desert, their skin leathery and their eyes sharp with predatory intent. Two are human males, one with a chipped obsidian-tipped spear, the other with a notched bone axe. The third is a wiry thri-kreen, its chitin gleaming dully in the sun, mandibles clicking softly as it holds a pair of gythkas at the ready. They fan out, cutting off any easy path of retreat across the open ground.

The lead human, his face scarred by old burns, spits a wad of phlegm into the dust. "Look at the size of it," he sneers, hefting his spear. "A walking meal-ticket. The slavers in Draj pay well for half-giant muscle. Drop that club, big girl. We don't want to damage the merchandise."

The thri-kreen's clicking grows more rapid, a staccato rhythm of hunger and aggression. Meat-that-walks. Strong. Will struggle. Good sport.

Shamat stops, her massive feet planted in the sand. She looks from one bandit to the next, her broad face a mask of slow comprehension. Her grip tightens on the rough-hewn wooden club in her hand. She remembers the last bandits. She remembers Bargat—the closest thing she had to a father—falling. A low rumble builds in her chest.

"Shamat is not merchandise," she says, her voice like stones grinding together. "You are like the beetles from before. Shamat crushes beetles."

The scarred human barks a laugh, a dry, cracking sound. "It talks! Crush us, will you? Let's see you try."

He gives a sharp nod to the thri-kreen. The insectoid creature moves with terrifying speed, a blur of ochre and brown. It closes the distance in two bounding leaps, its four arms a whirlwind as it brings both gythkas down in a savage scissoring motion aimed at Shamat's legs—a tactic to cripple the larger foe.

At the same moment, the human with the axe circles wide to her left, trying to flank her. The scarred leader feints with his spear, trying to draw Shamat's attention and club away from the real threats.

Big. Slow. Weaken the legs. Then the others move in. Profit in Draj. Meat for the pack.

Shamat's reaction is not tactical, but visceral. She doesn't try to block the thri-kreen's strike. Instead, she roars—a sound of pure, guttural fury—and swings her club in a wide, horizontal arc at the thri-kreen's torso, relying on her immense reach and power to strike first. The thri-kreen's attack is a blur, but Shamat's swing is a titanic, sweeping force. The heavy wooden club connects with a sickening, wet crunch of chitin and a sharp crack of internal structure. The insectoid creature is lifted off its feet, its gythkas flying from its hands as it is hurled sideways into the jagged rock spine. It slides to the ground in a twitching heap, a deep dent in its thorax, dark ichor seeping into the sand. Its mandibles click feebly once, then fall still.

The scarred leader's feint becomes a genuine, panicked lunge as he sees his ally dispatched so brutally. His obsidian-tipped spear thrusts toward Shamat's side.

The flanking axeman, seeing his opening, lets out a wordless yell and charges, his bone axe raised high for a cleaving blow at the back of Shamat's knee.

"The big one is strong! Too strong! Kill it! Kill it now!"

"Shamat remembers!" she bellows, ignoring the spear-point scraping against her tough hide and leaving a shallow, bleeding line. She pivots on her back foot, her club still extended from her swing. The movement is surprisingly fast for her size, bringing the massive length of wood around in a backhanded smash toward the charging axeman's head.

Overhead, the unforgiving sun beats down upon them all...

The Free City of Tyr—Year of Wind's Vengeance in the 190th King's Year, Free Year 13

The air of Tyr is a dry furnace, thick with the smell of dust, spice, and unwashed bodies. Shamat walks down a narrow side street, the mud-brick walls on either side towering but still only coming to her shoulders. She looks for the public well, her large waterskin empty. The shadows are deep here, away from the main thoroughfares.

Ahead, a doorway shimmers. Not with heat, but with a strange, silvery light that seems to swallow sound. It's a plain door, set into the wall where no door had been before, its frame etched with impossible geometries that hurts the eyes to look at. Shamat, curious and uncomprehending, reaches out a massive hand to touch it.

The world dissolves.

The sensation is not of movement, but of being unmade and remade in an instant. The dry heat vanishes, replaced by a damp, chill, and utterly alien atmosphere. The smell of dust is gone, replaced by a cacophony of odors—ozone, rotting fruit, exotic perfumes, rust, and things for which she has no name.

Shamat finds herself standing in an alley, but it is like no alley on Athas. The walls are made of a smooth, grey stone that seems to drink the light. Above, instead of a blistering sun in a vast blue sky, a torus of dull rock arches impossibly high, its inner surface covered in the speckled lights of countless windows and streets—a city built on the inside of a ring. The air hums with a low, pervasive energy. The sky is a uniform, sourceless grey luminescence.

Shamat stumbles, her great weight shifting on cobblestones slick with something that isn't water. She drops her club with a clatter that echoes strangely. Her brown eyes are wide with pure, unadulterated awe.

Magic. This is big magic.

From around a corner, a creature steps into view. It is roughly humanoid, but its skin is the color of a bruise, and its head is a hairless, bulbous thing with three stalked eyes that swivel independently. It wears ragged leathers and holds a serrated blade. It stares at Shamat, then at the now-fading shimmer in the air behind her—a portal closing.

It lets out a gurgling hiss. "Fresh meat from a new door. Big meat. Lost meat." Its voice is wet and phlegmy. "The Dusters will pay for novelty. Or the butcher down in the Lower Ward will take the limbs. Either way, profit."

Two more of the same creature slink out from behind overflowing trash mounds, their blades drawn. They fan out, cutting off the alley's exit to the wider, noisy street beyond, from which drift sounds of shouting in a hundred tongues, clanging metal, and distant, unidentifiable roars.

The lead creature points its blade at Shamat. "Drop. Kneel. Makes it easier when we hamstring you."

Shamat slowly bends and picks up her club. She looks at the grey "sky," at the impossible city-ring, then back at the creatures. Her face shows no fear, only profound confusion and dawning imitation. She hefts her weapon.

"Shamat is not meat," she says, her voice echoing in the confined space. "This place is loud magic. You are loud. Shamat will be loud too."

The lead creature's stalked eyes twitch in what might be amusement. It makes a wet, clicking sound.

"Big and stupid. Good. More screaming that way." It gestures with its blade. "Take the legs first."

The two creatures on the flanks rush forward with surprising speed, their movements a skittering blur. Their serrated blades aim low, for Shamat's massive calves and ankles. The one on the left feints, trying to draw her club swing, while the one on the right drives its blade point-first toward her hamstring.

From the mouth of the alley, a figure watches—a hunched form wrapped in stained, patchwork robes, its face hidden in a deep cowl. It doesn't move to intervene, merely observes.

Shamat roars, a sound of pure Athasian fury that echoes off the strange stone. She doesn't try to follow the feint. Instead, she brings her club down in a devastating, straightforward arc toward the creature actually striking at her leg. The move is brutishly simple, relying on reach and power over finesse.

The creature tries to dart back, but it's too slow. The heavy wood connects with a sickening crunch of chitinous flesh and bone. The thing is smashed into the slick cobbles, its torso flattened, ichor spraying. Its blade skitters away.

But the feinting creature's attack was not entirely a ruse. As Shamat commits to her crushing blow, its blade slices across the back of her right thigh. It's a deep cut, and dark blood wells immediately, staining her rough-spun trousers.

Pain. Like the master's whip. But Shamat is free now.

She bellows in pain and anger, whirling with shocking speed for her size. The wounded leg buckles slightly but holds. Her backhand swing catches the second creature across its midsection, lifting it off its feet and hurling it into the alley wall with a wet thud. It slumps, unmoving.

The lead creature hisses, its three eyes wide. It hadn't expected this level of violence so quickly. "Not just meat. Angry meat." It doesn't advance. Instead, it reaches into its leathers and pulls out a small, corroded metal tube. It points it at Shamat.

A tiny, wickedly barbed dart shoots out with a pfft of compressed air.

Shamat sees it coming but is too slow to dodge fully. It buries itself in the thick muscle of her left shoulder. A cold numbness begins to spread instantly from the puncture.

Poison. Magic poison?

Her grip on the club weakens. Her vision swims. The grey luminescent sky seems to pulse.

The robed observer at the alley's entrance takes a single step forward, then pauses, head tilted as if listening to something only it can hear.

Shamat tries to swing her club, again, but slumps to the ground, unconscious, as the figure approaches...