The sliver of the waxing crescent in the sky cast only the faintest shadows off of the lonesome mounds and standing stones. The barrows lay empty and eerily silent, but for the faintest winds over the knolls and the songs of the fallen that whispered from between the unkempt blades of grass. Three hunched figures made their way towards the westernmost cairn, darting furtively between sparse landmarks. As they closed in on the target, Logan paused to whisper to his companions.

“That’s it. That big slab is the problem.”

A hissing voice repeated his words in the glottal sibilants of the lizardfolk’s tongue. A deeper voice replied too swiftly for Logan to understand any of the words.

“Doess stone need to go v… vvv…” the lipless translator, who had refused to tell Logan their name, fumbled with a sound that was too difficult to make. “To return?”

“We’ll make that call when we get there, but likely yes,” Logan answered, trying to look for the best method of removal. Closing the distance, he pulled his lucky coin from its pouch and inspected the grass near the stone. The blades to the right of the slab were crushed into the mud, but not uprooted. “Seems we’re meant to roll it aside.” The tawny ranger concluded.

Logan stood and stretched while the translator relayed his words, before pulling off his haversack and digging for a rope. Locating it at the very bottom of the largest pocket, he was about to explain his plan for the three of them to leverage the slab just far enough for him to sneak through. However, the larger of the pair, Lurkit, had other ideas. The massive, scaly beast of a person gripped either edge of the stone slab in his hands, before setting his feet and trying to muscle it over via brute force.

“That thing is likely sixty stone or more!” he hissed. “You’re just going to hurt yours-“ A deep, painful grinding sound cut him off as Lurkit’s arms and back bulged with muscle. Moving the thing was obviously a strain for the warrior, but he managed to set it down somewhat gently regardless. Panting, the powerfully built lizard rolled his shoulders and nodded to Logan.

“Good gods… Tell your friend his strength is most impressive.” He said to the nameless translator. The smaller of the pair gave him a look he couldn’t quite interpret but did as asked. Lurkit tilted his head, seeming… confused perhaps? Logan had a hard time interpreting their body language. Lurkit’s halting response seemed almost uncomfortable.

“He sayss he only take ik’ssah grik’nak.”

Logan didn’t know if that first term was a name or a word, but he definitely knew the latter. Did this savage expect him to repay his services with a MATE?! Taking a step back, Logan quashed his instinctual outrage at the idea in favor of clarification.

“I must not have heard that correctly,” he said in a forcibly apologetic tone. “What does Lurkit want with a mate?” The translator’s head shook back and forth emphatically.

“No n-nate! He sayss he only want ik’ssah female! No hatchling-folk!” Comprehension dawned on Logan, and his expression became one of utter mortification.

“I’m MALE!! And m-“ With a pang of loss he stopped himself from saying ‘married’. He pushed forward with less verve, the wind having been taken from his sails. “I was not offering that.” The translator seemed surprised, but Lurkit looked as relieved as he was.

“Sorries…” The translator spoke for her companion. “Could not tell.” Logan decided that this was a conversation that could happen later… or never.

“Let’s move on,” he sighed, stepping past the pair. Inside the burial mound was dank and musty. His companions ducked look in over his shoulder as he used his coin to light up the chamber. All around the stone archway, he could see faint, time-worn carvings. Old runes, meant to ward against the dead. Before them was a trio of skeletons, two adult figures wrapped around a much smaller one. The shelves built into the walls held dusty and desiccated grave goods.

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His every instinct was screaming at him to leave this private, sacred space, but at the back of the chamber lay the stacked crates. Those were already more of a desecration than his presence would ever be.

“Hel, goddess below, grant me this swift journey into your halls and a safe return, that I may right a wrong,” Logan whispered a quick prayer and then walked into this poor family’s stead in the underworld. He moved with care, trying his best not to touch or disturb anything besides the crates. He could scarcely believe even that salty old miser had dared to desecrate a grave like this… He looked back in a panic when he heard the heavy footfalls of Lurkit follow, but relaxed when he noted that the big lizard was emulating his caution.

Returning his attention to the crates, he set his coin on the corner of a shelf and pulled off his pack again to retrieve a pry bar. It took several minutes of wrenching and heaving, during which Logan kept nervously glancing at the bones, but eventually, the lid of one of the ‘fruit’ boxes came free. Logan snatched his coin and held it aloft to see…

“Ssand?” the translator’s hissing question nearly made him jump out of his skin. Clenching down and getting a hold of himself, he stilled his racing heart and dragged his fingers through the grains. Furrowing his brow, he sniffed at it before touching a bit to his tongue and spitting back into the box.

“And salt,” Logan whispered, baffled. Lurkit reached over his head and scooped up a handful, letting it trickle between his claws. The shifting grains revealed more solid clumps beneath.

“Sk’tah ne?” Lurkit asked.

“Why salt?” the translator provided.

“They were delivered on a herring buss,” Logan answered, half to himself. “Big ships, used to catch lots of fish. They keep the catch preserved in salt so they can stay out longer.” But why in the name of all the gods would they store it here? Logan reached back in and began to dig. The clumps scratched at his fingers and knuckles, breaking away as he searched. Just handspan downward, he found something.

“Aha!” Logan whispered triumphantly. “Gotcha now, Marsh. What are you hiding?” He brushed the mixed grains of salt and sand aside to reveal a leathery haunch of pork. The clumps of damp salt were still clinging to a deep brand. Some rancher in the Southern Isles most likely.

“Salted pork…” Logan was stumped and felt his heart dropping to his toes. Had he done all this for nothing? Was this a trick? A trap? “All this for salted pork?” His voice shook as his mind struggled to account for this bizarre development. Then he felt a tapping on his shoulder and turned to see Lurkit. The huge lizardfolk slowly shook his head from side to side.

“Isssnot” his guttural hiss echoed oddly in the small space. Logan didn’t know the word and turned to look at the translator, but Lurkit got in the way and pointed to the crate with a bob of his chin that set his fleshy dewlap swaying. “IsssNOT!” The warrior repeated. Logan realized that the word wasn’t draconic, Lurkit was trying to say something in common.

“Is not?” Logan asked. “Not what?”

“Issnofork!” he insisted, then tapped his nose and sniffed.

“Are you saying it’s not pork? Can you identify meat by smell alone?”

“You can not?” the translator asked from back by the entrance. Ignoring the question, Logan turned back to the box. Cautiously shoveling grains of salt and sand onto the lid of the box beside it, he tried to uncover the rest of what he suspected to be a side of pig. That suspicion began to unravel as he scooped more of the grains away. The shape was wrong. The thigh was too long and slender for a pig, and the prominent hip bone wasn’t right either.

With shaking hands, he fought down his gorge as he moved to the other side of the crate and began to dig there. Mere inches down, his efforts pulled up a salt-crusted tangle of long black hair. Logan recoiled, staggering back away from the box in revulsion.

“Gods below!” He cursed as the pieces fell into place. The Herring buss, the Southern Isles, the brand, he felt ill.

“We don’t understand.” the translator inquired from a world away, the words barely penetrating Logan’s addled mind. His explanation came in a flat, toneless voice as he pointed to the runes that spelled the port of origin.

“Grœnnsi,” he said softly. “It’s a port in the Southern Isles. Which is the colony where the old rights of conquest are still legal.” Logan tasted bile. The lizardfolk looked nonplussed, clearly lost, so Logan tried to explain it in terms they could comprehend.

“Thralldom,” he tried. When that didn’t work, he risked a term that had been coined to refer to their own folk back when it had still been legal to own them. “Slaves.”

That got a reaction. Crests bristled and teeth were bared. Logan wasn’t sure how many generations had passed since the Skethna had faced such threats, but evidently, the memory was still a potent one. Logan turned back to glare down at the half-buried body in the box. Every answer he had found here led to more questions.

Marsh was wasting the productivity of his largest ship, just to cross the New Sea and spend exorbitant amounts of gold on illegal thralls. Only to then kill them, pack their bodies in salt, and store them in the barrows. The amount of money this must take was mind-boggling, and for what? What in all the realms of gods and men did that fishy old bastard get out of this?!

“I need to think,” he whispered, scooping the salt back into the crate and closing the lid. “Let’s get out of here.”

As one trio left the grave, the other remained coldly at rest. Wrapped around their kin in an embrace that had been undisturbed for countless years, their empty sockets bore the only witness to the deepening darkness as the visitors returned the stone door to its rightful place.