Droless looked around. Most of the prisoners were dead, as were most of the Ebon Blade, and the Games Master must have judged this enough.
“The toll is paid!” boomed around the arena, followed by the cheers of the crowd. Droless sighed and dropped the weapons to the earth, watching as the spilled blood slid through the perforated floor. The brass doors on the southern wall of the arena opened and he, along with the remaining prisoners, were directed to return below. Someone refused to cast his weapon to the ground and a barrage of crossbow bolts added his corpse to the butcher’s bill.
Droless took one last look at the open sky and lifted his fist in victory before returning to darkness.
Chapter Four
Irozion
The wind howled, throwing up a wall of white and snatching Urkjorman’s words from the air.
“What?” called Eihn, wiping snow from his goggles as the winds died down.
“Are you lost?” repeated Urk.
Eihn looked around. The ice-covered landscape wasn’t exactly teeming with distinct landmarks and the ragging winds kicked up so much snow he could barely see his two companions. Both looked like moving snow banks. Eihn supposed he looked the same. He tried to shout a response, but the wind ate his words. He sighed and waited for the two to draw near. Even close, he had to shout over the gale. “No! We’re almost there.”
Al’rashal looked around, shivering despite the thick layers of clothing draping her body. “How can you tell?”
Eihn smiled, for he could feel Mehrindai’s radiance pulling him on. “A wayfarer knows the Footsteps! Come on, we have to catch it!”
“Catch it?” asked Al as they followed Eihn. “Footsteps?”
“Of course!” shouted Eihn with a smile. “Even Mehrindai’s footsteps travel!”
Al grumbled something, but it was much too low to be heard over the blizzard. Ahead, the winds had pulled into a funnel, like a tornado of ice. Eihn stretched out a hand to Urkjorman, who then grasped the hand of his wife. “What now?” asked the minotaur.
“Hold on tight!”
Eihn reached out, magnifying the radiance shining in his heart and touching the column of divine power that swirled before them. The energy recognized its own and the tornado came forward, wrapping them in wind and ice as it pulled them away.
They arrived with an explosion of ice and snow, feeling as if they’d fallen out of the sky even though they didn’t seem to have moved. Immediately the heat washed over them and the snow and ice rose in clouds of steam. Eihn and Al began to remove their winter clothes and Urkjorman just lifted his arms and let the sun do its work. Blessed by the god of storm and ice, Urk hadn’t been disturbed by the cold like Eihn and Al and merely had to shed the snow from his thick fur.
“How close now?” asked the minotaur.
“Close,” said Al, barely above a whisper, as she looked across the clay plain to Irozion.
Eihn was as taken with the view as Al and her husband were. Irozion, the city of iron and glass, lay a few miles away, but even from here it dominated the horizon. A red-rock mesa had been split in twain and in the divide rose a city composed of stone, metal, and glass. Even from here Eihn had some idea of the artistry and craftsmanship that must have gone into the city’s construction, and his mind burned at the idea of exploring such a spectacle. He always burned with excitement at the thought of exploring a new place, but he reminded himself he was here for family, not fun.
“Looks like your little shortcut saved us a few weeks, Eihn. Thank you,” said Al.
“And hopefully it will have saved our son as well,” said Urk solemnly.
They packed up the clothes they’d shed and walked on in silence.
Up close, the city was more wondrous than Eihn had first imagined. Great mechanical lifts carried dozens of people up and down the mesa’s sides, and massive carts rolled along on tracks—they were like mine cars but the size of elephants. All around were people of differing races at their daily business, but most remarkable of all was the strange purple metal that made up a third of the buildings and the multi-colored glass used not just in windows but as decoration on solid surfaces. Even so the trio drew attention, not so much Eihn but his companions. Though wearing little more than an armored skirt and a few plates of armor Urk still towered over everyone and his war hammer gleamed as though under the light of moon not the son. However Urk paled in comparison to Al. She was wrapped in overlapping plates of golden armor that seemed to glow and carried a glave that rippled with the colors of the rainbow.
Despite himself Eihn stayed on track and brought them to the office of the director-prime. It was where he had been told but navigating through the lively city had still proven difficult. Once there the guards bade them wait while they took Eihn’s message of their arrival. The room had a few others waiting, mostly couriers bringing documents in and out as clerks argued as clerks do.
“Eihn!” called Muraheim, arriving at last. “It is good to see you.”
Eihn embraced his old master, though now that he was grown he had to drop to his knees to be even with the stooped old gnome, and he had to squeeze gently so as not to bruise his aged bones. “And good to see you as well, Master Muraheim.”
The old gnome looked into Eihn’s eyes for a long moment and blinked back tears before pulling away to address Al and Urk: “I am so very sorry, Urkjorman, Al’rashal. I have done you a grave—”
“No,” interrupted Urkjorman. “You need not apologize for . . . our sins.”
Al shot Urk a disapproving glance but held her counsel.
Muraheim gave a sad smile. “Then come. I have won Droless some leniency—maybe you can win more. But I do not think so, to be honest.”
They followed Muraheim up the stairs several floors, each time being stopped by guards until Muraheim presented the paperwork to verify passage. Finally, they came to a door flanked by a dwarf and a draekson.
“Weapons here—” said the dwarf.
“—Or you wait outside,” finished the reptile-like draekson in its oddly nasal voice.
Al and Urk hesitated a moment but relented, putting aside their weapons. Still, all four were searched before the dwarf knocked. “Director-prime?” he inquired. “Four to see you. The party with the wayfarers.”
“Send them in,” said a voice like boulders grinding glass.
The interior was spacious, with a shelf of books on one wall and a shelf of scrolls on the opposite. The room was lit by amber crystals affixed in the corners and a massive multi-hued pane of glass that let in sunlight. A table hewn from stone and edged in steel sat at the room’s center with a map of the city laid upon it and various pages and writing implements shoved aside. The director-prime looked up from the table, revealing the slightly pointed ears and greenish skin of a half-blood orc. The warm pink scar that crawled across the right side of his face and throat explained the voice. The left side of his face grew a thick black beard that curved like a crescent toward the right. His clothes were a mix of blue and brown and seemed cut for comfort, not prestige.
He gestured to a table near the door set with a lantern, a pitcher of water, and cups. “Drink, if you want.”
No one did.
“Then speak.”
Muraheim spoke first. “This is Urkjorman and Al’rashal. Father and mother to Droless. The boy—”
“No boy.”
“The man . . . I delivered to you for fair judgment.”
“That was granted.”
“And this is my disciple Eihn. We ask”—Muraheim stopped as Al put a hand on his shoulder.
“We ask,” continued Al, “we ask to know our son’s fate. What has happened to Droless?”
“The unrepentant—” The director-prime moved stiffly, as though he had the bones of a man twice his age, to a small desk near the rear wall. He opened a drawer and returned with a book. Setting it on the table, he opened it to one of the last pages and pressed a finger to the tight script. “He pays his debt.”
Al placed
her hand on the book, and after a nod turned it to read: “‘Droless charged with crimes of coercion, assault, death, sedition, robbery . . .’” she trailed off, though whether it was from horror or apathy, Eihn couldn’t tell. “‘Plead innocent to all charges. Found guilty of all crimes. Sentenced fifty years under the lash. Droless demanded vindication and was offered the Blood Toll instead. Droless agreed . . . with relish.’”
“What is this Blood Toll?” asked Urk.
“Barbarism,” muttered Muraheim.
“Fight in the arena,” answered the director-prime. “Two fights for every year owed.”
“How many has he left to win?” asked Urk.
The director prime simply pointed at the book and Al continued reading: “‘Twelve victories.’”
“You said he would not face death,” said Muraheim, as though dragging up an old argument.
“No,” answered the director-prime. “Would not face execution.”
“What can we do to commute his sentence?” asked Al.
“Nothing.”
“Surely there is something? We have wealth—I wear more wealth than most see in a lifetime.”
The director-prime gestured to the window as if to indicate the town. “I see more every hour.”
“Then time,” offered Al. “Time for time, blood for blood. Surely that is equitable? Fair?”
“Not fair to heap another’s sins onto the innocent.”
“Please, something.”
The director-prime took the book from Al’s hands and closed it. “Nothing will save him but repentance.”
Silence.
“Then let us see him.”
The director nodded, put the book down, and pulled a scroll from the wall. It unrolled of itself, and a contract of some sort was stretched across it. He began filling in details with a quill—“This will allow any one of you to visit him between matches. You will not be permitted beneath the arena with weapons, tools, nor food. Show this to any guard and they will escort you. When your son dies, this will be worthless.”
The director-prime’s speech ended with a dry hacking cough, and he spat blood into a spittoon next to the table. He rolled the contract up and handed it to Al’rashal.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do not. He fights today and may now be dead.”
“Thank you, just the same.”
“Leave then. Save your son, if you can.”
Chapter Five
Applause and Damnation
The door wasn’t hot this time, though Droless did not know if that meant it was early in the day or just overcast. What was more interesting than the heat, however, was the chanting. The words did not carry through the brass but their cadence did. One beat in time with a subtle vibration that was probably the stamping of feet or the clapping of hands. He stretched antagonizing new scars and old bruises, at this rate the battles might outpace his ability to recover.
“What are you smiling about?” grumbled one of the prisoners on Droless’s left.
The kintaur smiled. “Bloodshed.” The man met his glower with equal venom. The prisoner had the spear Droless had taken from the Ebon Blade’s leader and the two had almost come to blows over it in the equipment room before the guards intervened. Instead Droless wielded the claymore and a heavy wooden hammer. He was confident that with luck or malice he would have the spear back before the match was through. Still he wondered at the challenge to come, they seemed to be issued weapons when the bout was expected to be incredibly dangerous.
The doors pulled apart, and light and a surprisingly cool breeze blasted in along with the crowd’s chanting.
“Blood! Blood! Blood!
He stepped forward to an explosion of cheers. Some of his fellow prisoners cast looks of animosity, others adoration, but he cared nothing for either. The cheers meant there would be battle, and that was enough for him. A dozen prisoners strode onto the field of sand and steel with him. They waited for the crowds to die down and the announcer to describe what was to come next.
“A special treat, good citizens!” boomed the voice. “Not thieves or mercenaries this time! This time we will see which beasts are more savage! These lawless monsters, or the monsters of the eastern jungles!”
A hush settled on the crowd as the doors opened at the far end of the arena. Deep animal roars tore from the darkness, making the onlookers and some prisoners jump in fear as the beasts rushed onto the field. “Katalon jaguars!” boomed the announcer.
The Katalon jaguars were massive feline-like creatures with fur a deep green bordering on black, with claws the color of iron bark. However, these creatures possessed six limbs instead of a cat’s four, a cowl of feathers like a mane, and no visible ears. What Droless could see was that their skin was taut and dotted with fresh scars. They’d been starved and abused in preparation for this match, they would be desperate and furious.
“What . . . what do we do?” stammered a young man to Droless’s right who was holding an ax much too large for him.
“The same thing you did to get thrown in here,” answered Droless with a smile. “Kill!”
Droless charged forward and the jaguars did likewise. They weren’t grouping together, though, like pack creatures that would have formed a line or a wedge—these things were either too maddened to work together or were solitary hunters by nature. That just might give Droless the edge he needed. He and the jaguar he was charging had the same idea at the same moment, and they both sprang forward to collide mid-air.
Starved or not, the creature was massive, and colliding with it was like being tackled by one of his brothers. The beast raked at him with four of its clawed feet and tried to get its fangs into his throat. Droless fended off the bite with the hammer and sank his claymore into the creature’s side as they came down. They pulled apart, the fresh claw marks running along Droless’s body feeding his rage. The jaguar was limping, one of its left legs badly struck by the claymore, and the feathers about its head shifted and waved as it growled before it came forward to swipe its claws at him. Droless backed up some, kicking the claw away and following with a sweep of the claymore that caught the side of the jaguar’s face but didn’t bite deep enough to finish it off.
The animal hunched. Droless leaped forward. The jaguar aborted its pounce and tried to spring backward, but it was disorganized, almost falling over itself in its retreat. Droless brought his sword around, drawing a long line of blood across its side and sending it rolling to the earth, then, before it could recover, he brought the hammer down, shattering its skull.
Droless roared and the crowd cheered.
Nearby one of the creatures was atop a prisoner and eating him, another was dragging two dead bodies away as if to its lair. Not far away the young man with the ax was swinging wildly to keep a jaguar at bay and was tiring himself out.
I should let him die. But Droless sighed and released a sharp whistle that made the jaguar shake its head in irritation. The prisoner backed away and the jaguar roared. Droless roared, too, and the creature jumped, higher than the other, and brought its foreclaws down on his shoulders and sank its midclaws into his chest. Pain surged through Droless and at last the rage came upon him.
His father had called it “the red mantle,” and it was an easy thing for a minotaur to call upon, but for a half-breed like Droless it required pain and fury. Both of which filled him now. He drove the claymore into the jaguar’s chest and out its back. The thing went into spasms and died as the kintaur lifted it over head. Droless shouted the Roar of Provocation. Four of the jaguars looked to him as he tore the claymore through the body of the one he had impaled, bathing himself in its warm blood. The last of its life and his own animal rage seemed to mix in his building fury.
The first jaguar came for him and he shattered its skull and his hammer with the same blow. Droless left the broken weapon with the broken body. The second and third were more cautious, lashing at him with claws but not leaving their feet to leap at him. He took the claw of one wit
h a hack of the sword and drove the blade into the throat of the other, though he had to let it sink its claws into his arms to do so. There was pain with that, but it was swallowed up in the rage that fueled his body. The second beast backed away, and the fourth landed on his back. It should have been heavy enough to drive him to the earth, but the rage gave him strength. Droless cast aside the claymore and grasped the paws sunk into his shoulders and shattered the jaguar’s wrists. It howled and sank its teeth into a shoulder, and he drove a horn into its skull. It fell to the ground, its blood slipping through the perforations as had the blood of all the others.
The next time Droless made the Roar of Provocation the remaining jaguar pulled away slinking back to the door from whence they’d come, dragging the bodies of the slain.
What he thought was thunder was actually the hammering of his heart, and the rage filling his veins receded until he could hear words again.
First the crowd:
“Dro-less! Dro-Less! Dro-less!”
And then the words of the man beside him:
“Thank you.”
Droless snarled, partially because he hated the prisoner’s weakness and partially because his ebbing rage made forming words difficult.
The door opened to their pens, and he led the survivors back inside.
Droless poured the bucket of water over his head, washing away the blood and cooling his flesh. The prisoner he’d saved was standing nearby, looking him over, then staring fixedly at the floor. “Like what you see?” asked Droless with a snort.
“N-No—I mean yes, I mean—”He looked about frantically as laughter circled the dim chamber. “I wasn’t looking at you—I was looking at the floor.”
Forgotten Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 3) Page 42