The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  “It’s your loss, captain,” Mazareem said. “But when you make your official report, don’t leave out the truth that I lent you a helping hand.” Mazareem waved the pale hand at Pynel and grinned.

  Pynel ignored Mazareem’s dark humor. They stood in silence until Pynel’s lone seplica returned. Pynel motioned for the three of them to start making their way towards the perimeter of the camp. As they moved, Mazareem noticed the few able-bodied survivors heading in the same direction. Dezerath already stood on the north edge of the camp with two of her lieutenants.

  Once they were all gathered, Mazareem counted twenty of their original hundred that would walk away from the scene of the ambush. The wounded had realized that something was happening, and heads were starting to turn towards those preparing to depart.

  “What’s happening?” a voice cried out. “You can’t leave us here!”

  “Don’t respond,” Pynel said. “Don’t even look at them.”

  “That might be hard,” Mazareem said. “It looks like they want to come with us.”

  “Come on, get on your feet!” the wounded soldier cried. “They’ll not abandon us here to die!”

  The wounded tomb keeper stood in the midst of the injured, her sword raised to point at Pynel. She had lost her helmet in the struggle, and her voice rang out clear without the mask to muffle it. Her words were rallying the wounded. They were helping each other stand.

  “We need them to stay here, and we’re running out of time,” Pynel said. “Without them as a distraction, we’ll have to fight our way out. She needs to be silenced.”

  “Give me your sword, captain,” Mazareem said.

  Pynel’s helmeted face turned to regard Mazareem. She must have seen something in his eyes, because she drew her sword and handed it to him without a word. It exited the scabbard with a snap-hiss. Flames leapt to cover the length of the blade.

  Burning sword in hand, Mazareem strode towards the wounded soldiers. The woman who was trying to rally them saw him coming. Her next shout died on her lips. She watched, transfixed, as Mazareem approached. His steps were measured, his bearing regal. He held his head high and never took his eyes from the woman’s face.

  At that moment, the miasma decided to bring to bear the full weight of its attention on him again. The mist swirled, angrier than he had ever seen it. Mazareem staggered and almost fell as his lungs filled with dead air. He gritted his teeth and forced himself forward.

  Around him, the rest of the wounded turned their eyes on him. He felt like the keeper of the underworld, come to claim their souls. Mazareem stopped five paces in front of the woman. She stared back at him with awe and reverence. He saw no fear in her eyes.

  “My dear child, I must ask a great sacrifice of you,” Mazareem said. He tried to sound sincere. The sanctimonious act had carried him this far, even though it was starting to feel absurd.

  “Anything, risen one,” the soldier said.

  “I require you to stay here so that my journey may continue.”

  Tears welled in the woman’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

  “But we were to share in your glory,” the woman said. “We were all supposed to march into Orcassus together.”

  “I offer you something better,” Mazareem said. “I offer you the chance to share in my death.”

  “And to live again?” Her question was almost a whisper.

  “If that is what you wish,” Mazareem said.

  The woman smiled and nodded. The rapture on her face unnerved Mazareem.

  “Grant me one final request, risen one,” the women said.

  “Speak your desire, my child,” Mazareem said.

  “Don’t leave me here for the worms.”

  “But the rest of your companions must face them. There is greater glory to be earned in what they will suffer.”

  “Have mercy on me, risen one. I’m a coward, I know that. Let them have the greater portion of the glory, only have mercy on me. I beg of you.”

  “Kneel, then.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” the woman mumbled over and over as she struggled to get to her knees. It was a challenge, because one of her legs had been crippled in the fight. When she finally knelt before him, she bowed her head.

  Mazareem stared down at the nape of the woman’s neck. There was no telling how many people he had killed in his long life, but something about this bothered him. Even though misguided, the fervor, the willingness of this woman to embrace her own death was unnatural. It defied the most intrinsic quality of all life: the will to survive.

  He raised the flaming sword high overhead. “I give your soul to death,” Mazareem intoned. “May you find again the life you gave.”

  The woman sighed. Mazareem brought the blade down, putting all of his considerable strength behind the blow. Pynel’s blade proved sharp. It cleaved the woman’s head from her shoulders in one clean strike.

  Mazareem stood over the decapitated corpse. The earth drank the woman’s blood. He lingered to let the import of the moment sink in on the rest of the wounded. When enough time had passed, Mazareem raised his head.

  “She was weak, but the rest of you are strong,” Mazareem said. “Your suffering will be only fleeting, but the glory of your death will last for eternity.”

  No one spoke as Mazareem walked back to where Pynel waited. He released the button on the hilt of the sword, and the flame vanished. Mazareem did not need to look to know that no one followed him. The ambush and the killing had not fazed him. But executing that woman rattled Mazareem to his core.

  Compared to his thousand years, her pitiful existence had been insignificant. Her life had been like that of a zephyr in the miasma—stirred up by capricious energies that coalesced for the briefest of instants to form her and then erased by a changing of the wind. And yet, she had gone fearlessly to the one place Mazareem dared not go. She had died without fear and without complaint.

  Who was stronger, the one who faced death and accepted it, or the one who did everything in his power to defy it? Mazareem did not know the answer to that question. Perhaps the miasma was affecting him more than he thought. More so than ever before, he felt the weight of the chains of living. Life had become a prison from which he did not know how to escape.

  Chapter 17

  SAREDON LEAPT OUT OF bed. He could not remember the last time he woke up excited for the day. There were perks to being the tenth reaver’s son. One of them was his own private room. It was nothing compared to the luxurious apartments he had enjoyed before entering training, but it was far better than the communal barracks most of the other trainees shared.

  Next to his bed stood a chest of drawers, and a small desk sat flush against the wall beside the door. Saredon did most of his studying here. As far as he knew, he was the only trainee in his class from a reaver’s lineage. He was expected to succeed. This room was evidence of that, as well as an advantage to give him the upper hand.

  His leather armor rested on a wooden stand next to the chest of drawers. On any other day, Saredon would have donned the battered armor and spent the next hour working hard in the training yard. But he ignored the armor today. Instead, he pulled open a drawer and removed his richest tunic and pants. It was not an outfit approved for wear in the warrens beneath Tarragon Cathedral.

  Saredon grinned at the thought. Today, his mother was taking him into the countryside for a picnic. It had been so long since he had been beyond the walls of the city. He had used to love venturing out into the forests and hills around Northmark. Saredon felt a pang of regret that Tarathine would not be at his side, but not even her absence could dull his spirits on this day.

  A picnic with his mother! It was like they were a proper family again. And she certainly had good news if she was going to pull him out of training for a day to make an event out of it. Saredon had tossed and turned all night, trying to guess what the special occasion was.

  Fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons, Saredon dressed quickly. After wearing the coarse
black cloth of his training uniform for weeks on end, the rich satin of his tunic felt like the caress of his mother against his skin. The last piece of the outfit was a set of shoes, a gift from his mother. They had been left outside of his room last night.

  Saredon slid his feet into the supple leather footwear. They were a perfect fit. He lacked a mirror to inspect himself, but he was certain that he looked like a proper lordling. He stuck his chest out and imagined what his classmates would think if they saw him now. A second later, he felt sheepish because he remembered that he still had to navigate the halls between his room and the top floor of the cathedral. He was certain to be spotted by classmates and instructors alike.

  The last thing Saredon wanted was to ruin this morning by running into Instructor Grippen. That man would take one look at Saredon’s rich clothes and find some excuse to give him a chore that would sully them. Saredon adopted his most serious expression, opened the door of his room, and stepped into the hallway. If he walked with a purpose, he told himself, no one would bother him. After all, he was nobility.

  Thankfully, the halls beneath the cathedral were nearly deserted this early in the morning. The trainees who were diligent about practice were already hard at work. The rest were still sleeping. Saredon tried to appear unconcerned as he strode through the now familiar warrens, but he could not stop himself from hurrying at least a little.

  His stomach growled when he passed the kitchens. Breakfast bubbled in the great cauldron. He hoped his mother would have something for him to eat before their lunch in the countryside. This set Saredon to fantasizing about food. The gruel served here was hearty, and he usually ate his fill, but it tasted like dirt the cook tried to make palatable with a few weak spices. His mouth watered as he recalled the fruit tarts and pies the family chef used to make for him and Tarathine. Maybe his mother would remember that those were his favorite.

  Saredon was so preoccupied by pleasant predilections of pie that he completely forgot to watch where he was going. He turned a corner and ran headlong into Instructor Grippen. His mind registered what was happening, yet he could not stop himself soon enough to prevent from slamming his shoulder into Grippen’s midsection.

  Grippen took the blow with a grunt. Saredon stepped back, horrified. He knew better than to speak and try to provide an excuse. With Grippen, that would only make the punishment worse. Grippen sneered at Saredon. The man’s cruel eyes peered down the length of his long, hooked nose, giving him the appearance of a hawk that had spied a mouse on the open field.

  “I should strip those ridiculous clothes from your back and flog you myself,” Grippen said. “This day with your mother is a privilege allowed only at my behest. Or did you forget so quickly, that while you live in these halls, you belong to me?”

  “I meant no offense, Instructor Grippen,” Saredon stammered. “I got distracted and wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  Grippen’s eyes flashed. Saredon gulped and cursed himself. Despite knowing he should not, he had tried to make an excuse for himself.

  “You may go to your mother,” Grippen said. “She came to me personally and asked for the favor. I’ll not go back on my word to her. But when you return… you’re going to run barefoot around the training yard until your feet bleed.”

  “Yes, instructor,” Saredon said. He ducked his head in respect and hurried past Grippen. Saredon felt the man’s piercing stare on his back until he turned the next corner. Of all the times to run into Grippen, why did it have to happen this morning?

  Like many chance meetings Saredon experienced in this place, it seemed too convenient to be a coincidence. Sometimes, he felt as if the entire training program revolved around his comings and goings. Grippen had appeared to expect Saredon to come charging around that corner. The man had not acted surprised at all.

  Saredon knew it was an absurd notion, but according to Thyria, none of the other trainees had run-ins with the priestess and instructors like Saredon did. He assumed the special attention he received was because he was the son of the tenth reaver.

  He reached the stairs up to the surface level without encountering another soul. Suddenly desperate to be free of the dark confines of the catacombs, Saredon ran up the steps two at a time. He paused at the top to catch his breath and get his bearings. Along with the shoes delivered last night, his mother had also sent him a written note on how to find her this morning. She would be waiting in the outer cloister in the east wing. It was up to him to reach her.

  Tarragon Cathedral towered over Saredon, sinister and silent. The stairs had deposited him on the edge of a grand hall. Stone columns, as thick as he was tall, were evenly spaced around the huge room. This early in the morning, the high ceilings overhead were still hidden in the gloom. The only illumination came from iron candelabras scattered seemingly at random on the marble floor. These few feeble flames did little to dispel the lingering darkness. To Saredon’s childish imagination, it seemed that he stood on the edge of a strange, symmetrical forest, and behind every tree, a stalking shadow lurked.

  No sound or motion stirred in the great hall, and after a few moments of waiting, Saredon decided he was alone. He gathered his courage and stepped out into the vast open space. Instinctively, he scurried across the floor until he stood in the shadow of the nearest column. He peered around the pillar, and at the far end of the room, he spied an open doorway. Two great wooden doors had been opened to greet the day. Beyond them lay a courtyard.

  Saredon made for the open doors. He needed a clear view of the open sky to determine which way was easy. Once he had oriented himself, it would just be a matter of exploring in that direction until he found his mother. A small part of him was hurt that she had not come herself to guide him to the surface. He comforted himself by thinking that this was another test. She wanted him to succeed, and even on a day devoted to leisure, Saredon was not to forget the trials that lay ahead of him.

  And anyway, he was getting older. Saredon felt far more mature than his eleven years. Despite his wounded feelings, he was proud that his mother trusted him to find his way to her with nothing more than a simple note. She was treating him like a grown man, and he would not disappoint her.

  When he reached the courtyard, Saredon turned in place as he scanned the sky above. It was still early, but the black of night was giving way to the gray of dawn above the spires in the east. Pleased that his plan had worked, Saredon exited the courtyard through the eastern door.

  He found himself in a long, narrow hallway. Here, he was not alone. Clad in their long black robes, Abimelech’s priestesses were hurrying up and down the hall as they went about their morning chores. None of them were surprised to see Saredon, and no one commented that he was out of place. Growing bolder with each step, he strode through their midst with his head held high. A few of the priestesses smiled and nodded at him. Most of them were too busy to pay him any attention.

  At the end of the long hallway, Saredon found another courtyard. Beyond that, he navigated through a series of rooms, each one larger than the last. He was beginning to worry he was lost, when finally, he opened a door and found the outermost eastern cloister. By now, the sun had risen, and its brilliant morning light was filtering through the stone archways of the cloister.

  Fifty paces away, Saredon’s mother stood waiting for him with her back turned. She stood in the shadow cast by one of the pillars, which struck him as odd. In his head, his mother would have preferred to stand in the light. She had not noticed his approach. Rather than call out, Saredon studied her as he neared.

  Since their reunion, she had seemed pensive, distracted. Until recently, Saredon had never thought of his mother as a harsh woman. But now, she possessed a rigidness that disturbed him. She no longer had much time to spend with him, and when she did take a break from her busy schedule, he always felt like she was annoyed by him.

  Mariel turned so that her profile was visible to Saredon. Her expression was so hard, so devoid of empathy, that he almost stopped in hi
s tracks. She caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and turned her face towards him. At the sight of Saredon, she remembered to smile. The smile did not reach her eyes. Saredon could not bring himself to meet his mother’s gaze. Her calculating stare unnerved him. He had never seen such a look from his mother before.

  “There you are,” Mariel said when Saredon came to a stop before her. “I was starting to think I needed to send a man to find you.”

  She did not sound happy to see him. Saredon held up the folded note by way of explanation. “I did my best,” he mumbled.

  Mariel stared at him for a long, awkward moment. He worried she was going to reprimand him.

  “Of course you did, my son,” Mariel said at last. She gave Saredon a warm smile and opened her arms.

  Relieved, Saredon stepped into her embrace. Maybe it was because he was getting older, but she did not hug him the way she used to. Somehow, his mother embraced him while holding him away at the same time. And she stepped away so quickly. Saredon’s heart sank when his mother pushed him back.

  “We don’t have time to dawdle,” Mariel said. “I’ve a carriage waiting just outside. If we’re to picnic at noon, we need to leave immediately.”

  Mariel turned on her heel and left the covered cloister behind. Her long skirts swished around her ankles as she walked. Saredon had to jog to keep up. Together, they passed through the gate in the wall that separated the cathedral from the rest of the city. In the cobblestone street outside the gate, a horse drawn carriage waited for them. Two burly looking men sat on the bench in the front, and a well-dressed servant held the door open for Mariel and Saredon. Mariel stepped up and in without hesitation.

  Saredon eyed the guards. This felt wrong. Any time they had ventured into the countryside as a family, they had gone alone, without servants or soldiers. His father had said the reputation of a reaver was protection enough, and his mother hated to be waited on.