The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  Sorrell stood closest to the tomb keeper, so she was restrained first. Brant came next. The tomb keeper chuckled as she clasped the iron shackles around Brant’s thick wrists.

  “Might as well try and collar a bull,” the tomb keeper said as she eyed Brant’s bare torso appreciatively.

  Kaiser was last. He held out his hands, and the tomb keeper slapped the irons around them. Kaiser’s eyes never left Niad’s face. Lacrael could see in his gaze that Kaiser was still contemplating killing the three Orcassians and trying to escape. They needed some way to divert him.

  Niad saw the same thing. Before it was too late, she found her voice.

  “Wait,” Niad said. “Their clothes belong to me. You purchased the slaves, not what they’re wearing.”

  The man with the ledger spun on one foot to protest—the inspector cut him short.

  “It’s a silly technicality, but she’s right,” the inspector said. “Besides, those rags they’re wearing will just be burned anyway. Hurry up and strip them, I should have been out of here ten minutes ago.”

  “Take off your clothes,” Niad said to Kaiser, Sorrell, and Brant.

  “You can’t be serious,” Sorrell said.

  “Do it,” Niad said.

  For a tense moment, Lacrael worried that all three of them would refuse. Sorrell was the first to move. She sighed and started to undress, and the tomb keeper freed one hand to allow her shirt to be pulled off. Kaiser and Brant followed her example.

  Niad caught Lacrael’s eye and jerked her head towards Kaiser. Lacrael stepped forward to collect their clothes. She did her best to keep her eyes from straying below Brant’s waist. This was the first time she had seen him wearing only a loincloth.

  Lacrael stood in front of Kaiser. He added his clothes to her bundle. She knew he could not see her eyes behind her mask, but he met her gaze. Niad’s gambit seemed to have worked. Forcing them to strip had distracted Kaiser enough that the risk of violence had passed.

  “We’ll save her,” Lacrael whispered so that only Kaiser could hear. “I promise.”

  Chapter 27

  SORRELL TRIED TO CONTROL her breathing. She had been watching events unfold with a strange sense of detachment up until she removed her clothes. Now, standing in the crowded cell, wearing nothing but her intimates, it started to feel real. Too real. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and it took every bit of her self-control not to claw her garments out of Lacrael’s hands and pull them on again.

  No one spared her a second glance, but Sorrell could not shake the sensation that everyone was staring at her belly. The subtle thickening, the slight protrusion, both were clear signs to anyone who cared to look that she carried a child. Her chained hands hung in front of her, fingers twitching with the overpowering desire to cover her stomach in a futile effort to protect her baby.

  Niad and the inspector finished their negotiations, and the inspector moved for the door. Sorrell could not understand the language, but words were not necessary to communicate that it was time to go. The tomb keeper gripped Sorrell’s right arm in a gauntleted hand. The metal was cold on Sorrell’s skin.

  Sorrell moved her feet towards the door. It was that or be dragged. Kaiser and Brant exited in front of her. Before leaving the cell, Sorrell glanced over her shoulder one last time. Niad and Lacrael were watching her. Lacrael’s face was hidden behind her featureless mask, but Niad’s brow was wrinkled with concern.

  “Don’t drink what they give you,” Niad called out before Sorrell stepped from the room. “It’ll kill the baby.”

  Niad’s words thundered in Sorrell’s head as she stumbled next to the tomb keeper. The fear that Sorrell had been holding at bay squeezed her heart with its dread talons. She shrank in on herself. Sorrell had never cowered before anyone or anything in her life, but the life she carried in her womb changed everything. The need to keep it safe eclipsed everything else.

  The inspector stopped in the street outside the cell. She spoke briefly with the tomb keeper before turning away. At her prompting, Kaiser and Brant went with her and the man with the ledger. Sorrell was left alone with the tomb keeper.

  Sorrell caught Kaiser’s eye. She wanted to cry out, wanted to strike at their captors who were separating them. To meekly submit to this treatment was almost more than she could bear. A voice in Sorrell’s mind screamed that this was the last chance. If they let this moment slip by them, they would never see each other again.

  Kaiser’s mouth moved without making a sound. He only formed the words with his lips, but Sorrell read them with ease.

  “Stay alive,” Kaiser said in silence.

  Sorrell felt hollow. This was really happening. She was being abandoned to her fate. Kaiser and Brant moved quickly away. The tomb keeper pulled Sorrell in the opposite direction, and she was forced to turn her gaze from Kaiser’s retreating back.

  Beneath her bare feet, the cold cobblestones were rough against Sorrell’s skin. The details of the city barely registered. Her racing thoughts noted the narrow streets and the high buildings on each side, but beyond that, she was too preoccupied by thoughts of what would happen next to pay attention to her surroundings.

  A starless night sky hung overhead. Sorrell found herself yearning to walk in the deep shadows between each streetlamp. She told herself it was silly, but she felt safer when the shadow fell over her shoulders like a cloak. She shivered when she imagined walking naked through the city in the light of day.

  The tomb keeper navigated the maze of streets, never speaking and not once glancing at Sorrell. At this late hour, they did not encounter anyone else. Once they left the activity of the gatehouse behind, they walked alone for about ten minutes until they reached a door indistinguishable from the rest. Positioned in the middle of an empty street, the door was set in a windowless stone wall.

  Scowling, the tomb keeper pushed inside, dragging Sorrell along behind her. On the other side of the door, Sorrell stepped into what looked like a prison. The long, low room was filled with cells of iron bars. A bored-looking man sat behind a wooden desk in front of the door. Behind him, an oily torch provided the only light in the huge space.

  Sorrell’s escort and the jailor exchanged a few brief words. They did not seem to care for each other. The man hauled himself up from his seat, lumbered around the desk, and took a rough hold of the chain that dangled between Sorrell’s hands. He gave it a jerk, and Sorrell was forced to take a step forward.

  Her duty complete, the tomb keeper turned and exited through the same door she had entered by. The jailor raised a hairy fist and wagged a finger at Sorrell. He spoke, but the words meant nothing to her. He seemed to want her to stay put. What did he expect her to do, make a run for it?

  The man left Sorrell where she was standing and moved around the desk to collect the torch from its hook. When she did not move, he gave her an appreciative nod. Torch in hand, he took up Sorrell’s chain a second time and dragged her down a long line of cells.

  The flickering torchlight touched the occupants of the cells as they passed by. Sorrell saw a mixture of women, men, and even children. Most were curled up on the floor with their backs to the door, but a few turned their faces towards the light. Their eyes were hollow, their faces empty. It was like they were only the memory of the person they had once been. These people had forgotten what hope was.

  Distracted by the other slaves, Sorrell had slowed without realizing it. She winced when the jailor gave her manacles a hard yank. The metal scraped against the bones of her wrist. At last, he stopped before the first empty cell. He fumbled at his belt for a moment, muttering to himself. After a lengthy search, he produced the proper key, unlocked the cell door, and pushed it open.

  Sorrell stepped inside without hesitating. She did not want to give the man a reason to touch her. Surprised by her hasty compliance, the jailor grinned at her. He gave her another nod, secured the door, and stomped back the way he had come. The light went with him. Sorrell watched the bobbing torch until it dwindled to a speck in
the distance. There were slaves in the adjacent cell, but they soon disappeared in the shadows.

  Now, alone and imprisoned in darkness, Sorrell could no longer master her fear. She groped along the iron bars until she found the stone wall at the back of the cell. With the hard rock at her back, she slid to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. Her cold iron chains pressed hard against her legs—Sorrell did not care.

  The tears started as a trickle at first. Sorrell hugged her legs to her chest and tried to control her crying. She failed. Great, wracking sobs shook her body and tore at her soul. She shook as she wept, her face wet with tears and mucus. Sorrow engulfed her, and as she wallowed in it, the depths of her despair grew to encompass everything that had happened to her since Stone’s death.

  Anger and sadness poured from Sorrell. She let it carry her, a crashing wave of pure emotion that fed on itself, compounding her anguish with every breath she drew. At first, the release was empowering, offering freedom from the fear. But soon, when Sorrell realized she could not control it, the heartache began to crush her.

  Terror replaced fear. Sorrell saw the pitiful faces of the other slaves in her mind’s eye. She would be like them, an empty shell with no past and no future. How could they have been so stupid? How could she have been so stupid? They had marched into Orcassus as if they still had power, but the high king had abandoned them. What fools they had been.

  They never should have come. The moment Sorrell had learned she was pregnant, she should have left the others to their mad quest. Now, it was too late. Their party had been split, Tarathine was dying, and Sorrell was lost.

  Hours passed, and even though it seemed impossible, the terrible weight of Sorrell’s despair finally eased. She had no more tears to shed. She felt empty, utterly spent. Exhausted, Sorrell slumped down the wall until her head was resting on the floor. As she lay there, resting like a broken and battered ship that had just survived a hurricane, a new thought blossomed in her awareness.

  She was not alone. The child within her was as much a part of her as it was a part of Stone. In that moment, crumpled on the cold stone floor of her cell, Sorrell glimpsed the first hint of the love she would have for her child, and she felt the power of the bond that had already begun to grow. A smile cracked her tear-streaked face. Sorrell cradled her belly with her shackled hands and closed her eyes.

  Sorrell must have slept, because she woke with a start at the noise of the jailor tromping down the row of cells, banging on the bars with a wooden club. He shouted at the slaves. Sunlight streamed through tiny windows set high in the wall on the side of the building facing the street.

  Body aching from the hard floor and awkward sleeping position, Sorrell pulled herself to her feet. The other slaves were already up and crowded in front of their cell doors. At each cell, the jailor stopped to unlock the door and swing it open. A trio of armored tomb keepers walked behind him. Clearly obeying a command from the jailor, the slaves meekly exited their cells and walked towards the front of the prison.

  When the jailor reached her cell, he opened the door without looking at her and moved on down the row. Following the example of the other slaves, Sorrell stepped into the hallway and moved towards the entrance. She passed between the aloof tomb keepers. They pretended like she did not exist.

  At the exit of the prison, the slaves were formed up in an orderly line waiting to get outside. Sorrell joined the queue. The slaves did not speak to or look at one another, save for those who had been imprisoned as friends or families. Young children stood with their mothers and fathers. Sorrell’s heart broke for the parents, who stood with their arms clutching their little ones.

  She was astonished to hear one family quietly whispering in Sorrell’s own language. They had to be fresh from Coriddia. Did the Palacostian Empire cross into the other realms to kidnap people and turn them into slaves? Sorrell shuddered to imagine such a horrible fate.

  The line moved slowly out the door. When it was Sorrell’s turn to step outside, she raised her manacled hands to shield her eyes from the brilliant morning sun. As her eyes adjusted, her gaze followed the line of slaves down the street and into a large courtyard. Here, they were being processed before being taken away individually to whatever duty they had been purchased for.

  Sorrell did her best to wait patiently for her turn, but her anxiety grew the closer she drew to the courtyard. She watched as families were separated by force. Mothers fell to their knees, wailing as their children were dragged away. Fathers stood stone-faced, watching their wives be led away without them. Twice, Sorrell saw these men try to fight the tomb keepers. Both times, the men were beaten mercilessly and left broken and bleeding on the cobblestones. A clear message to any others who might try to rebel.

  As painful as this was to witness, what worried Sorrell more was the first station where slaves were being treated to some sort of vile concoction they were forced to drink. Children were excused, but every adult was required to gulp down a cupful of dark liquid. By Sorrell’s estimate, at least half of those who drank were immediately overtaken by violent convulsions.

  There was a space on the ground of the courtyard reserved for those recovering from the effects of the potion. Men and women writhed on the stones until they went still. After a few moments, they recovered from their stupor, struggled to their feet, and moved on to the next step in the process.

  However, some of those that fell to the ground did not rise again. Those were dragged away by slaves. Sorrell knew without a doubt that this was what Niad had warned her of. To drink that dark liquid would kill the child inside her. What was she supposed to do? How could she possibly avoid consuming that vile poison?

  Sorrell shuffled forward with the line. It was that or earn the wrath of the watching tomb keepers. With the pathetic powers at her disposal, she might be able to give a tomb keeper frostbite while they beat her senseless. Sorrell stood behind the man next in line as he quaffed his cup, and she took a step back when he dropped to the stones. His seizures were the worst she had seen yet. Sorrell had to wait her turn while he was moved out of the way.

  She would refuse to drink. It was the only thing she could do. Her mind made up, Sorrell stepped forward. The cups were laid out on a low wooden table. Behind the table, a pair of slaves scooped empty cups into a barrel to refill them. In front, a female slave handed a full cup to the next person in line. A bored tomb keeper stood to the side, overseeing the operation.

  The dread that had a hold of Sorrell must have been obvious, because the women tending the table paused when she looked up. Their eyes locked. Sorrell imagined this woman had been kind once, before her soul had been bargained away. The woman’s eyes flicked down to Sorrell’s bare stomach and then widened almost imperceptibly. She knew.

  Sorrell waited. She tried not to tremble. The woman turned to the table and picked up one of the wooden cups. Just as she had already done a hundred other times this morning, the woman stepped forward and handed Sorrell the cup. Sorrell glanced down. The cup was as empty as the woman’s gaze.

  Tears filled Sorrell’s eyes. She raised her hands to her mouth, pretending to drink. Her arms shook so badly that her chains rattled. The woman accepted the cup back and turned away from her, and Sorrell was ushered away from the table by the impatient tomb keeper. She would never get the opportunity to thank the woman who had just saved the life of her unborn child.

  The rest of her processing in the courtyard went by in a blur. Sorrell struggled to stay composed, and she finally got a hold of herself as she was being led away into the city. She had been poked and prodded in a basic health examination, which she passed without issue. The last step had been a burning brand placed on the underside of her left forearm. Despite her determination not to, she had screamed in pain. Her blistered flesh still hurt. Now she bore the mark of an Orcassian slave: a circle with a horizontal line through the center.

  Sorrell left the crowded courtyard behind in the care of another tomb keeper. She was the only slav
e to leave escorted by a soldier. The rest left in the care of their new masters. Sorrell did not have long to wonder at this, because they did not walk far.

  In the light of day, it seemed to be an entirely different city than the one Sorrell remembered from last night. The narrow streets and tall buildings were all cut from the same colorless gray stone, but the brilliant sun overhead banished even the hint of a shadow, making the city appear pristine rather than drab. And the streets were bustling with citizens going about their early morning business.

  The tomb keeper turned right at the first intersection, walked two doors down, and entered the building on the left. Whatever sort of establishment it was, it actually had glass windows and a sign hanging above the door. Once inside, Sorrell’s mouth dropped open. It was, for lack of a better description, a salon like Sorrell used to frequent back home in Coriddia.

  Sorrell was expected. She was taken immediately into the care of a young woman who pulled her deeper into the salon. Sorrell’s tomb keeper escort found a seat and settled in to wait. The young woman did not speak. Instead, she went about her work with the same sort of single-minded intensity that seemed so common in Palacostian women.

  Confounded by this turn of events, Sorrell let herself be bathed, perfumed, and dressed like she was going to a grand ball. The young woman even put a dab of perfume between Sorrell’s legs, which caused her a great deal of alarm.

  Two hours later, Sorrell sat on a cushioned stool, clothed in a rich black dress that rivaled anything she wore as the sister of an emperor. Her skin and hair had been scrubbed clean. Her ratty undergarments had been replaced with silky, frilly pieces that did little to cover her secret places. To complete the ensemble, Sorrell’s hair was being woven into some sort of ridiculous arrangement.

  Sorrell found herself desperately wishing that she could speak to the girl who had been tending to her. Who was all of this for? The purpose of such treatment was no mystery. Sorrell had been purchased as a pleasure slave. The concept was not alien to her; the practice was not unheard of in the lands far to the east of Coriddia. But she had never in her wildest dreams imagined she would find herself being dolled up to please a man.