The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  Time held no meaning in the darkness of Mazareem’s prison. There were no windows and no light. He sensed that he was in the top room of Morricant’s tower, but the rest of the open space was blocked from the view of his cell. He tested every bar of the prison, knowing it was futile but trying anyway. There was no visible lock. The cell was flawless.

  Mazareem decided not to spend his time squirming like a rat in a trap. He sat on the floor and crossed his legs. There were techniques he could use to prepare himself for the ordeal to come. If he slowed the workings of his body, in a manner similar to when he slipped into a rejuvenating rest, he should be able to limit the effects of any harm Morricant would inflect. She could cut his flesh, but it would not bleed. This thought amused Mazareem. Maybe she would discover that his false immortality was not without its advantages.

  Morricant appeared without warning. The shadows parted to reveal her standing outside Mazareem’s cage. A pale blue light from a source Mazareem could not identify bathed her upper torso and face, leaving all else in darkness. He had not heard her approach. She peered at him through the bars, clearly amused.

  “I didn’t think to find you meditating,” Morricant said. “Have you found faith in your old age? Faith in what, I wonder.”

  Mazareem gathered his feet under him and slowly stood. The world seemed to move at a glacial pace when he suppressed the beating of his heart.

  “No faith,” Mazareem said, his sluggish voice sounding odd to his ears. “Only fortitude.”

  Morricant laughed, and Mazareem was struck by the beauty of the sound.

  “You poor, deluded man,” Morricant said. “You think I was giving you time to dwell on what comes next, don’t you?”

  Still chuckling to herself, Morricant waved a hand, and the entire wall of the cell in front of her receded into the floor, each individual bar disappearing down its own hole. She stepped over the threshold. At the same time, ribbons of black silk uncoiled from the ceiling. These ribbons reached down and wrapped themselves around Mazareem’s arms and legs. In their powerful grip, he was lifted and suspended a foot above the floor, his limbs stretched to their limits.

  “No, I wasn’t delaying on your account,” Morricant said. “When I saw you appear in the little trap I set, I was reminded of an item that might be of some use now. Alas, it was buried deep in one of my vaults, and it took me all this time to find it.”

  Morricant held up her hand to show Mazareem what she had found.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you what this is,” she said.

  She held a claw. As long as her forearm, and twice as thick at the base, the claw was from no normal animal. It was the talon of an ancient dragon. Mazareem’s eyes widened. He could not help himself. Of all the things Morricant might bring to bear against him, this was the last thing he expected.

  “I thought you might appreciate it,” Morricant said when she saw Mazareem’s surprise. “When Pynel told me you needed that miserable dragon scale to survive, I realized that Abimelech must be extending your life with his own draconic essence. I wouldn’t be surprised if this process has imbued you with certain powers. Well, you and I both know that there’s only one thing that cuts through draconic magic: more of the same.”

  Morricant drew close to Mazareem. She discovered the rent in his robe caused by Sorrell’s sword.

  “It seems someone else got here first,” Morricant said with a raised eyebrow. “No matter, I’ll finish what they started.”

  Wielding the claw like a dagger, Morricant sawed at the fabric of Mazareem’s robe. The cloth parted effortlessly beneath the razor edge. She worked slowly, and Mazareem struggled not to squirm. Every time the tip of the talon came near his skin, his sedated heart threatened to start pounding. If he had not entered a laconic state, he would be screaming.

  Soon, Mazareem stood bare chested, the tattered remnants of his robe hanging around his waist. Morricant caressed the pale, gnarled flesh of his chest. She seemed fascinated.

  “What have you done to yourself?” Morricant said. Her voice was quiet, contemplative. “To think, this body of yours used to bring me so much pleasure. And now here you are, ready to please me again.”

  Morricant smiled. It was the smile of a wolf—hunger burned in her radiant eyes. She placed the tip of the dragon’s claw on Mazareem’s left shoulder. Mazareem shuddered. Instinctively, he tried to pull away. The ribbons that bound him tightened their grip and held him in place.

  Still grinning, Morricant put her weight behind the claw and drew it down across Mazareem’s chest. Mazareem howled. The claw carved a ragged furrow in his flesh. Morricant drove it deep, and it glanced off of each individual rib. It bit hard into the bone. Mazareem almost dislocated his shoulders trying to twist away.

  Black blood poured from the wound. All of Mazareem’s careful preparation was useless before the draconic magic the claw still possessed. His body had no defense against it. Morricant completed the cut and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Mazareem had not stopped screaming since the claw’s point first pierced his skin.

  “You can’t even bleed properly,” Morricant said, her mouth twisted in a disgusted grimace. “At this point, you might be more dragon than human.”

  Mazareem’s blood ran down his chest, thick and putrid. Morricant’s words barely registered through the pain. He felt like he was being consumed by invisible fire, the flames radiating outward from the gash on his chest. The agony did not dissipate. It intensified, reaching new heights every time Mazareem drew a ragged breath.

  It hurt so much to breathe that Mazareem thought it might be better to die. Lost in a world of misery, he forgot about Morricant. The relentless torment smashed through Mazareem’s mental defenses. He could not remember his purpose or even his name. All that mattered was making the pain stop.

  Just when the blessed blackness of unconsciousness beckoned to Mazareem, a cool touch on his skin brought his attention back to Morricant. He opened eyes he had not realized were squeezed shut. With a surprisingly gentle hand, Morricant treated the wound she had inflicted with some sort of salve. The relief was immediate. The pain remained, but it had been reduced to a level that Mazareem could endure.

  “That was rather dramatic,” Morricant said as she worked. “I didn’t expect the claw to work so well.”

  Mazareem did not have the strength to speak. He hung limp in his restraints, unable to even hold up his head. Morricant’s face filled his vision. Her touch was so tender, her focus so complete as she tended to his hurt. This was not the first time she had done so.

  Morricant glanced up and saw Mazareem gazing at her. She paused, and he guessed she was caught in the same memory that had ensnared him.

  “Funny, how history repeats itself,” Morricant said as she finished applying the salve. “Do you remember that time you came to me, carved up by one of the drakes Rowen had been hunting? You thought your injuries were fatal, and you spent most of the night in the grips of a terrible fever. You ranted like a madman. I’ve never forgotten what you told me that night.”

  Morricant stepped back. Mazareem found the strength to lift his head, and he held her gaze.

  “Do you remember?” Morricant asked.

  Mazareem’s voice came out as a croak, but he was able to speak. “I told you that a life lived with you was better than immortality without you.”

  “And not two years later, you sold me into eternal slavery,” Morricant said. “I was furious with you for so long. I made an art out of nurturing my rage. But when you watch lifetime after lifetime crawl by, even the fantasy of revenge loses its luster. I hadn’t thought of you for hundreds of years before you appeared unannounced in my domain. I don’t care about why you did it, and I don’t want to know anything about the life you’ve lived since then. I have only one question for you now: was it worth it?”

  Morricant’s question hung in the air between them. It was the same question Mazareem had been refusing to answer since regaining his memories. Now, in Morricant’s
presence, and incapacitated by her torture, his resistance seemed pointless. The answer came readily to Mazareem’s lips, and he gave it.

  “No, it wasn’t worth it,” Mazareem said.

  Even knowing the truth before he spoke it, uttering those words still surprised Mazareem. A thousand years of futile servitude to a heartless master pressed down on him with a weight fit to crush his soul. Here before him stood the thing he had loved most, and Mazareem had thrown her away for no other reason than to satiate his own greed.

  Mazareem hung his head in shame. If he could remember how to shed tears, he would have cried. The immensity of his failure opened up and swallowed him. To fight this rising darkness, he reached inside himself to take hold of the purpose that had sustained him for so long, to grasp that hope that had let him endure a thousand years of Abimelech’s yoke. But it was gone. Mazareem found only emptiness.

  “Kill me and be done with it,” Mazareem said without looking up.

  Morricant chuckled. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said. “It would be almost poetic to find your release by my hand, after all these years. But I’m afraid it’s not to be. You chose to be Abimelech’s dog, and so you will remain. Tell me, do you think he’ll notice a few new scars?”

  As she spoke, Morricant placed the tip of the dragon’s claw on Mazareem’s right shoulder. The needle point pierced his flesh, and she began the slow process of completing the X on his chest.

  Mazareem threw back his head and screamed.

  Chapter 32

  LACRAEL WALKED THROUGH THE streets of Orcassus with Gustavus at her side. It seemed strange to venture out into the city as if they belonged here. Niad had assured them that as long as they observed the local customs, their presence would not be questioned, and they would have far greater freedom than if she herself risked leaving the safety of the slavers’ quarter.

  After being separated from the others, Lacrael and Niad had managed to get Gustavus and Tarathine into a private room in a building reserved for slavers. Niad had shown the note good for nine hundred pieces of silver and promised to pay as soon as it was redeemed. Once behind the safety of a locked door, they had all passed out from exhaustion.

  They had slept through the rest of the night and into most of the next day. Upon waking, Lacrael had administered Tarathine’s medication and did her best to get the girl to swallow some water and food. At this point, Tarathine had wasted away to skin and bones. The girl’s breathing was so faint that, at first, Lacrael had thought she’d passed away in the night.

  Lacrael tried to banish Tarathine’s gaunt face from her mind as she walked. The only chance Tarathine had was for them to find a cure, and if one existed, they would find it here.

  “Not so fast,” Gustavus said, slightly out of breath. “I’ve only just got my strength back.”

  “Sorry,” Lacrael said. She slowed her pace for his benefit.

  As in the other cities they visited, Gustavus’s miasma-inflicted malady miraculously disappeared after a few hours of breathing clean air. It took some time to regain his energy, and he was almost as gaunt as Tarathine, but at least he could function.

  “This is a damned strange city,” Gustavus said when he had his wind back. He rubbed a big hand over his freshly cropped scalp. “I miss my hair.”

  Before leaving their room, Lacrael had used Elise’s dagger to trim Gustavus’s unruly hair and beard. She had to admit, he looked like a completely different man.

  “You looked like a wild man,” Lacrael said. “Niad was right. No one would have believed you were a bonded slave. Without all that hair, you look ten years younger.”

  “Fat lot of good that does me,” Gustavus said. “I feel naked without a weapon. How am I supposed to carry a fortune through the streets without a way to protect myself?”

  “We went over this already. Twice.” Lacrael tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Gustavus was having a hard time accepting his role in their plan. “Both Niad and I can be challenged in the street. If one of us were to try and collect the silver, we’d never make it back to the room. But the laws protect slaves from this, particularly males. That’s why they run all the errands in Orcassus. No one’s allowed to touch them. You’ll be able to carry the money without the risk of us losing it.”

  “Still seems like insanity to me,” Gustavus said. “Back in Coriddia, this much silver would be escorted by twenty soldiers.”

  Lacrael did not reply. She was tired of arguing the point with Gustavus. A part of her mourned the old Gustavus. To see him now, it was impossible to imagine the once proud captain astride the deck of his ship.

  Thankfully, Gustavus lapsed into silence when Lacrael did not rise to his bait. Which was good, because she needed to focus on where they were going. Niad had given her directions to the Orcassus mint, and it was not a short trek. They had to navigate through at least a mile and a half of busy streets to reach their destination.

  Like Gustavus, Lacrael had been nervous when they first set out, but as they spent more time in the city, her anxiety began to fade. By and large, most of the people they passed in the street were other slaves. Forsaken were rarer. The few armored tomb keepers they encountered paid them no notice. Lacrael and Gustavus blended in perfectly with everyone else.

  In the light of day, Lacrael had been surprised to find a towering black fortress sitting in the center of the city. Their path led them towards it, and every time they passed beneath the shadow of its tallest spire, the hair on Lacrael’s neck stood on end. She knew enough about the Palacostian Empire by now to know that this was the seat of the empress’s power. The Lady of Pain.

  Years ago, the seplica, the empress’s elite guard, had issued forth from this dark citadel to hunt down Lacrael. They had slain her grandfather and forced her to flee to another realm. Would they come after her again, if the empress discovered Lacrael passing by right under her nose?

  Lacrael forced this fear from her mind. If she stayed disguised as a forsaken, no one would ever see her face.

  After a half hour of walking, and with the great citadel behind them, they found the mint. In a city cramped for space, the massive building dwarfed its neighbors. It took up an entire city block, the length of it running from one intersection to the next. Along the entire front of the mint, a low stone stair led up to a roof-covered porch. Thick stone pillars supported the roof. Beneath the shade of this overhang, merchants, moneychangers, and various city officials had set up tables.

  Lacrael and Gustavus paused at the nearest intersection to observe the crowded street in front of the mint. A constant stream of slaves entered and exited the building. Several pairs of tomb keepers loitered between the pillars of the porch. They were relaxed, but their roving eyes did not miss a single detail.

  “This place looks like someone kicked an anthill,” Gustavus said.

  “Better for us, we’ll blend right in,” Lacrael said. “Come on.”

  Hoping she sounded braver than she felt, Lacrael stepped into the street in front of the mint. She joined a group of slaves heading up the steps. Gustavus caught up with her, and they passed into the shadow of the porch together.

  Inside, they found long lines formed up before a high stone counter. At this counter, employees of the mint exchanged coins for notes, or the opposite, as required. Lacrael’s heart sank at the size of the crowd. They might be waiting in here for hours before it was their turn.

  It could not be helped. They needed the money if they were to do anything else. Lacrael picked a line and settled in for a long wait. Gustavus stood at her side, arms crossed. She could feel the impatience radiating from him.

  The line shuffled forward at an agonizing pace. Lacrael bet the rock snails she had hunted in the Ravening could move faster than this queue. She hoped Niad was not growing worried about them.

  By the time they were near the counter, Lacrael’s feet hurt from standing on hard stone. She was sweating profusely beneath her forsaken robes, and she desperately needed to empty he
r bladder.

  Before their turn came, a commotion on the porch caused the proceedings to pause. Lacrael whispered a vile curse behind her mask. Who would possibly make trouble in this well-guarded place? Every head in the crowd turned towards the rising sounds of confrontation outside. Lacrael did the same, and the stream of obscenities died on her lips.

  At the head of a squad of House Riggor tomb keepers, Elise Winnow strode into the mint. The woman was on a mission. Behind her, the guards of the mint were demanding that she withdraw, but they did not put steel behind their words.

  Elise marched straight through the crowd, and the throng parted to let her pass. She made for the massive notice board that ran the length of the western wall. Everyone watched while Elise unfurled a missive, picked up the hammer and tacks, and nailed it to the board with four precise blows.

  This done, Elise turned and addressed the curious onlookers. Her hard voice boomed in the enclosed stone space.

  “A daughter of House Riggor has disappeared,” Elise said. “We suspect she was slain. She was last seen preparing for the crossing to Orcassus from Lister. She never arrived. An eyewitness in Lister places her in the company of a slaver along with four slaves and a forsaken. An investigation is ongoing. House Riggor has authorized a reward of five hundred pieces of silver for any information on her whereabouts. Spread the word.”

  Lacrael could not believe it. The guard from Hexia’s secret entrance out of the city must have gone and reported immediately to Elise. Given what Hexia had said about Elise’s opinion of her career choice, it was not hard to imagine Elise trying to track the girl down the minute the older woman reached Orcassus.

  Gustavus had gone as still as a spooked deer. Lacrael told herself there was no way Elise would identify them here. She was just another forsaken, and she could spot at least twenty more like her in the crowd. The last time Elise had seen Gustavus, he had been an invalid with hair like a mangy goat.