The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  Elise waited for a long moment, and when it was clear that no information was immediately forthcoming from the crowd, she swept out of the mint just as quickly as she had arrived. Soon, the line was moving forward again as if nothing had happened. The lack of excitement was evidence of one thing Lacrael was quickly learning: slaves in Orcassus minded their own business.

  Gustavus had the presence of mind to not comment on the disturbance while surrounded by strangers, but Lacrael had no doubt he was thinking the same thing she was. Elise was looking for them. They needed to warn Niad as soon as possible. Elise would recognize Niad or Tarathine the instant she laid eyes on them.

  Lacrael willed the line forward, and finally, it was their turn. Gustavus stepped forward and presented the note he carried. They had been watching long enough to understand what was expected of them. Fortunately, Gustavus was not required to speak. The mint employee behind the counter accepted the note, glanced at it, and raised his eyebrows at the amount.

  The exchange did not take long. Sacks of coins were stacked in orderly piles behind the counter. The attendant was not strong enough to carry all three sacks at once, so he had to make three trips, plunking a heavy bag down on the stone counter each time.

  Gustavus grimaced when he picked up the first sack. After adding the third to his load, his forehead was already glistening with sweat. Lacrael wanted to offer to carry one. A quick glance at the watching crowd convinced her that would be a bad idea. Gustavus staggered towards the door, and Lacrael stayed close by his side. She might not be able to carry the silver, but she could support him if he fell.

  Back in the street, Gustavus sat the sacks of coins on the cobblestones and stretched his back.

  “Depths take me, these are heavy,” Gustavus said. “Six months ago, I could have juggled these sacks while doing a jig. Now look at me. I might as well start walking with a damned cane.”

  “Your strength will return, if you work at it,” Lacrael said. “Can you manage these? We need to go back to the room to warn Niad, but we need to find medicine first. I don’t think Tarathine will survive the night if we don’t find a way to help her.”

  “Aye, I can make do,” Gustavus said. With a sigh, he reached down and picked up the sacks again. He took their necks between his fists and swung them over his shoulder. The coins jingled when they struck his back, and Gustavus grunted under the weight. He leaned forward at the waist so that he bore most of the load on his shoulders. When he was confident he had his burden under control, Gustavus gave Lacrael a nod. He even tried a weak grin.

  “See?” he said. “Nothing to it. I’m only carrying enough silver to fill a cannon. No big deal.”

  “We’ll put it to better use than that,” Lacrael said. “Now come on. Niad told me where to find the entrance to the market.”

  “Market? I thought we passed through it on the way here. Wasn’t that what all those fancy looking shops were? I’m certain I saw an apothecary.”

  Lacrael shook her head. “Niad says the shops on the streets are for highborn women only. They browse at their leisure, but don’t actually purchase anything themselves. The shopkeepers make a list of the things their customers wish to buy, and this list is given to a slave who later completes the transaction. But there’s a separate, underground market for the slaves.”

  “I’ll be glad to turn my sails away from this place,” Gustavus said. “These women are all insane.”

  “It’s no stranger than the customs of the rich where you’re from,” Lacrael said. “I saw things just as silly in the streets of Coriddia.”

  “This is different. What they do here, it’s unnatural.”

  “You only say that because it’s women who’re in control here. If it were men, you’d not bat an eye at their customs.”

  “What’re you implying? My first mate is a woman!”

  “And she’d whack you in the head for your attitude. Now, shush. We’re drawing attention to ourselves. It won’t do for people to remember a forsaken and a woman-hating slave arguing in the street.”

  Lacrael set off down the street. Gustavus followed, muttering under his breath. She did not want to admit that Gustavus was right, at least not to his face. The customs and laws of the Palacostian Empire were barbaric and cruel, far beyond any other culture Lacrael had ever encountered, but at the same time, a small part of Lacrael wanted to applaud the women who ruled here. Here, at least, was proof against those that said women were too weak to govern.

  They backtracked through the streets as Lacrael searched for the sign Niad had told her to look for. The entrance to the underground market was signified by the same symbol that was branded onto Orcassian slaves: the circle with a line through the center. Gustavus did not have this mark, but that only meant he was private property. Lacrael did not need it; everyone knew what she was.

  After passing back through the dark citadel’s shadow, Lacrael started to worry that she had missed the sign. But she finally spotted it on the wall of an alley, chiseled into the stone. Relieved, Lacrael made her way down the alley. At the end of this narrow corridor, she found a set of stone stairs descending into a dark hallway.

  “Into the depths of the underworld, I commend our souls,” Gustavus intoned, his deep voice echoing in the confined space.

  Lacrael ignored his theatrics. At the bottom of the stair, they passed through an arched doorway and into a great, underground room with vaulted ceilings. Massive stone pillars supported the buildings above, and between these great trunks of stone, a roiling mass of humanity churned. Everywhere Lacrael looked, she saw tables laden with goods. Wooden crates were stacked almost to the ceiling along every wall and jammed into every shadowy recess.

  Slaves moved from merchant to merchant, picking the goods desired by their masters. Most of them carried baskets into which they placed the items, but some of them pulled small wooden wagons behind them. Lacrael scanned the room for tomb keepers. She was surprised to find none. Either the market had some other way of keeping the peace, or it was assumed that the slaves would behave.

  “This place is busier than a loading dock in the middle of a squall,” Gustavus said from above Lacrael’s shoulder. “How’re we supposed to find anything in here?”

  “We follow the smell,” Lacrael said.

  According to Niad, the bulk goods of an apothecary gave off quite the stench. Lacrael sniffed, and sure enough, her nostrils recoiled from a rank scent. The smell reminded her of a freshly dug grave mixed with a subtle hint of rotten cheese. Once Lacrael started forward, it proved an easy task to track the awful aroma back to its source.

  Gustavus stayed close behind her, and they soon found themselves in a line waiting to speak to the man running the apothecary’s table. Lacrael was pleased to discover that his line moved quicker than the one in the mint. In no time at all, it was her turn to make her request.

  Behind the table, a portly man sat on a stool. He glanced up at her only briefly. If he was surprised to see a forsaken at his table, he did not show it.

  “My master has a sick slave,” Lacrael said. She tried to make her voice sound subservient. “She needs something that will cure the mist rot.”

  “Mist rot, you say?” the man said. “That’s a curse not many come back from.”

  “But some do.”

  “Aye, some do. Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  The man hoisted himself up from his stool and disappeared into the stack of crates behind him. He returned moments later with a small wooden box in his hand. The man sat this box on the table, but he kept his palm placed protectively on the lid.

  “If there’s a remedy for the Ravening’s crippling caress, this is it,” the man said. “And you're in luck because it's the last one I’ve got. Orcassian specialty, this. You won’t find it anywhere else in the empire.”

  “How much?” Lacrael asked.

  “Not so fast,” the man said. He raised a finger to emphasize his next point. “I must make it absolutely clear that we in no way guarante
e recovery. This is our recommended treatment, but we can’t say for sure if it will work. It most likely won’t, and I don’t want your master coming after my head when her slave dies anyway.”

  “I understand,” Lacrael said, growing impatient. “What’s the price?”

  “Considering it’s my last one, the price is double. Fifty pieces of silver.”

  The sum meant nothing to Lacrael, and she was in no mind to barter.

  “Fine,” Lacrael said. She motioned for Gustavus to open one of the sacks he was carrying. Given the merchant’s look of surprise, he had expected her to drive the price down.

  Lacrael carefully counted out the correct number of coins, slid them across the table, and collected the wooden box. She cracked the lid and peeked inside. The box was filled with what looked like the dried roots of a shrub, cut and stacked as neatly as possible in the tiny container.

  “Sun root,” the merchant said. “Harvested from mountain peaks far to the south, beyond the shadow of the Ravening. We treat them with our special formula to make them potent enough to heal the mist rot. Grind a single root in water once per day, and have the slave drink it until she recovers.”

  “My thanks,” Lacrael said. She clapped the lid shut and turned away from the table.

  “No, thank you,” the merchant said to her back.

  “I didn’t understand any of that, but that man clearly expected to barter,” Gustavus said as they made their way for the exit.

  “We don’t have time to haggle,” Lacrael said. “And anyway, we have more money than we’ll ever spend.”

  “Seems a needless waste, is all I’m saying,” Gustavus said.

  Lacrael opened her mouth to snap at Gustavus when something on the wall near the exit caught her eye. Her sarcastic jab died on her lips. She stopped near one of the stone pillars and pretended to inspect her recent purchase. Gustavus paused next to her.

  “Look over there to the right, towards the door,” Lacrael said. “Is that a portal inscribed on the wall?”

  Gustavus looked over Lacrael’s head. She watched his face. He squinted his eyes in the dim lighting. When he found what Lacrael had seen, she saw the recognition in his gaze.

  “You know what, I think it is,” Gustavus said slowly. “It could be for decoration, but I don’t know why anyone would do such a thing. What’s a portal doing here, of all places?”

  Lacrael’s heart beat faster as the seeds of a plan took root in her mind. They finally possessed the cure. It had to work. It had to. And now, they had a way out. It did not matter where that portal might take them. All that mattered was that it provided them an escape. How they would regroup and get back here in one piece were problems that still needed solving, but even the remotest possibility that they could flee this realm gave Lacrael hope.

  “It doesn’t matter why it’s there,” Lacrael said. “It’s a way out. And unless you’ve a better idea, it’s the only means of escape we’ve got.”

  Chapter 33

  SAREDON’S BREATH ROSE BEFORE his face in the chill morning air. He breathed through his mouth, already winded from the warmup exercises. Together with the rest of his class, he stood in tight formation in the cathedral’s largest courtyard. They all wore matching, form-fitting leather armor. His black breastplate bore a nasty scratch where he had fallen on a rock.

  On any other day, they would have been gathered in this courtyard for combat training. But today, the space was filled with wooden scaffolding. The various ramps, platforms, ladders, and ropes formed a formidable obstacle course. From where he stood, Saredon saw pits filled with inert spinning blades and deadly, foot-long spikes. He had heard rumors that students died on this course every year.

  Instructor Grippen had just finished inspecting the course and was now stalking towards them. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back. His perpetual scowl seemed slightly relaxed this morning. To Saredon’s surprise, the man even smiled when he came to a halt before their formation.

  “Today is a good day,” Grippen said. “Today, we separate the wheat from the chaff. If you fail to complete the course, you will be removed from training. This is the first of many trials for which failure will mean expulsion from this class.”

  Saredon swallowed hard. He watched Thyria out of the corner of his eye. She had positioned herself next to him in the formation. Her bottom lip quivered, but she mastered herself before Grippen could detect her fear. Thyria was one of the weakest students, and Saredon knew that she was expected to fail. The purpose of today’s challenge was to weed out the physically unfit. It would take a miracle for her to complete the course.

  “Some of you may have heard that we lose a few students every year on this course,” Grippen said. “Let me ease your mind by setting the record straight: if one or two of you don’t die, that means the course was too easy.”

  Grippen’s cruel face split in a savage grin at the gasps this elicited from the horrified students.

  “Up to this point, you’ve been nothing but children playing in the dirt with wooden swords,” Grippen said. “Did you think the only price you’d have to pay was a few scrapes and bruises? Now begins the real work. This is your last chance to quit. If your spine has turned to jelly, and you’d rather live a coward than die a reaver, leave this courtyard right now. Strip out of your armor and show us your naked backside as you crawl away.”

  Saredon kept his eyes locked forward and his face impassive. Briefly, he imagined doing exactly as Grippen suggested, but only briefly. He was not about to disappoint his parents by quitting now. Silently, Saredon willed Thyria to turn away. He did not want to see her hurt today. But she did not move.

  Grippen let the silence stretch. Soon, Saredon heard a choking sob as a recruit stepped out of formation. He did not dare turn to look, but he knew the unmistakable sound of leather armor hitting the stone of the courtyard floor.

  “There’s always one,” Grippen said, sneering. “Company, about face!”

  Automatically, Saredon and the rest of the students obeyed Grippen’s command. He turned on his heel to face the doorway out of the courtyard. Between their formation and the exit, a naked student crawled across the hard ground. It was Barek, the boy Saredon had thrashed in his last sparring session.

  Saredon was stunned. He knew Barek had taken the beating poorly, but the boy was more than Saredon’s equal. Barek should be able to complete the obstacle course with ease.

  “Watch him as he goes, and mark this lesson well,” Grippen said. “Strength of body is nothing without strength of mind.”

  Barek’s pale backside disappeared into the shadows beyond the doorway’s arch, and Grippen ordered the formation to face him again.

  “Now that the worm has slithered away, allow me to demonstrate the features of today’s challenge,” Grippen said. He waved a hand at a mountain of a man who stood by a large wooden crank. This crank was connected to the obstacle course through a complex system of ropes, pulleys, and gears.

  The man placed his meaty hands on the crank and pushed. He leaned into it with all his considerable weight. The mechanism turned slowly at first, but it soon rotated with ease, powered almost completely by the weight of its own momentum. Throughout the wooden scaffolding, the blades, which had been still up to this point, started to spin. Pulleys rattled and ropes thrummed as a hundred swords sliced at the air.

  In the front rank, another student took a step back and out of formation. It was a boy Saredon did not recognize.

  “You had your chance!” Grippen roared. “You’ll attempt the course, or you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in a cell beneath the cathedral.”

  The student froze.

  “Forgive me,” Grippen said, his voice suddenly silky smooth. “Perhaps I misunderstood your intent. You want to be first, is that it? Go on, then! Show us how it’s done.”

  Trapped, the student looked wildly around him, but there was no escape now.

  “It’s that, or I toss you onto the spikes myself!” Gri
ppen thundered.

  Saredon watched with his heart in his throat as the boy placed his booted foot on the first ramp up to the course. The boy scrambled up to the first platform. He paused to assess the obstacle in front of him. It was a series of spinning wooden pillars, each of them sporting a wooden arm at different heights. The boy needed to race through them, ducking and dodging to avoid the wooden bludgeons.

  After watching for a moment to get the timing down, the boy darted forward. He weaved through the pillars, twisting his body away from the spinning arms, and throwing himself the last few feet to the safety of the next platform.

  Saredon wanted to cheer, but he kept his mouth shut. The next challenge the boy faced was a long stretch of wooden platform with slots cut in the floor. Spinning, circular blades rose and fell from these slots at random. There were too many to memorize the timing. The only option the boy had was to move fast and trust his instincts. One wrong step, and the blades would slice into his boots. And to fall here meant being cut to pieces.

  At the sight of the deadly blades, the boy’s courage abandoned him. Twice, he took a step out onto the platform, but both times he retreated. Movement out of the corner of his eye drew Saredon’s attention. Grippen had produced a bow from somewhere, and he was carefully notching an arrow.

  Grippen drew the bow to its full power and sighted down the arrow. The missile was blunted, but Saredon feared the hard tip could still kill if it struck the skull. Grippen released the arrow, and it flew true. Up on the platform, the boy never knew what hit him. The arrow smashed into his back with enough force to send him sprawling.

  Saredon tensed, certain the boy would fall face first into the whirring saws. Mercifully, he only fell off the platform to the courtyard below. He landed hard. One of his arms was clearly broken, and he clutched it as he lay there crying.

  “Second lesson of the day,” Grippen said, lowering his bow. “Hesitation means defeat. A reaver must act, the first time, and with complete confidence. Your enemies won’t give you a second chance.”