The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  “I think she recognizes Kaiser’s name,” Lacrael said when she finished her recount.

  “She may yet return to herself,” Gustavus said. “Do you think we should keep treating her with the medicine?”

  “I don’t think it would hurt,” Lacrael said.

  “It damn well might, but it’s not her I’m worried about.”

  Lacrael looked sideways at Gustavus’s face. His scratches were starting to swell.

  “We should clean those out,” Lacrael said. “If they don’t heal properly, you’re going to have some wicked scars.”

  Gustavus grumbled, but he allowed Niad to guide him to the padded bench along the wall. He stretched out on this bench while Niad went to collect a damp cloth and some ointment. Lacrael stayed next to Tarathine as Niad treated Gustavus’s injuries.

  “I’m not going to say this plan of ours won’t work, but it sounds more like a reckless gambit than a sound strategy,” Niad said as she worked.

  “It’s insanity, that’s what it is,” Gustavus said. “Have you forgotten that the only reason we’re in this mess is because of Mazareem? And now we’re supposed to trust him to get us out of it?”

  “I don’t like it any more than you do,” Lacrael said. She knelt down to retrieve her dagger from the floor.

  “There’re still some pretty big pieces missing if we’re going to pull it off,” Niad said. “How are you going to get your hands on tomb keeper armor?”

  Lacrael gazed down at the hilt of the knife in her palm. It bore the distinctive crest of House Riggor, along with a foreign symbol that Lacrael guessed signified that it belonged to Elise.

  “The only way to do it would be to lure one of them into an ambush,” Lacrael said.

  “And then what?” Gustavus said. “Ask nicely for them to put down their weapon and kindly strip out of their armor?”

  “We don’t all have your golden tongue,” Lacrael said, matching his sarcastic tone. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit bloodier than that.”

  Chapter 42

  KAISER LAY STRETCHED OUT on a table, his head resting on a soft pillow. He rested on his belly, and he was naked save for a loincloth. Brant relaxed on a nearby table in the same manner. Their sore muscles were being kneaded by two scantily clad women. Neither of them was accustomed to this treatment, and Kaiser could not get comfortable or relax.

  “Damnation, this is awkward,” Kaiser said.

  “This must be the treatment the arena veterans get,” Brant said. “I guess this is our reward for driving that monster back through the wall.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

  The woman massaging Kaiser worked her hands up his leg until she was caressing his inner thigh.

  “I’ve never had one of these before,” Brant said, his voice strange. “Is her hand supposed to go there?”

  Sorrell’s disapproving gaze flashed in Kaiser’s mind, and his embarrassment turned to shame.

  “That’s it,” Kaiser said. “I’ve had enough of this.”

  Kaiser lifted himself from the table and hauled his aching body to the floor. The woman attending him misunderstood his intentions and gave him a sultry look. Her hands drifted towards his loincloth. Kaiser swatted her away and staggered towards the door of the tent on stiff legs.

  Brant followed Kaiser’s lead, and together, the two of them strode out into the crisp morning air. It was the day after their skirmish with the beast in the camp’s small arena. Kaiser had recuperated in the infirmary for most of the night. He was still sore, but he felt well rested for the first time in days.

  While on the massage table, Kaiser had filled Brant in on the details of his conversation with Lacrael. Brant did not hide his disappointment that Lacrael had not made contact with him too, but Kaiser reassured him that it would have been an unnecessary risk. Brant was even more averse to the possibility of accepting help from Mazareem than Kaiser. It took some convincing on Kaiser’s part to get him to accept the idea.

  Outside the tent, they found most of the camp already awake and moving about in a flurry of activity. Overseers shouted at the newer fighters, demanding that they work faster. Together with the veterans, the men loaded carts with weapons and armor. Near the gate of the encampment, Kaiser spotted a trio of armored tomb keepers. The three women were holding a conference with a pair of senior overseers.

  “I think we’ve been called into action,” Kaiser said.

  Brant did not have the chance to reply. An overseer spotted the two of them standing off to the side and lurched towards them with an accusatory finger raised. Veins bulged on the man’s neck as he screamed his displeasure. Kaiser did not understand the words, but he had seen enough sergeants chew out raw recruits to catch the gist.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s asking politely if we’d join the effort,” Kaiser said.

  Kaiser and Brant hurried over to the nearest wagon to get the overseer off their backs. Hands on his hips, he watched them go, only turning his attention elsewhere when they put their backs to the work.

  The two of them were absorbed into the crew of laborers without comment, and Kaiser and Brant helped stack weapons on the floor of the cart. Kaiser let out a low whistle when he saw the assortment of exotic swords, flails, tridents, and whips. There were enough weapons here to equip a small army, but that army had better be trained to use them.

  When the train of wagons had been fully loaded with an armory’s worth of weapons and armor, the fighters were ordered to assemble in a loose marching formation at the head of the line. Kaiser and Brant took up position near the middle of the pack. The trio of tomb keepers had watched all of this unfold, and now they were clearly impatient to get moving. An overseer shouted a command, and both doors of the gate that led into the city were swung wide open.

  Another barked order, and the throng of fighters started forward. At the rear of the procession, wagon axles creaked under the heavy load. Kaiser’s legs loosened up as he walked, and soon the stiffness had gone. His body still hurt, and he would sport a few nasty bruises, but he could fight.

  They wound their way through the streets of Orcassus, a hundred dirty fighters escorted by the three regal tomb keepers. It soon became clear that their destination was the center of the city. They turned onto a main thoroughfare, wide enough for their formation to march in comfort, and made straight for the black castle that dominated the heart of Orcassus.

  But before they reached the citadel itself, the tomb keepers turned left and led their procession around the outer perimeter of the fortress. This perimeter was made up of grand buildings that looked out on the wide street that surrounded the castle. Based on their size and layout, Kaiser guessed these were royal apartments, set aside for visitors and dignitaries who came to see the empress.

  On the far side of this circle, these apartments butted up against a massive structure that was built right up to the edge of the moat that ringed the citadel. Kaiser recognized it as an arena immediately. It did not look that different from those he remembered in Northmark. Its high walls would have tiered seating on the other side, and the front of the building had multiple entrances to accommodate the throngs of bloodthirsty patrons. The only notable difference here was that the outside of the arena was covered in the trappings of death.

  From a distance, Kaiser had thought the outer wall of the structure was covered in white tile, but as they neared, he realized that it was blanketed in skulls. The sheer number of them was staggering. There had to be at least ten thousand skulls, each one affixed to the stone so that it stared out at the city.

  “Is this an arena or a graveyard?” Brant said.

  “Both,” Kaiser said. “Ten to one, they’ll nail our skulls up there too if we fall.”

  Brant did not reply, but he did not take his eyes off the grisly wall. Kaiser could not blame him. He, too, felt the weighty gaze of ten thousand empty eye sockets. His scalp prickled. As they entered the massive gate into the arena, Kaiser had never been more aware of his own s
kull.

  Chapter 43

  SORRELL MUST HAVE SLEPT, but she did not remember doing so. She spent a fitful night on the floor next to Mazareem’s bed. Food had been brought, and she ate a little because she knew she must. After that, Mazareem had passed out and Sorrell had been left alone. Usually, solitude proved to be a salve when Sorrell’s soul was troubled. Not this time.

  The cramped, windowless room felt like a tomb. Sorrell’s weary mind fixated on all the terrible things that could happen to her. To her child. She sat with her back flat to the wall and her legs pulled up to her chest. Arms wrapped around her knees, Sorrell hugged herself tight. By the time footsteps sounded in the hall outside, her nerves were frayed to the point of breaking. Sorrell jerked when the door banged open.

  A house slave entered the room. The woman kept her gaze on the floor as she addressed them. Sorrell glanced at Mazareem out of the corner of her eye. Without his translation, she was lost. He looked like he was still asleep, but after a moment, he spoke. His eyes never opened as he translated.

  “This woman has come to take you to the headmistress,” Mazareem said. “You’re to be cleaned up and dressed in attire befitting the personal slave of the risen one.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Sorrell said. “I don’t want to leave this room.”

  The room, which had seemed like a prison during the long hours of the night, now felt like the only protection Sorrell had against the suffering that she would find outside.

  “The choice isn’t yours,” Mazareem said. “They’ll drag you out, if they have to.”

  The servant listened to this exchange without ever glancing up. Sorrell chided herself for being irrational—she was letting fear override reason. This room offered no safety or security. She forced herself to stand. Her legs complained at the sudden movement, and she paused, hand on the wall, to let the blood circulate. Slowly, feeling returned to her numb feet.

  Sorrell stepped forward, and the house slave bobbed her head in acknowledgement. The woman turned on her heel and hurried from the room. Sorrell did not have to be told that she was supposed to follow.

  “She knows you can’t speak the language,” Mazareem said. “Just do whatever they ask, and you’ll be returned here when they’re finished.”

  Mazareem’s words did not inspire confidence. Sorrell took a deep breath and walked through the door. The servant was waiting for her, and when Sorrell appeared, the woman made her way down the hallway. Sorrell fell into step behind her.

  They did not go far. This deep in the compound, there were no windows, and the halls were lifeless corridors of nondescript stone. Sorrell had seen the like before. These were passageways used only by slaves and servants to move about unseen by their masters. The servant ducked through a low door, and Sorrell stooped to do the same.

  On the other side of the door, Sorrell stood up to find herself in a small bath house. Several giant wooden tubs sat on the floor, and one of them was filled with steaming water. Carved out of the stone wall, a fireplace filled the space with warmth. A metal cauldron of water bubbled above the flames.

  Next to the filled tub, a squat, angry-looking woman regarded Sorrell with a scrutinizing gaze. Sorrell guessed this was the headmistress. The servant said something to the woman, who responded by muttering under her breath. Clearly annoyed, either by the task assigned to her, or by the fact that Sorrell could not speak their language, the headmistress raised a hand and beckoned sharply for Sorrell to come to her.

  Put off by the woman’s manner, Sorrell hesitated. This caused the headmistress to stomp a foot and beckon again. Sorrell remembered Mazareem’s advice, and against her better judgment, she willed herself forward.

  A few steps later, Sorrell stood before the headmistress. She forced herself to stand up straight, with her head held high. It was hard to believe that she had once stood tall on the deck of the Indomitable, commanding the entire imperial navy, but Sorrell tried to summon that same dignitas now. Let this woman do her worst; they could not take Sorrell’s pride.

  The headmistress looked Sorrell up and down. Her gaze lingered on the dirty bandage around Sorrell’s throat. Then, without warning, a knife appeared in the woman’s hand. Sorrell tried to jump backwards, but the headmistress had caught her off-guard. The woman grabbed Sorrell’s wrist in her meaty grip. Sorrell tried to jerk her arm free and could not—the headmistress was too strong.

  The knife slashed at Sorrell’s midsection. Sorrell tried to twist away. When the blade did not pierce her skin, Sorrell stopped struggling. Only then did she realize that the headmistress was cutting away her soiled dress. Sorrell recovered from her shock and glanced at the woman’s face. Her harsh features were twisted in a cruel smirk. She had enjoyed Sorrell’s sudden terror.

  Angered by this, Sorrell stood still and let the woman finish cutting away her ruined clothes. Seconds later, she stood completely naked. The headmistress pocketed the knife and began a thorough inspection of Sorrell. She poked and prodded at Sorrell’s body. Her hard fingers pinched skin, and it seemed to Sorrell that the woman was trying to find an ounce of fat on Sorrell’s lean frame.

  If that was what she was after, the headmistress would be disappointed. Like the rest of her party, Sorrell had lost weight during the grueling journey through the Ravening. Back home in Coriddia, she would have been considered malnourished. Sorrell looked down at her belly. To her surprise, it looked far more prominent than it had just days ago. She fought the overwhelming urge to hunch her shoulders to try and hide the bulge.

  The headmistress noticed Sorrell’s stomach at the same time. Her eyes went wide. Suddenly excited, the woman spoke to the servant who had lingered in the room. The servant dashed away to carry out the headmistress's order.

  While they waited for the servant to return, the headmistress busied herself with pouring another pot full of boiling water into the almost filled tub. She hooked the iron handle with the end of a stout stick and lifted the pot out of the fireplace. The woman hefted the unwieldy burden as if it weighed nothing. Once it was empty, she replaced the empty cauldron on the hook over the fire.

  Sorrell looked down at the pile of rags on the floor that had been her dress. The needle was still hidden in there somewhere. She hated to let it go, but there was no way she could recover it without being noticed.

  A moment later, the servant returned. She carried a wooden flagon in her hand, which she handed to the headmistress. The headmistress approached Sorrell again, and she thrust out the flagon for Sorrell to take it. Sorrell leaned forward to inspect the contents of the cup before accepting it. Inside, a dark liquid sloshed.

  Sorrell jerked away from the headmistress. She knew that dire concoction—it was the same poison she had watched the slaves consume back in the courtyard. Sorrell shook her head, indicating that she would not drink.

  The headmistress pointed at Sorrell’s belly with her free hand and jammed the mug at her again.

  “I said no, you ugly harpy,” Sorrell said.

  The woman did not need to understand Sorrell’s words to interpret the tone of her voice. A thundercloud passed across her fleshy face, and she puffed out her chest in anger. Before the headmistress opened her mouth, Sorrell decided to end the argument.

  Sorrell grabbed the flagon with both hands and wrenched it out of the headmistress’s grasp. In the same motion, she turned and hurled it at the nearest wall. The flagon did not break—it bounced hard, but when it came to a rest on the floor, it was empty.

  This decisive action had restored Sorrell’s flagging courage. She turned to the headmistress again, this time with the authority of Admiral Sorrell of old.

  “You’ve been instructed to bathe and clean me, so get on with it,” Sorrell said.

  The headmistress spluttered, completely taken aback. Sorrell let the woman stew. She was a personal slave to the risen one, and there was no way this woman had the authority to harm her. Sorrell stepped over the edge of the tub and submerged herself in the warm water. It felt hea
venly.

  Soon, a rough pair of hands reached into the tub and started to scrub Sorrell’s skin. She smiled to herself. If she commanded, people still obeyed.

  Chapter 44

  MAZAREEM LISTENED TO SORRELL leave the room. He had heard the fear and doubt in her voice, but that could not be helped. The House Gorvan servants would scrub her clean and return her in one piece. When the door closed behind Sorrell, Mazareem opened his eyes for the first time that morning.

  He almost wished Sorrell had killed him in the night. Morricant had found a way to hurt him beyond anything he had ever experienced. The pain in his back was receding, but he felt sick in a way that was new to him.

  Mazareem had carefully manipulated and maintained his health to ensure longevity and prevent illness. His enhanced flesh could withstand any poison or sickness and even knit itself back together in the event of a mortal wound. But Morricant had found a way to get inside his defenses.

  More worrisome than the strange illness was that Mazareem detected a change within himself that defied his attempts to identify. What had Morricant done to him that would cause his body to turn against itself? Mazareem turned his gaze inward, hunting the catalyst for this curious corruption, but before he reached a state of focus, the door crashed open and Dezerath entered the room.

  “Come, risen one, the sun is already up, and we have much to discuss,” Dezerath said.

  Dezerath turned and strode out the door with a swish of her red cape. She did not wait to see if Mazareem would obey—she expected it. He noted that she was becoming more belligerent with her demands. The power Dezerath thought she now grasped was going to her head.

  Mazareem groaned. He pushed himself up off the bed with his arms. Tentatively, he set his feet on the floor. He did not know if he could stand. After a few deep breaths, Mazareem heaved himself upwards. He wobbled on unsteady legs, but he did not go crashing back down to the bed.