by John Mangold
“So, who were you able to get in contact with?” Shelia broke in before Maluem could retort.
“Thayne,” Torrez replied after a pause. “He found a new job since we left, but I was able to catch him before he headed in for the day. You should have heard him! He couldn’t believe we are back.”
“Thayne?” Shelia repeated. “A new job? I thought he would never give up his old one. He seemed so perfectly suited for it.”
“That’s a nasty thing to say,” Torrez replied, obviously trying to hide a smile behind his scowl.
“Who is this, Thayne?” Maluem inquired of both of them.
“A very close friend who helped us escape from Santilis,” Torrez replied.
“A very oily conman who I trust about as far as I can throw a brick,” Shelia countered. “One connected well enough that, once bribed, managed to smuggle us over the border.”
“Shelia, Thayne is not that bad,” Torrez scolded. “If it wasn’t for him, we never would have made it to the border, let alone found Nia.”
“Yes, he was very eager to help,” Shelia agreed. “A little too eager now that I think of it. Every time I talked to him, I always walked away feeling soiled somehow. How did the snake, I mean Thayne, sound when you talked to him?”
“Like I said, a little surprised, but considering our condition the last time he saw us, that seems normal. He said we could meet him at the Coliseum. I guess they have some big match tonight.”
“He wants to meet at the Coliseum, the site of his old job, the very seat of his underworld influence? Sounds normal to me,” Shelia replied with a tight grin.
“What transpires at this Coliseum,” Maluem broke in. “Is it a place of entertainment for the populace?”
“A place of twisted distraction is more like it,” Shelia replied. “The Coliseum provides the monarchy with two useful services. First, the weekly exhibitions distract the ignorant proles from the misery of their daily lives by presenting grizzly battles to gawk at. Secondly, these gory matches provide a suitably horrific method to dispose of their political prisoners and captured enemy soldiers.
“It goes without saying that such an atmosphere appeals to the worst elements of society, drawing them into one place where they can feed on the gullible plebes the Coliseum attracts. As I said, the natural habitat for a creature like Thayne. ”
“A dark pit of vile excess where nothing good may grow,” Maluem replied. “I think I have the gist. So, may I safely assume that neither of you partakes in the Coliseum’s sordid abundance?”
“Neither of us has ever set foot in it,” Torrez replied. “However, if that is where Thayne wishes to meet, then we have little choice. I will have to rig up a disguise for all three of us, and Volo will have to remain hidden for a while longer. It is all too likely some chud head…” Torrez paused at Maluem’s scowl. “I mean ferd…might stumble into Volo’s projection, causing a scene. Just stay calm, Maluem, and, above all, do not cast any spells no matter what happens. The last thing we need is to draw unwanted attention to ourselves.”
“Do not concern yourselves with me,” Maluem replied. “I am perfectly capable of handling myself in a crowd. Lead me to this den of vice, and I will be as silent as the proverbial wood post.”
27.
Cruentus
The assassin hung her head, the weight of it growing by the second, threatening to pull her off her bunk, down to the chipped and cracked cement floor. She knew she should try to escape; the bars would give easily if she applied all her strength. Her arms, made up of metallic bones wrapped in synthetic muscle, held all the power required, yet they could only use as much force as her brain afforded them. Unfortunately, her mind was not inclined to afford them anything at all.
Lacking the base motivation to pull herself up from the cold steel cot, her mind was a pit of despair endlessly pulling her down towards a relentlessly retreating bottom. But that would change soon, change in the beat of her heart, from abject misery to something else, something far worse. But she had no idea when this would happen, for her mind was but the plaything of another. Someone too far away to strike, but close enough to pull her strings taut when they wished.
Dust and paint chips floated down from the ceiling of her cell in a fickle shower, flittering into her crudely cropped white hair, dusting the tops of her legs. The mask around her mouth and nose, which was designed more to restrain than to assist, performed its secondary function of filtering out the dust before she could breathe it in. She made no attempt to avoid the deluge from above or to wipe the debris from her body. Any harm their toxins could bring was meaningless compared to what was coming.
The dust and paint shower’s intensity fluctuated with the fervent crowds' stamping feet some several yards above her. She knew those masses raved as her fellow prisoner fought for their lives against impossible odds, cheered as the gladiator faltered in their step, delighted in the gruesome display of slaughter. Her turn would be coming soon. It was as inevitable as the next beat of her heart, as inescapable as her next breath. Death was coming for her, this she knew. The current shower of dust was just the first handfuls of dirt on a corpse too stubborn to lie down and die.
Out of the upper peripheries of her vision, she watched as fixtures lining the ceiling of the gladiator barracks hall sprang to life, illuminating a ragged path leading inevitably to her cell door. As the procession approached, she felt the change take effect, as it had so many times before. A quickening of the pulse, sudden heating of her veins, reddening of her vision. It was all so familiar, so sickening in its predictability, as though she was internally violated for the thousandth time, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Depression and apathy evaporated in the face of the onrushing flood. Rage took hold that was easy to fuel, a frenzy that had been carefully cultivated in her for the last fifteen years of her life, a fury which left no question of victory, nor any desire to accept a fate molded by another. A plan, long dormant in the back of her mind, rushed forward with the emotion’s tide. Tonight, she would put it into effect. Tonight would be different. She did not know why, but she could feel it in her bones.
With adrenalin coursing into her mind, she sprang to her feet and strode towards the bars of her cage, reaching them a split second before the final fixture illuminated above her cell door. A second light bathed her cell with a crimson glow as a claxon screamed its familiar warning. She did not heed it; she was well ahead of the message it imparted.
Her cell's armored door burst open, the barred wall lunging towards her as the bunk behind folded flat against the wall. This allowed the sliding barrier to slam flush with the back wall of what was once her cell, leaving her standing in the dimly lit hallway, the bulbs overhead dictating the path she must follow. The procedure gave the subject no choice but to proceed down the long walk ahead. She did not need their prodding. She knew what was expected of her, and she was more than happy to comply.
With a resolute stride, gaining momentum with every step, she advanced down the hall. A break in the ceiling revealed a trap door with a rotating drum behind it. As she approached, the device pivoted, dropping a long-handled axe towards the concrete floor. It barely fell a foot before her arm swung up to slap her palm home on the well-worn composite haft. She did not need to glance upwards or even break her stride. It was all far too familiar to her, as though she had done it a thousand times before because she had.
With absent-minded ease, she twirled the weapon in her hand, gaining a feel for its weight. It was nearly perfectly balanced, or as close as a slave’s weapon would get. Close enough for her intentions. The very feel of the axe in her hand promised action, the strength of motion, strength of direction, and strength of violence. This fueled her rage to an all-consuming fire. Caution and discretion were now long-forgotten words. Force was everything, and she presently had a mind to use it.
As she marched forward, she could see the great portal at the end of the hall ratchet open to the scraping of steel on s
tone. The light beyond was blinding in its sharp contrast to the shadows choking the dank barracks. With it flowed the intoxicating roar of the crowd above, already frenzied by the gruesome displays which preceded her release. Her amber mechanical eyes dealt with the change in light quickly, allowing her to easily make out the blood slicked floor of the coliseum’s main ring. The sound, however, she did nothing to filter out, allowing its manic levels to overwhelm her system, pushing her fuming rage beyond any possible measure. With an unbroken stride, the white-haired assassin marched into the view of the crowd, with death trailing two steps behind.
***
Maluem did her best to remain distant and aloof as the group made their way through the bustling streets of NuSam, but for her, this was no small accomplishment. The ‘crowds,’ or to be more accurate, ‘mindless hoards’ that surrounded her pressed so close she could scarcely refrain from casting a force bubble to push the riotous masses away. Before this day, if someone had told her that herds of people lived in such cramped conditions, she would have called them liars. How could so many attain food to survive, let alone not impose on one another with their waste disposal? From the multitude around her, she could only surmise that these dilemmas had been solved, though she was now hard-pressed to believe that such advances in technology were indeed advancements for civilized living.
If the press of humanity were not enough to test her sanity, the chaos that accompanied them surely was. It had been one thing to sit idly by and watch a maddening procession of mechanical conveyances careen past. But to have this chaotic dance of flesh and steel go on just inches from her side was nearly more than she could take. She had been close to demons and devices that appeared bent on her demise, but never for such an extended period, or without at least attempting to protect herself from inevitable injury.
At one point, Maluem found herself unconsciously building power, the results of her accumulation quickly betrayed by an otherwise unexplainable frosting of a nearby storefront. The only thing that stopped her was a sharp nudge from Torrez and an urging word from Shelia. As she turned to query them as to what had aroused their concern, she took in simultaneously the results of her energy siphoning and Torrez’s pointed head gestures.
Following his direction, she slowly swung her eyes to gaze across the street. There, among the masses, was an unmoving character surrounded by clumsy human herds, even as they instinctively avoided contact with him, like a river flowing around a boulder. It seemed the masses knew by collective instinct that this was an individual who was not to be disturbed in any way.
“The ‘Eyes of The Lords’ are upon you, Maluem,” Torrez whispered. “Do not even think of casting, or we are all caught.”
Maluem nodded slightly, still looking at the strange man out of the corner of her eye. He was spear bald, looking for the entire world as though a hair had never grown anywhere on his body, ever. Even his eyebrows were missing. Concealing his eyes was what she at first took to be a well-crafted set of darkened spectacles. However, as she observed him more closely, she realized they had no way of staying on his face unless they had been bonded to his skin. A sickly discoloration of the tissue closest to his spectacles hinted at this grisly solution.
The creature was draped in a long brown coat of similar make to the greatcoat Maluem now wore, but much more substantial, with locking steel buckles down the front. The immense collar had been zipped up around his cheeks, obscuring all features below the nose. From the ragged scars evident on his cheeks, Maluem was confident she had no desire to see what that zipped collar concealed. Completing its grotesque appearance was the man’s arms or the complete lack thereof. Maluem had first assumed they were folded behind him, but as she peered closer, she realized that his coat did not possess sleeves, having been sewn shut at the shoulders where the limbs should have been.
Once they were a reasonable distance away, Maluem turned to Shelia and asked.
“What in Azbel was that? Never in all my years have I heard of a half-demon the likes of that.”
“That was all human, or what was left of one at any rate,” Shelia replied. “That was a member of the ‘Eyes of The Lords.’ They are an extremely specialized form of Auspex who exists solely to be the spies of the royalty. All they see, the Royals see, through their mechanical eyes. They cannot act, nor speak, only bear witness so their masters may know the movements of the vast populace. As you observed, they are physically altered for their jobs. They can do the Lords’ bidding and nothing more. Without arms, they cannot defend or even feed themselves without the care of their handlers. I am sure if it were not for their lobotomies, they wouldn’t even survive the indoctrination.”
“Who would volunteer to perform such duties?” Maluem inquired in disgust.
“No one,” Torrez piped in. “You don’t volunteer to join the ranks of the Eyes. You are sentenced to them. Such is the fate of an Auspex who fails their master in any way. As you can probably tell by now, Nobles are not overly merciful with their subjects.
“Don’t worry, though, we will be free of them soon. We are approaching the Coliseum, one of the only areas in the whole nation where the Eyes do not intrude. I am certain that is why Thayne wanted to meet us here.”
“That and other reasons, I am sure,” Shelia added as they crossed the street with a large clutch of boisterous citizens.
As they found their way through the throngs, Maluem noticed that despite the initial majesty of the massive buildings around her, most of them were in various states of repair or extreme neglect. All bore signs of immense damage, as though they had been routinely subjected to massive artillery assaults. The popular repair method appeared to be a steady buildup of layered plating outside the buildings, held in place by a vast webbing of girders. The overall effect was to turn masterful triumphs of engineering into hideous parodies of siege towers. Each was now an immense monument to a society trapped in the endless decay of war.
As Maluem took all this in, her eyes fell upon a massive structure squatting in the shadows of the buildings encircling it. Unlike its taller cousins, this oval building showed no signs of the decay afflicting all else. Other than the soot darkening the upper reaching buttresses, the building was meticulously cared for. Its ramparts had clearly suffered damage from many attacks, but the armored updates had been artfully crafted to mimic the original architectural style. As the armored layers had accumulated over time, the stylized flying buttresses and enormous blast-proof panels gave the structure an overtly ominous appearance.
As they approached the structure’s massive gates, with colossus statues holding open the gargantuan portals for the mere mortals to pass through, Maluem needed no explanation as to what this building’s purpose was. They had reached the coliseum. She could only wonder what spectacle within could match what she had already seen.
As the massive crowd funneled into the ample gates, bodies were pressed in close together, much to Maluem’s spiraling discomfort. The onslaught of humanity, with its stifling odors and forced physical contact, was probably uncomfortable for your average Santilis citizen, desensitized to such inconveniences. To Maluem, the combined sensations were akin to torture.
The urge to lash out both physically and magically was unbearable. Maluem’s hands reflexively curled into tight fists as she struggled to maintain her composure. In what was likely a sympathetic response, she could feel mystic power bleed into her from her staff on her back. A sensation of soothing comfort flowed into her core, spreading with gifted energy throughout, working on loosening her overly tightened muscles. She knew this was Volo at work, trying to calm her multiplying discomfort before she reached an explosive state. It was not a complete cure, but it certainly helped.
Suddenly, a hand grasped her arm and wrenched her from the crowd. She spun to face her attacker, freehand drawn back for a counterstrike, when she recognized Shelia on the other end of the accosting arm. As discomforting as Shelia’s grip felt, her Acolyte was leading her up a flight of stairs unknown to
the multitude behind. Since this meant a speedy escape from the human tidal wave, Maluem agreed to suffer its presence, for now. After they reached a vacant landing, Shelia withdrew her hand and shot Maluem an apologetic glance. Maluem shook her head in response. Hers was an infraction Maluem was happy to forgive, considering Shelia had delivered her from the walking nightmare of the herd below.
After a long, tortuous climb, they stepped out onto a wide corridor that displayed several doors along its right wall. Into these, a lesser multitude sifted, groups, funneling into what appeared to be predetermined allotments per chamber. As they passed, Maluem could see that the small rooms possessed a grand window affording a panoramic view of a vast arena below. Beyond this transparent barrier, the night’s spectacles were already in progress. As they passed an open door, an excited clutch of men and women hurried in, upset at missing some of the exhibition’s bloodshed.
“I told you we should have started earlier,” the man to the rear of the group groused. “I bet we missed the first kill already! I dropped 50 on Cruentus, going down by the fifth, and I want to see it when that skrite finally eats it! I tell you, if those choats can’t do the job tonight, I might jump down there and finish her myself!”
“Cruentus? That is a slate’s bet,” the woman towards the middle responded as she turned to face him. “She has over three hundred kills this season already! You better thank the Lords that you never will have…to...face her-”
The woman stammered to a stop, drawing Maluem’s attention. When their eyes met, the woman’s complexion drained of color, as though she beheld death incarnate. Maluem returned the woman’s awkward stare with a scowl, causing the woman to stagger back into the person behind her. The stranger began to raise her arm, frantically gesturing in Maluem’s direction, but the flowing throng pulled her mindlessly along, through the narrow portal. Before the woman managed to get out a single word, she was gone, leaving Maluem and the Entwhistles to quickly slip into the next vacant chamber.