by Rob Bayliss
“It is best not to speak of such things outside of these walls, Shlenfa,” the dogel warned.
They had gone into the building. The screaming in their minds was like the scurrying of insects innumerable inside their skulls. It was darker than night, a night without stars. The walls dripped shadows. There were husks of men on the floor. The fear! The fear was tangible. As well as the dead there was something else in that space. It was an ambush, an ambush to abduct Blackstone and appropriate his power for the shadow. There was a vomit-inducing corpse smell and the swirling well of madness that crossed planes of realities and distances. And out of it … out of it had stepped the walking corpse. A man, but not a man. A creature, old, bestial and evil. He was the…
“The Messiah of Shadows has walked this earth for years uncounted; it is not for the likes of us mortals to question his ways and decisions,” the dogel continued. “We are to be blessed when he steps forth out of the House of Shadows, here in Dofr’Arachane.”
The monster. The foul abomination that should have been grave bound centuries before. He had plunged his Imperial obsidian blade into the foul creature’s heart and had pushed it into the swirling well. He had not killed him then. He had feared that, but instead he had saved Blackstone and the Sun Shard. He was coming here? He would see into his soul, read every secret hidden deep within his mind!
“That brings us to the reason why I have summoned the savage,” Dogel Serresel said. He turned and addressed the arena fighter who stood before his table, switching to his eastern-accented common tongue. “You are to fight in a great night-time display of blood, Gutspiller. You will fight the champions of the other gladiatorial houses of Dofr’Arachane. You will fight in a climactic battle before a living god, the ever-living one, the Messiah of Shadows, from whose house you emerged many long months ago. It is an honour, your blood, flesh and soul made in offering to him. What do you say to that, barbarian?”
He had been rooted to the spot by spells of fear. The Sun Shard had turned black. All hope had been lost. The abomination was leading Blackstone to the swirling well. He had dreamed the night before of Taleel burning; all he held dear destroyed and lost forever, and here it was, coming to pass. But there was the one he loved, her name his word of power; he had broken the spell by invoking her….
Kaziviere spoke but one word. But in its utterance, all the shame, all the pain he had borne and the pent up rage contained within him were brought forth upon his enemies in that room. And the word he said was, “Tamzine.”
Chapter 10
Tamzine: she was a warrior woman and the mistress of his heart. In her arms he had found release from the guilt that threatened to weigh him down. His soul carried a burden of past cruelties, inflicted without hesitation in the service of the Empire of Taleel. How he had once despised the Northern Holdings. They were cold and on the edge of civilisation; indeed some areas may as well have been beyond the Hailthorn Mountains. Roads were muddy single tracks, palaces mere hovels and great halls were but glorified barns.
In one movement, the clay wine jar was snatched from the table and smashed into the face of the rising Shlenfa. It sent him reeling back into his chair, his flat nose broken and smashed once again. The red wine mixed with the thicker crimson liquid that began to pour from the overseer’s ruined face.
And yet he had learned to appreciate what the tribes called “the Summerlands”, even if they were colder than Taleel. They were fertile and rich in resources. It was no wonder then that the Empire, its industry geared for war and ever hungry, had conquered them.
He grabbed a large brass platter and turned in one quick movement. Anticipating the spear thrust from the guard behind him, he blocked the blade seeking to drink of his entrails. He caught the spear point and turned it from him, moving quickly in a catlike, liquid movement to the left of the guard. Getting in close, he smashed the edge of the platter into the guard’s mouth, breaking teeth and splitting lips and gums. He grabbed the spear from the soldier as the unfortunate man, his hands seeking the wreckage of his face, collapsed.
His men had developed a fierce loyalty to both himself and their unit, the 1st Cheamas, a loyalty he had reciprocated to those whose lives he felt responsible for.
He threw the platter like a discus at the other guard, who instinctively ducked. It sailed on past the billowing linen and through the window. The man had seemed torn between facing the gladiator and looking at what was happening at the table. Kaziviere could hear a struggle developing behind him. Speed! He needed utmost speed; concentrate on this one and then face whatever awaited him. He had the spear above his head, ready to stab; his time on the sands had taught him to take every chance to kill when an enemy was out of their defensive posture. He had caught many an armoured adversary in such a position many times before. As the guard began to stand up straight, both hands grasping his spear ready to adopt a fighting stance, the shining spear point of Kaziviere darted like a snake’s tongue, finding flesh between chinstrap and front breastplate. The man gurgled, robbed of his voice, his legs giving way as his windpipe was pierced. Kaziviere forced the blade down into the man’s ribcage, splitting his heart asunder with an unpleasant sucking noise. Kaziviere snatched the dying man’s scimitar from its scabbard and spun round to face the table.
As Shlenfa struggled to lift his dazed and floundering bulk from the chair he had fallen heavily fallen onto, the slave girl delivered a fearsome scissor kick at Dogel Serresel’s head, silencing the cry of alarm before it had left the shocked man’s lips. The dogel sprawled on the floor. The slave girl’s heel struck his head again and again, stamping the slave lord into unconsciousness.
He had found redemption from his men’s loyalty as well as his lover’s arms. The giant Turanesci, the man whose tongue he had removed as an example, had saved him from the undead warrior’s blade outside that House of Shadows. The man who had every reason to hate him had become one of his most fearsome warriors - the Turanesci and his friend, Tuan Blackstone, the Sun Shard wielder. The Sun Shard! He had saved it and its wielder from the Corpse Lord in that darksome gateway to hell. It was not for the likes of that stinking abomination; he had seen the sweet rainbows of light from that multifaceted crystal. He now understood the Summerlanders’ loyalty to their old beliefs. It was a real magic, a force of nature as old as time. It had touched his soul, recognising his honour. In it he had found peace. There was no honour to be found here, no time for mercy.
The guard saw what was coming as he struggled through the pain of his ruined mouth. Too late, he struggled to draw his scimitar. His pleading eyes sought Kaziviere’s. No time. No mercy. The gladiator’s curved blade cut in an arc, hacking into the man’s neck, almost decapitating him. Blood spurted from the man’s torso, spreading across the floor to mingle with the spilt red wine on the polished flagstone floor. The overseer. It was time the trophies were paid for, in kind.
Blinking through the blood pouring from his cut nose and cheeks, Shlenfa’s right hand reached for his sword hilt, quickly drawing it from its scabbard. His left hand released the coils of his whip, ready to tear the impudent slave’s flesh. He arose, his knees straining to straighten and defy the pull of the earth upon him. The rolled drapery passed over his eyes and face to wrap around his neck and tighten, pulling him back. His head snapped back as he fell back into the chair. The slave girl’s biceps bulged as she throttled the hateful overseer. She pulled and leaned back on the muscular legs that he had once lusted for, one of which pushed back at the chair as it threatened to topple backward.
Shlenfa dropped his whip as he tried to reach for the cord around his windpipe. His eyes bulged as he waved his sword uselessly at the advancing gladiator. But the world was turning grey and his arms felt so heavy.
“Darkness take you, Overseer,” Kaziviere said with quiet purpose, as he delivered a sideways slash at the overseer’s exposed belly. The wickedly curved blade found fatty flesh and saggy muscle, opening it from left to right. Shlenfa quivered momentarily as his entr
ails slopped into the bloody wine between his legs. The overseer’s eyes went glassy, their light extinguished. His hand relaxed, sending his sword clattering to the floor.
Kaziviere breathed deeply. He looked at the slave girl. Her eyes were fierce, wild and exultant. “Thank you,” he said.
“Fuck your thanks!” she snarled back. “One slave kills their owner, all the household’s slaves are killed, lest one bad fruit corrupts the barrel. I hope you have a plan to get us out of here, Gutspiller?”
“I did not plan this, girl,” Kaziviere said. “We need to help the others, I need to release my brother gladiators.”
“Bastard! I will be killed because of you!” she said bitterly. “There is no time, we must go now… they would all die in the god’s games anyway. Come on, follow me.”
She jumped lightly, like a panther onto the window’s ledge, clinging onto the wall for support and peering into the gloom beyond. “Jump as far as you can. The dogel’s house is a part of the city wall that the river runs along. Jump far enough and you will land in the deep water.”
There was a hammering on the door and a voice demanded from the other side, “Dogel! We heard a noise, is anything ill?”
“Wait,” Kaziviere said. “We will need supplies and clothes.”
The girl grinned. “You don’t like what you see?” she said, facing the gladiator in her nakedness. “There is no time, savage!” she hissed. “If you want to live, jump!” She launched herself from the window and was gone.
Behind him he heard the door being tentatively opened. On the floor the dogel gasped, his eyes looking wildly around from his battered face.
“Tamzine!” Kaziviere said, casting his spell of hope into the world. He ran at the window, bloody scimitar in his hand, propelling himself into the darkness beyond.
He saw nothing through his eyes, still accustomed as they were to the well-lit chambers of the dogel. He was swathed in the night. The air rushed past his ears for what seemed an age. He heard his beating heart: one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three … the waters of the river closed over his head as he plunged into the lazy waterway. He heard the bubbles around his ears and kicked for the night air above. He broke the surface, blinking muddy water from his eyes and looking around. He swam with the slow current with difficulty, the scimitar an awkward weight in his hand, but he was unwilling to lose his only weapon in a land of enemies. He could hear shouting coming from the walls above him and looked around for his companion. She was just ahead of him, her dark, oiled skin blending into the darkness. He swam faster to catch up with her. She turned to see him. The current, although lazy, had been enough to take them beyond the northern edge of the walls of Dofr’Archane.
“Hurry up, savage!” she urged. “We can travel north faster if we swim with the current.”
Kaziviere swam alongside. “No, head into the reeds on the far bank. We need to double bank and head south. The river is too close to the main road; it will be crawling with patrols. We will be caught in the daylight and if we are lucky we will be crucified by the roadside.”
They swam towards the reeds. The girl climbed out and hissed at Kaziviere as he followed her, “It must be that barbarian tongue in your head. I think I heard you say you wanted to go south?”
Kaziviere nodded. “That’s right, they will not expect us to head south.”
She wrung the muddy water from her long black hair. “And for good reason, savage. There’s nothing there; it’s a dead end. A few slave estates and then … the forest.” She shivered a little then, goose bumps appearing on her naked skin despite the closeness of the night air.
“We can get some food from the farms and head into the forest, strike west and then head north for the coast of Attana through the wilderness,” Kaziviere suggested.
“You mean to go into the forest? You are insane, savage. I was born to estate workers who worked near the forest edge. We were taught not to go amongst the trees, lest the foulness catch you and eat you. And now you want to go in there? Damn you to the darkness, barbarian! I was alive; I was well fed by the dogel, and no hard labours under the hot sun for me … until you were summoned to see him tonight.”
“I did not force you to kick the dogel’s brains onto the floor, girl,” Kaziviere answered, irritated now, “nor did I ask for your help with that dog Shlenfa, although I am thankful of it. I assume you had your own reasons for that?” He left his words hanging for a moment; they both knew that her duty was the servicing of the dogel’s cock. “And my name is Rendroc Kaziviere, not Gutspiller, Barbarian or Savage. If I am to die, I would have you use my real name.”
“Yes, I had my reasons,” she said, the fires of her temper extinguished, but the bitterness still clear. “And my mother named me Nurarna, although you haven’t asked.”
“My apologies, Nurarna, now … get down!” he said suddenly, diving to the ground, grabbing her and forcing her to lie down beside him amongst the reeds. On the other side of the river, hunters with torches and dogs were scanning the eastern riverbank and working north along the road.
Nurarna felt the warmth of the gladiator’s body against hers and his arms around her stomach. Instinctively, she sidled closer, the muscles in her naked rounded buttocks gently tensing and then relaxing, subtlety grinding against the gladiator’s groin. She felt him stir against her inside his loincloth and smiled to herself. He tensed, suddenly aware of a long unsatisfied need. He let her go and moved his body from hers.
“We can lie down here awhile longer … I won’t mind … Ren-droc,” she said, taking her time to pronounce his strange, northern name correctly. “We may be both dead before this night is out ….”
Kaziviere rose to his haunches, peering through the reeds. It was tempting, and he was angry with himself for responding to her body against his. But he had to remain true to Tamzine, or else the word that had kept him alive all this time would be bereft of its power. The hunters had moved north, thinking that the river had swept their prey along. It was time to move.
“I promise you, Nurarna, you will not die tonight. Now come on and keep low behind the reeds.” He set off on a gentle jog southward.
Nurarna watched the silhouette of the gladiator head south. “And tomorrow, in the forest, can you keep me alive there?” she said to herself quietly. She saw the torches behind her moving north. There was a bridge not far away, and she knew they could double back and scan their side of the riverbank. She sighed and set off in pursuit of the loping gladiator.
The ground was flat, and they soon left Dofr’Arachane in the distance as they followed the river southward. They kept an eye on the opposite bank as a single roadway continued alongside, connecting the southernmost fort with the town. Along it they could see horsemen carrying torches, galloping southward.
After an hour of running, Kaziviere stopped to get his bearings. He embedding his scimitar in the earth and pondered the situation. They would alert the fort, as well as the large farm estates ahead. Each of these would contain guards to scour the lands northward to Dofr’Arachane. The river meandered lazily to the east, before looping back westwards. They were now entering an area of canals and channels. These irrigated orchards of exotic fruits lashed to frameworks of poles, and fields of beans and lentils. This terrain would take longer to navigate. Presently, Nurarna came to a stop. She was drenched with sweat, which shone on her skin, but she was not out of breath. Kaziviere nodded in approval of her stamina. She had not fallen behind like he feared she would. He did not know this place; he had not been here before.
“It must be two hours until midnight. We still have miles to go until we make it to the forest and safety. There is a maze of waterways ahead of us and the river loops back on itself again and again,” he said, thinking aloud.
Nurarna snorted. “Safe, he says!” She reached for one of the fruits that hung from the frame nearby, above their heads. She ripped it open with her teeth, then ate and slurped at the flesh and juice inside. It dribbled down her chin. Kaziviere licked his l
ips, suddenly realising how thirsty he was after so much running. Seeing this, she grabbed another and tossed it to Kaziviere. He caught it with both hands and thirstily sucked at the juicy flesh.
She finished the last of her fruit, before reaching for another. “If you are set on entering the forest, we would do better to strike west now. Luckily for you I know this area; I was raised nearby. We must be wary; there is a large enslavement compound not far from here.”
“I would prefer to go south, to use the river to travel along. At the very least we can navigate our way back out … if the worst happens,” he said.
“Worst you say? You’re a fool … Rendroc … Kaziviere. We would be better off keeping to the forest edge, not heading deep into the lands of the foulness,” she said glumly.
Kaziviere looked to the south again. In truth the way ahead, with its meandering river and maze of irrigation channels, would obstruct their progress … and they needed to be inside the forest before the sun rose if they had any chance of escape.
“Very well then, Nurarna, if you can get us past that slave camp, we will head west ….” Kaziviere suddenly fell silent. At the threshold of their hearing they heard it carried on the warm still air, the baying of hounds to the north.
“We have tarried too long; they have found our trail!” Kaziviere said, snatching his scimitar from the ground that held it. “I was hoping they would have gone further north before realising we had left the river.”
“Let us deny them scent.” Nurarna said. “Follow me!” She jumped into the irrigation channel. It was knee deep. She began wading eastward.