“They were keeping me awake.”
“Right. Best get rest for tomorrow.” Segovac sat back down. “So, where are you from, really?”
“As I said, I don't know.” Azaran closed his eyes. “I can't remember.”
“You don't remember where you are from?”
“I don't remember anything.”
Segovac chuckled at that. “Well, given the state of the world, that might be a blessing.”
Chapter Three
Dawn came, marked by cock crows, bells, gongs, and in the holding pen the guards slamming their clubs against the bars. “Up! Get up, you meat! Time for the butcher to have his due!”
The cells were opened, the men led out by neck halters, escorted by guards armed with bows and long spears. Those who wore leg irons like Segovac had them removed and replaced by iron collars. Buckets of water were dumped over their heads, removing the worst of the filth from the night. Boys handed out bowls of rough porridge and chunks of bread, washed down with clay cups of water.
Azaran's ears caught the growing noise from the pit. Lines of men in yellow sashes made their way in, raucous calls and sounds came from beyond its walls. More people were perched on rooftops surrounding the place, locals trying to get a look at the day's events.
A hour went by, before a slave came scurrying over, relaying an order from Lugdal. “Send them in.”
“Time to die!” said a guard with a laugh. The inmates were herded towards a small back gate dug into the back of the embankment. Lashes flailed down on them, whistling through the air to find bare backs and leaving bloody welts. When they reached the gates, the men from the main cell were separated and sent in first, the guards herding them down a passageway to the right. Azaran and Segovac were then shoved in, the sunlight changing to shadow as they passed below the low gate. The air was thick with the smell of moss and rot, their bare feet splashing through puddles of what Azaran hoped was water. He heard the rumble of many voices coming through the earthen walls, interspersed with the beating of a drum.
The passage was bored through the interior of the embankment, the walls and ceiling supported with crumbling bricks and wooden pillars. The only light came from a handful of windows cut into the sides, letting in shafts of light. Then they rounded a corner and Azaran squinted as they emerged into a bright light.
It was a cage, packed full of ragged men. To his right was a long line of iron bars embedded in the floor and ceiling. On the either side was an expanse of sand perhaps thirty feet across. Rising above it were tiers of seats filled with corsairs in yellow sashes, loud, boisterous and in the main drunk. Rising above them was a tall wood-and-stone platform, draped with yellow cloth. Various personages that were likely reckoned important stood there, surrounding an elaborately carved wooden chair.
Azaran looked at the other men in the cell. They were a varied lot by origin, but uniformly ragged in appearance, radiating fear as a lamp cast light. He looked across the sand and saw another cage on the opposite side. The other fellows from the holding pen where there, a pack of starving predators seeing a herd of sheep.
The whole scene was thick with the promise of violence. Azaran glanced at Segovac, who was likely the only other man in the place not pissing himself. The Eburrean glanced back and gave an ironic shrug. “Welcome to the feast,” he said.
“They want us to fight?”
“Eventually.” Segovac made his way to the bars. “Think of this as an elaborate dinner. You do know what a dinner is?”
“Why wouldn't I?”
“What with the memory loss and all...are you still going with that tale?”
“It's not a tale, as you say.”
“Please yourself, friend Azaran...anyway, where was I?”
Azaran pointed across the way to the other cage. “What will happen?”
“Right...if all this,” and Segovac gestured at the sand, cages and spectators, “is an elaborate dinner, then we are the main course. But like any true feast, the appetite must be stimulated with tidbits and treats. Which in this case means more blood on the sand before we are set loose to die.”
Azaran glanced up at the stands again. “Only the pirates are allowed to watch?”
“In the main.” He followed Azaran's gaze. “Twenty years ago it was different. Tereg was different. The folk who lived here just wanted to be left alone. I visited it once...back in my old life.”
“And now they are the terror of the seas.” Azaran frowned. “How did that happen?”
“Look at yonder throne, and be educated, friend Azaran.”
Two men marched up beside the high chair and blew on two brass horns. The sound was swiftly drowned out by the cheers of the assembled pirates, who rise to their feet as one.
The bearded man Azaran saw the day before strode onto the platform, raising his hands high above his head. Up close, he appeared to be somewhere in his fourth decade. His skin was creased and tanned from years in the sun. His beard tumbled down to somewhere in the middle of his belly and what gray was in there disappeared beneath the chains of gold and silver woven through them. He wore a long black coat shot through with silver thread, bulging red trousers tucked into high boots and a gold diadem on his head.
“Hear me brothers!” he roared. “We are victorious! The sea is red with the blood of our enemy! All lands fear us! Stand proud under the sun, for Enkilash leads you to glory!”
“ENKILASH! ENKILASH! ENKILASH!” The pirates chanted the name again and again, seeming to draw strength from it.
“His name,” Segovac said, speaking above the noise, “is Enkilash.”
“I gathered that.” Azaran watched as the pirate king of Tereg sat down in his chair. More people came into the platform behind him, tough-looking sea hawks that were his senior captains, finely dressed fellows that were merchants who grew wealthy from buying and selling the plunder brought back and a few others in the rear, envoys from various lands who paid tribute to the Isle in hopes it would spare them from raids and pillaging.
Enkilash sat down. He held out his right hand and a cup of wine was placed in it. He held out his left and three slender chains were gripped. The other ends led to silver collars about the necks of three young women who came out silently behind the throne, dressed in a few strips of silk that only accented rather then hid their bodies. They knelt beside the throne, eyes downcast, ignoring the catcalls from the Corsairs.
Azaran noted that all three bore a resemblance to one another. “Are they related?” he asked.
“Sisters. Their father was king of...damn, can't remember the place. Somewhere in Hadaraj. Doesn't matter now. Enkilash burned it down, took them as his spoils. He does that with wenches of royal blood from that land. One more way to get his own back, I suppose.”
Enkilash drained the wine cup in a single gulp and tossed it over his shoulder. Purple drops spattered over one of the kneeling girls. She barely flinched, never raising her eyes. He waited until the cheers died down before raising a languid hand, and snapping it down again.
A door opened on the arena floor and a mob of men in the ragged remnants of once-beautiful finery were shoved out at spear point. They were pale from lack of sun, thin from lack of food, shielding their eyes in the sudden glare. When they saw Enkilash leering down at them, some fell to their knees and began pleading for their lives in a strange, almost musical sounding tongue. Others merely wept. A few remaining on their feet and defiant, glaring at the master of Tereg with disdain despite the circumstances, One of them stepped forward and spat on the ground below the platform, declaring something in his tongue.
Azaran felt that odd sensation in his head, as if the words were slowly starting to make sense. He leaned against the bars, trying to hear more, certain that at any moment the door to understanding would open. Several of the brands on his torso began to glow. Segovac saw this, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
Enkilash emptied another cup of wine, then stood and hurled it down at the speaker. The cup bounced off the target's
head, sending him back step and cutting him off mid-word. Laughter rose from the ranks of watching pirates, who hurled bits of food and empty bottles down at the captives.
Enkilash stood. Despite the amount of wine imbibed, he remained as alert as ever. "Brothers!" he roared. "Look down and see these men beforeyou . See En-Sagigga, once King of Qujjaga! See his sons, see his nephews and all the great men of his court. See the man who stood before me not a month past, when I came to collect the tribute rightly owed, the man who cursed me as the son of a lowborn whore, who called you, my brothers, the scum of the sea! Who spat on my feet and swore to kill every man of Tereg who came within reach of his sword! See him stand now, a beggar and slave!"
The pirates howled with mockery and blood lust. Enkilash did not laugh. He stared down at his victims with cold fury, filled with a hate that went down to his bones. "Our fleet attacked by night," he declared, "striking their harbor while his captains still slept in their beds! We burned their ships before the alarm was raised, ran through the city killing as we went. We slaughtered the men where they stood, used their women for our pleasure and took the most pleasing back as trophies. And these, the chief men of the court, I brought them back in my own ship, great men of Hadaraj, begging me for scraps! Begging to serve me, so their wives and daughters would not suffer!"
Right on cue, another group of prisoners entered, forced onto the platform, stumbling past the wooden throne and forced to their knees by their captors. All women, ranging from middle years to barely old enough to walk. Their rags were the remnants of fine dresses, their faces marked with suffering and sorrow. They wailed at the sight of their menfolk below, calling out to one another in tears.
Enkiliash's voice rose above it, twisted and thick with hate. "They beg and I spit in their faces. The greatest men of Hadaraj...meat for the pit! Meat for the predators! Let the flesh be ripped from their bones!"
A horn sounded. The floor gate opened again and a loud hissing roar came out. A long, black leg emerged, followed by another, then four more. Some...thing that looked like a six-legged cat, with segmented eyes like an insect and a scorpion sting for a tail shuffled out, standing at least eight feet tall at the shoulder. It sniffed the air, mouth slavering after three days without food, the scent of warm blood driving it into a hunger-fueled frenzy. It screeched and charged forward, scattering sand under its footsteps, falling upon the men without mercy.
The tail snapped forward, claws slashed, teeth ripped. The men in the cages looked away - even the most hardened killers among them unable to look. It was a hard way to go. Screams rose from the throats of dying men, matched by wails from their womenfolk, forced to watch by their captors as husbands and sons and brothers were torn to shreds. And all the while the pirates laughed at the sight, while Enkilash looked on with a dreadful obsession, wide eyes taking in every tear of flesh and arterial spray,.
It ended soon enough, the arena floor turned into a gore pit. The creature, imported at great expense from some nameless jungle far to the south, was herded back through the floor gate by men with spears and torches. It dragged a mangled torso with it - none of the wranglers made a move to take it away. The went back through the gate and disappeared into the darkness below, until the next time it was called upon to kill. Slaves came out, picking various scattered body parts and tossing them into handcarts. Others spread a layer of fresh sand on the ground, which barely made an impact on the amount of blood already soaked up.
Enkilash slumped in his chair, waving a hand at Lugdal. The pit master waddled forward, grabbed one of the weeping women and hauled her up. "His Magnificence, the Mighty Enkiliash, decrees that these Hadaraji wenches will be sold tomorrow!" he bawled. Two guards came forward and ripped away the rags covering her body. She looked down at the red-soaked sands below where only minutes before her husband had stood alive, her face blank with horror, not hearing the cruel laughter of the watching pirates, or Lugdal's crass pronouncement that come the morning she would be sold to any man who cared to spend the coin to have her, who desired to take a daughter of Hadaraji nobility to his stinking bed for his pleasure. She heard nothing of it, she would see the killing in the arena every day for the rest of her life.
The women were taken away. Enkiliash was on his third cup of wine. "And now for the main event," he said, waving a hand at Lugdal.
The pit master gave the order. The cage across the arena opened, the men inside filing out. A pair of slaves scurried out and dumped armfuls of weapons on the ground. The men rushed forward, shoving each out out of the way to grab the best ones. Swords and axes were raised high, One fellow gripped a pair of punch-daggers shaped like long curving claws, howling like a wolf. The crowd loved it, rising to their feet, yelling, whistling and stamping their feet. The men below were killers, survivors, champions of the pit, winning the right to live another day with every life they took.
Guards came into the cage holding Azaran and the others."Time to die, meat!"The door was opened and the men forced out. Their bare feet sunk into the blood-soaked sand, looking in bewilderment at the howling mob rising above them. The slaves returned and dropped weapons at their feet. "The Gods protect you," one of them said before fleeing the scene.
The men reached down and picked up rusty swords and axes with splintery handles, holding them awkwardly, as if they were farm implements. Most of them were peasants, taken in raids on villages along the shore, or sailors seized from plundered merchant ships. Not warriors, not men used to violence. The predators on the other side of the pit looked on them eagerly, waiting for the moment when they could kill.
Azaran picked up one of the swords. Rust streaked the blade and the balance was wrong in every way. It was next to useless, he realized, then wondered how he would know. This was the first weapon he'd ever held, as far as such things mattered.
"Well, friend Azaran," Segovac said beside him, "it was an honor to know you. Perhaps you can tell me your tale when we meet the gods."
"I've told you my tale," Azaran said absently, not hearing him. Another voice spoke.
Anger makes a bitch of the vanquished. Remain calm in all things. Rage makes a fool of any man...and fools die so easily...
Up on the platform, Enkilash raised a silver whistle to his lips. He took deep breath and let out a loud piercing blast.
The killer rushed forward, howling like beasts. Some of their victims tried to flee, and were cut down for their troubles. Others fought back, determined to die on their feet. Steel clashed, men screamed with fury and in pain. More blood to the already soaked ground. Bones cracked beneath rust steel blades.
Segovac raised the sword he was carrying and tensed, ready to rushed forward. Azaran grabbed his shoulder. "Wait," he said. "Let them tire out."
"But all those men..."
"They're dead either way..." Azaran's words trailed off. He heard the sounds of the killing, but other battles flashed before his minds eye....
...standing shoulder to shoulder with men in black armor, sword in hand, swinging at a sea of howling faces, even as lightening struck from the sky, blasting friend and foe alike....
...the air thick with the smell of burning flesh and burning buildings, his ears deaf from all the screaming...
...Standing on a corpse-strewn mound, covered in blood, holding a severed head in his left hand by its hair, raising it high as an offering...
So much violence...said the silent passenger. So much death...
"Azaran!" Segovac called him back to the present.
The last of the meat fell to the ground, hacked to pieces. None of the bloodstained killers had suffered more than a nick or scratch. They turned to Azaran and Segovac. Kill the last two and they earned the right to live another day.
"I won't die like this!" Segovac raised the sword and stepped forward. One of the killers rushed ahead to meet him. Swords clashed and he fell back, arm numbed to the elbow from the impact. The man grinned and raised his blade for the killing strike.
Guard your brothers life lik
e your own. Azaran's feet moved of their own accord. The rusty sword in his hand swung down in an overhand chop, taking Segovac's would-be killer at the base of the neck, cutting into the body.
The man fell. As he did, Azaran's sword snapped and he was left with a broken shard attached to the hilt. He turned about, facing the others. They saw the dead man fall, fixed their eyes on Azaran. As one they charged.
Every part of your body is a weapon. The voice from the past spoke. You are a weapon. Attack, advance. Strike, do not be struck. He obeyed, his mind attaining a level of clarity, even as the brands on his body glowed. Time seemed to slow, he could see every step his enemies took, every drop of sweat on their faces, every bit of blood and grime clinging to their bodies.
Make the first blow the killing blow. He struck with the broken sword, burying the shard in the eye of one man, then shoving the body down to tangle the feet of another. Using the momentum to gain speed, he side-stepped one fellow slashing at his face, leaping into the air to fling a spin-kick into the face of another, knocked his head back with such force that his neck snapped.
Azaran landed softly, easily swiped a slash from the man with the lisp, who taunted him the night before. "Die! Die!" the man screamed, raising his sword and coming in again. Azaran stepped inside his swing, blocking the arm with his left hand, the fingers digging into a pressure point above his wrist, causing the man to drop his sword.
A clear mind is the best armor you will have. He stepped around and slammed his right fist into the lisper's kidneys. He swung the man about, using his body as shield to block strikes from two other fellows. The lisper screamed in anguish as the other killers sliced him open from belly to throat. Azaran then shoved the body forward, knocking both fellows to the ground. He bent down, picked up a fallen sword in one hand and a hatchet in the other.
After that it ended quickly. The men knocked down he killed in quick succession, with stabs to the throat. He hurled the hatchet at another still standing, striking him in the face, burying the sword in the ribs of a second and knocked him to the ground. The last killer attacked him with an ax, swinging down at his head. Azaran stepped aside with contemptuous ease and the ax buried itself in the sand, pulling its wielder off balance. Azaran stepped behind him, grabbed his head and twisted his neck as easily as if he was breaking a twig.
Warrior on the Edge of Memory (The Tale of Azaran Book 1) Page 3