“Like hell,” Rol said. “I’ve fought every type of sand creature in the desert, I’ve fought demons, I’ve fought madmen and madwomen who wanted me dead, I’ll fight you too.”
You dare to compare those pitiful opponents from your past to me? Such a fool, you are, little human. You are mine.
“Who you calling little?”
I have already remade you in my image, fool.
“What’re you talking about?”
Your metamorphosis is almost complete.
The Voidharrow granted him the ability to see himself.
Then he screamed.
His skin had turned gray.
His hands only had three fingers each.
And he had grown larger.
Something felt wrong with his shoulders and chin as well.
“What have you done to me?” Still he spoke, but could not hear his own voice. The Voidharrow had granted him the wherewithal to feel his own face, and his mouth did not move when instructed by his mind.
He was still caged within his own body—or, rather, what his body had been changed into—but the only difference was that he could see the bars on the window.
I have granted you the greatest gift that anyone can receive.
“Some gift.”
Then Rol screamed again, but it was not a scream of his own making—and he could hear it.
What is this? We are invaded!
That didn’t sound good.
Suddenly, Rol felt his stomach contract into a ball, pressure slamming into both temples making his head feel as if it was being squeezed, and his muscles turn to jelly.
After a second, the sensations died down, and he found himself standing in a multicolored plane. The ground beneath him was purple, the walls around him were orange, and the ceiling was a pink and red spotted pattern. The purple floor felt as if it was made of metal.
At least, Rol thought it was metal. He’d never walked on a metal floor, but it certainly felt like what metal should have felt like …
And then he realized what was happening. Someone was entering his mind.
Rol had been interrogated by a mind-mage before. He’d found himself on some strange plane of existence where nothing made sense, and then afterward his spit tasted bitter and acidic for the next week, and he couldn’t hold any food down for two days.
It was happening again.
One thing that relieved him: he looked like himself. His skin was back to its former bronzed state, and his arm was the size it had been for most of his adult life.
Standing next to him, on a part of the floor that was gold instead of purple, was a large creature with gray skin, three fingers on each hand, strange rubylike protrusions coming out of its shoulders, and a bizarre mouth. Its chin had been bisected down to the throat, making it look as if the mouth had three lips.
“Holy frip, is that what you’re turning me into?”
Yes, it is, little human. Do you not admire the dreadnaught?
“I don’t even know what the dreadnaught is.”
Another voice said, “Nor do I.”
Looking up, Rol saw a tall, thin man walking on the ceiling. He was wearing the functional beige clothing of one of Urik’s sirdars, and was surrounded by a glow that Rol just knew indicated magic.
Ah, one of the wizards of this realm comes forth to greet me.
“I am Drahar, the chamberlain of Urik.”
“So you’re the bastard who took me from my friend.”
Drahar regarded Rol for a moment, then turned to the monster. “Fascinating. It seems that you are both occupying this mind, and that you—” he pointed at the gray monster “—are the source of the strength and power that I sensed in Rol Mandred.”
I am much more than that. This little human that you refer to as “Rol Mandred” is but the first to become a dreadnaught in my service.
“You say ‘my’ service—whose service is that, exactly?”
Rol stared at Drahar, but he also realized that he wanted the answer to that question too.
I am the Voidharrow, and I work in service with Tharizdun.
“I do not know that name.”
He is a great and powerful god, but not from this world of sand and sun. Through me, his will shall be done.
Rol continued to stare at Drahar. “You don’t believe this nonsense, do you, sirdar?”
Drahar gave Rol a look that only a noble-born ass could give to a person of lower station. The aristocracy had it bred in them. Even as he gave the look, the colors changed, each shade becoming noticeably darker, the pink spots becoming bloodred. “I believe what I am presented with, Rol Mandred—this creature certainly has a power that could be called godly.”
What this foolish little human believes is of little consequence.
“But what I believe is quite critical,” Drahar said. “At the moment, my psionists are controlling your movements and keeping you restrained. That will remain the case unless you cooperate.”
So you are the one who ordered me sedated?
“Yes. And I will do so permanently unless you—”
Cooperate, yes. How would I cooperate with the likes of you?
“Oh,” Rol said with a laugh, “he’s a chamberlain in King Hamanu’s court. Trust me, dreadnaught, this is who you want to get in bed with if you want to serve this ‘Thor’s done’ person.” The colors all brightened, and the purple became bright red, with the spots becoming green.
It’s Tharizdun, and your advice is unnecessary.
“Yes,” Drahar said dismissively, “it’s obvious that your active participation in this endeavor has come to an end. It’s a testament to the power of your will that you can even participate in this conversation. But that is the extent of your influence, Mandred.” Drahar turned to the dreadnaught. “However, he is correct about one thing—it would behoove you to cultivate me as a friend. I have the ear of the most powerful king in the world.”
Rol muttered, “Yeah, he keeps it in a jar on his shelf.”
Drahar continued as if Rol hadn’t spoken. “King Hamanu desires to rule all of Athas. All that stands between him and that desire is the power necessary. You have the means to grant us that power.”
Interesting.
“Is that all you have to say?”
For now. Go away, while we consider your offer.
The monster gestured with one hand, and suddenly, Drahar was gone.
Rol hoped that the departure was painful for the wizard.
Then Rol was back in the dungeon where he had been. With Drahar gone, so was the strange plane—which was kind of too bad, as he missed the spots.
He also had again lost control. However, he wondered if that was because the Voidharrow had taken that control—or because Drahar did. He said that his psionists were keeping physical control of him.
Drahar had also expressed surprise that Rol had any kind of presence. He wondered if the Voidharrow was truly as strong as it claimed to be.
Outside the cell, he could hear voices.
“Are you all right, Lord Chamberlain?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Forgive me, Lord Chamberlain, but that doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, it does. Is the creature being held?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.”
Odd, isn’t it, little human, that the desires of the king as expressed by Drahar are exactly the same as the desires of Drahar?
“Not odd at all,” Rol muttered. “Drahar’s the chamberlain. His desire is to keep the king happy by whatever means necessary. Kind of like you and this Tharizdun.”
Perhaps. He does not wish to bargain, but to force us.
“I’d think you’d like that.”
You are wise, little human. A pity you will die.
“If I die, who gets to be your dreadnaught?”
I speak of your mind, not your body.
“Joy.”
Rol said nothing further. He knew he retained at least some sliv
er of himself. He needed to make use of that.
He just wished he knew how …
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Sasker hated his job.
Not that there was anything especially bad about it. It was better than digging in the mines or shoveling manure in the orchards or any number of other jobs that would’ve been a great deal less pleasant than watching over a bunch of slaves between fights.
But he really wanted to be a soldier.
Like everyone in Urik, Sasker was tested by the templars as a child, and his aptitude was for soldiering.
So he volunteered for the Imperial Guard.
At first, everything was fine. He went through the training, just like everyone else. In fact, he excelled at it, which was more than he could say for his bunkmate, Torvald.
Torvald didn’t like to do all the work. He didn’t put a full effort into his training, always lagging behind everyone else—or taking shortcuts that required less effort.
What amazed Sasker was that the drill sergeant didn’t seem to notice when Torvald slacked off. That wouldn’t have bothered Sasker so much, except the sergeant noticed it for everyone else. Even the ones who weren’t actually slacking off. One time, Sasker had been the first one to finish doing pull-ups, and the sergeant yelled at him for making the others look bad—then he yelled at Jonas, who was the last one done.
But Torvald, who only did half the required pull-ups, got off with nothing. Again.
Eventually, Sasker grew tired of it and complained to the sergeant.
Actually, he did more than complain. Sasker carried on for five minutes, enumerating everything that was wrong with Torvald and why he’d make a terrible soldier and why was the sergeant, whaddayacall, letting him off so easily?
The next morning, a lieutenant came into the barracks with two soldiers and told him to pack his things. He was kicked out of the Guard.
On the way out of the barracks, the lieutenant said, “And don’t expect much by way of job prospects after this, Sasker. At least, not as long as Lord Torvald’s alive.”
Sasker winced as they literally pushed him out the door. Torvald was the son of a sirdar.
Somebody could have told him.
The lieutenant had been right about the lack of job prospects. He spent his days failing to find work and his nights drinking in taverns and running up bar tabs he couldn’t afford to pay. It took a great deal to get him drunk, as Sasker had always had a high tolerance for that kind of thing, so he drank a lot.
Finally, someone at one of the taverns—the third he’d been frequenting since being kicked out of the Guard, after the first two refused him service until he paid his rather large bill—mentioned that the Pit of Black Death was looking for guards.
Sasker had always loved going to the Pit as a kid, though he generally preferred the early fights, because he could get closer to the action. He hadn’t been there in a while. First he had training to deal with, and since being kicked out, he couldn’t afford it, since the arena insisted on coin up front to pay for your seat.
But his training as a soldier proved a good fit for the job of keeping an eye on the slaves between fights as a guard, plus he’d get to see the fights for free!
That last part turned out not to be true very often, as most of the guards were kept down in the dungeon area to make sure that the slaves who weren’t fighting didn’t take advantage of the chaos of the fights to try to escape. So Sasker spent a great deal of time patrolling the dungeons and escorting the fighters to the holding areas, but not actually watching the fights.
The job got really boring really fast.
It didn’t help that he didn’t get along with the other guards, because one of them was Jonas. Being last to do pull-ups was far from Jonas’s only sin as a trainee, and he was drummed out of training, but for whatever reason, Jonas decided that it was entirely Sasker’s fault. Where Sasker had taken a few months to find the job, Jonas had landed at the Pit almost immediately after being kicked out of the Guard, so he already was friends with the other guards. The moment Sasker showed up, though, Jonas poisoned the others against him, making him a pariah.
But at least they paid him. He’d settled all three bar tabs, and even started to save up his coins. He wasn’t sure what he was saving for, but it was something his mother always told him to do when he worked, so he did it.
Maybe someday he’d be able to get a better job somewhere.
“Greetings, fellow guard!” came a jolly voice from behind him as he was doing his rounds down the corridor.
Turning, Sasker saw a thri-kreen. While she wasn’t wearing a guard’s uniform—thri-kreens didn’t wear much by way of clothing—she did have a patch attached to her thorax that matched the one on Sasker’s own tunic, and those of all the others.
“I am Chrids’thrar. I just started working today. A pleasure to meet you.”
“Uh, whaddayacall—thanks. I’m Sasker.”
“Oh, yes,” Chrids’thrar said, making those weird noises that thri-kreens always made. “I’ve heard about you.”
Sasker rolled his eyes. “Talked to Jonas already, huh?”
“Yes, but I found him to be a fool, so I’m sure he was lying.”
“Wow.” Sasker was impressed. He didn’t usually get the benefit of the doubt like that.
“I hear there’s a new mul in the arena,” the thri-kreen said enthusiastically.
“Yeah, he’s, whaddayacall, in the next cubicle.”
They approached the cubicle in question, and Sasker looked inside.
The new mul was a surly sort. Sasker had heard about the bitch who owned him, who apparently was Gan’s original owner. “We got this guy and lost, whaddayacall, Gan. He was an okay guy, Gan. Liked him better than this jerk.”
The mul just glowered at Sasker, which was what he always did.
Thankfully, the mul didn’t talk. Gan talked a lot, but it was okay when he did it, because he was intelligent. Sasker had known a few muls in his day, and they were all idiots.
“Hey, after the fights tonight, come join me for a drink,” the thri-kreen said.
“We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” Sasker said dolefully. It was yet another thing he hated about the job.
“That’s why after the fights.”
“We’re still on duty.”
“Yes, but all the other guards do it.”
Sasker sighed. For the past three months his job after the fights was guard duty on the mul—prior to that, it was on Mandred, and prior to that, it was on Gorbin. He’d heard that, since he got that task, the other guards had little gatherings after the fights to eat or drink, even though they too were technically on duty. Of course, he hadn’t been invited to them. “Then I definitely shouldn’t go. I’m, whaddayacall, not welcome.”
The thri-kreen made more of those noises. “Don’t be silly. This is special wine from Yaramuke. Very rare.”
That got Sasker’s attention. He’d heard stories about the wine that they made in Yaramuke before it was destroyed, and he had been simply dying to try it.
Still, he didn’t think it would be a good idea if the others would be there. “Sorry, I gotta keep an eye on this jerk.” He indicated the mul with his thumb.
“Oh, come now. It’s a special occasion. My first day. The mul will keep.”
Again, Sasker sighed. “I’ll, whaddayacall, think about it, okay?” He had no intention of going, but at least by saying that, he’d placate the thri-kreen, who seemed like a nice sort.
Besides, he’d heard that thri-kreens were good in a fight. There hadn’t been a riot in a while, but you never knew, especially given how crazy things had been since Gorbin finally got himself killed.
The rest of the day passed in relative calm, and then Tirana posted the duty roster for the evening. Sure enough, he had guard duty on the mul after the fights ended. Everyone else had roving duty, except for Chrids’thrar, who was guarding the other main-stage fighters.
Except she wouldn’
t be—she’d be sharing drinks with the others while Sasker actually did his job.
He was tempted to talk to Tirana about what was going on, but his experiences with the Imperial Guard taught him the value of telling tales to your supervisor. He kept his mouth shut and did his job without causing problems.
Besides, it was Tirana’s job to keep track of the guards. That was the task her father had given her in the arena, so let her figure it out. It wasn’t Sasker’s problem.
The fights that night went as expected. He may have been a surly bastard, but the mul was a good fighter. His arms were scarred from previous brands that arenas had put on him and then removed. Calbit would be coming in the next day with the branding iron, at which point the mul—and two other slaves who’d come in yesterday—would get the Pit’s brand on their biceps.
Along with the mercenaries that Calbit and Jago had hired after Gan and Mandred had arrived—whom Sasker hated, as they were even stupider than the mul, though he had to admit that they were handy—Sasker escorted the mul back to his cubicle.
“You should go drinking with your friends,” the mul said as Sasker pushed him into the cubicle.
Scowling, Sasker said, “You shouldn’t, whaddayacall, listen in on other people’s conversations.”
Then the mul did something Sasker hadn’t seen him do in the two days he’d been there—he smiled.
“Trust me.”
Once the door was locked, the mercenaries all went off—they didn’t say, but Sasker bet that Chrids’thrar had invited them to drink with her too—and he was alone with the mul.
About an hour passed, and Sasker noticed that it was unusually quiet. He hadn’t noticed at first, since the time after the fights usually had a sharp reduction in noise level with the crowds having gone home. But that night was far quieter than usual. The only sound he heard was the mul snoring—he’d nodded off half an hour earlier.
“Greetings, my friend.”
Turning, Sasker saw Chrids’thrar coming down the corridor holding a flask.
“You didn’t come to drink with us.”
“Yeah, I told you it’d, whaddayacall, be a bad idea.”
“That’s too bad.” The thri-kreen was offering the flask with one of her pincers. “This is really, really good wine.”
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