Trial of Chains_Crimson Crossroads_Book One
Page 5
Archonis snapped his bindings and shoved two pirates aside, standing as a shield for Marcus, Isa, and Cyrus. The prince shouted for his father but could do nothing against Isa’s motherly grip. Hearing his son’s terror was too much, even for Ramses. “Bastards, stay away from them. I will have your heads!”
He struggled like a worm on a hook until four Crowned Skulls returned to the deck with an unknown set of chain-bound passengers. Something was different about them; the shiver of fear did not dance within their eyes like it did in those of the rest.
I have no choice. The subdued ruler yelled out to these silent captives, “I am the Cardinal Ramses of Isiris! I shall grant you wealth beyond your wildest dreams! All I require is the blood of these villains and the lives of my countrymen.”
One of the pirates silenced him, stomping the grime of wet leather boots to the base of his spine. Ramses nearly chopped through his own tongue, tears of rage and weakness welling within his eyes as the pace of his heart hastened. Just then, one of the chained passengers lifted his head, with eyes barely visible behind a wall of hair. “The sight of a crown bowing its head entertains me. I accept!”
The man then turned to his fellow slaves and exchanged the slightest of glances; the glint in his eyes shouted his command louder than any voice could. Despite their slender muscles, which appeared strangers to a steady meal, each man of chains exuded the ferocity of a caged beast. They nodded in acknowledgment of their orders, unleashing hell on the bloodthirsty thieves.
Without the darkness as their armor, the pirates quickly crumbled. Even with their wrists bound, the haggard and malnourished slaves rushed through the naval bandits like a pack of hungry wolves. Minutes later, as they stood atop a mound of mutilated corpses whose throats twisted with the brand of iron chains, they howled to the moon like the furry forest beasts of the East.
Many among the surviving passengers averted their eyes, repulsed by the slaves’ brutality. They whispered insults beneath their breath while they smiled and thanked their respective gods for continued life. Even Marcus was disgusted by what he saw. Is this how a warrior behaves? Where is the honor and dignity? No wonder they wear chains.
Cyrus was different. I have never seen such strength in a slave. Who are these men?
Archonis gave no weight to their savagery and rushed to the aid of his crown, cutting through his lord’s bindings. “Your Holiness, are you injured?” Ramses struggled to stand, nearly collapsing from the pain as the commander looked back over his shoulder. “Isa, Cyrus, come quickly and tend to his wounds while I find medicine.”
Marcus sprinted to his father’s side as the Paladin released the crew and begged for their assistance. “Father, Father!” he yelled as Ramses faded from consciousness.
Nearly ten minutes later, the Cardinal awoke to the touch of bandages on his cheek and forehead. His sight blurred like that of a drunkard. “What happened? Where is my son?” he asked as he struggled to rise.
Marcus embraced his father. “I am here. We are unharmed. Please rest.”
Ramses squeezed as hard as his weary arms would allow. “Thank the Serpent,” he uttered before moving the boy aside to see his Paladin kneeling. “Rise and help me to my feet. I will not lay weak and helpless forever.”
Archonis obliged, lending his shoulder for the Cardinal’s support while Marcus served as a crutch. Ramses bore witness to the remains of the Crowned Skulls, dead to the last man. “Did those slaves do this?”
“Yes, my lord,” Archonis answered with head low, the hanging strands of silver doing little to mask his shame.
“Raise your head, old friend. The fault is mine,” Ramses advised. “I should have listened to your counsel. Take me to them, I would have words.” The burden of a Paladin’s guilt was not so easily lifted, yet damaged pride did not hinder his steps as he guided his crown to the center mast where the slaves awaited.
Cyrus sat nearby, behind crates stacked so high they shielded their saviors from his stares until his father arrived. What does Master want with them now?
Though Ramses still limped atop battered bones, he refused his commander’s helping hand in front of the slaves who saved their lives. “It seems that I am in your debt. What are you called?”
The slave’s answer was devoid of haste. “I am Bale.” Cooled by the water from his cup, his eyes still hid behind strands of blue.
Ramses continued, “Your skills are quite effective.” If not distasteful. “Why does a slave have such knowledge of combat?” he asked.
Still measured, his second answer reeked of heat. “Blood and sand, my lord.”
The Cardinal raised a brow. “Why is a gladiator of such obvious skill not known to me? Who are you?”
Bale smirked and raised his bound wrists, “I am a slave.”
Archonis drew his blade in anger and rested it under the gladiator’s chin. “Insolent cur, you will answer His Holiness.”
From behind where Cyrus gazed, a frantic pitch scampered forth to interrupt them. “Apologies my lord. These men are little more than animals.” The voice belonged to a short weasel of a man; patches of thin strands lined his balding head like a ring. “My name is Tarkin Kish; I am transporting these men to the great arenas of the West. Should you have business with these dogs, I am prepared to offer quite the discount.”
The Paladin scoffed, “I know of your name, Smuggler.” He turned to his liege. “This man cannot be trusted.”
Ramses agreed. “Leave my sight, Kish. My business does not concern you.” The smuggler stepped forward to argue his position, but Archonis hindered his advance with a boot to the rear, sending him off in a scurry. “Bale, I am a man of my word. We owe our lives to you and your men. Name your reward, and I will see it done.”
The gladiator’s eyes perked up. He whispered with his comrades for a brief moment before answering. “One feathered pillow in each of our cells along with a barrel of wine, and the debt is paid.”
Ramses nearly toppled backward. I was ready to buy their freedom. A thought he kept to himself, but still, he had to ask, “Are you absolutely certain? This opportunity will not present itself again, at least not from me.”
Bale understood the weight of such words. “What is the point of freedom when all we know is combat and death? As a gladiator, I am showered with glory, coin, women, and booze. What more could a man ask for, besides refreshment and a soft pillow to truly enjoy the taste of victory?”
The response impressed more than just the Cardinal. Before Ramses could even confirm agreement, Cyrus had procured the pillows for their savior. The cushions were stacked high in front of his face obstructing his vision, but he did not need to see the man. Bale’s image was burned into the young slave’s pupils, as clear as the feathers that tickled his skin. Ramses did not punish his bastard’s impatience, instead offering a stern gaze in warning.
Cyrus lowered his head with a whisper, “Apologies, Your Holiness.”
Ramses offered a few more words to his captive savior. “Then the debt is paid. Should you ever bore of the western Pits, Isirian arenas can use a man like you.”
To which Bale responded, “If I am still alive when the time comes, I may consider it.”
“Then may the Divine Serpent keep you.”
“Keep your gods.” Bale’s words bathed within a wad of spit that hit the deck. “I will keep myself.”
Cyrus slipped a peak through the black that dangled from his head. Does he fear nothing?
Archonis would not allow such an insult. “Mind your tongue, Beast,” he warned, smacking the gladiator with the back of his silver gauntlet.
“That is enough old friend,” the Cardinal advised. “Your breath is wasted. Leave him to his feathers and wine.”
“Your Holiness,” Archonis responded with the royal salute, taking Ramses by the hand as he turned to Cyrus. “Come child. His Holiness needs his rest.”
They are not beasts. They are men. Cyrus wished he could say as he unclenched his fist. “Yes, Archonis.�
� But his tongue was not so bold, following behind his master as the surviving crew dumped the mangled corpses of Skull Kings into the Scarlet Sea. Afterwards, Bale and his brother slaves would return below deck for gladiators were still slaves that belonged in their cages.
Later that night, Cyrus was the only one among his countrymen and women who could not sleep. I need to speak to them. He until the others shut their eyes before venturing below to the bowels of the ship. I can’t let them notice me, not yet. Cyrus chased after the gladiators with a nervous focus, his senses heightened to avoid detection as he passed from floor to floor like smoke.
Finally, on the deck just above the last, where the grains were held, he found them. What does one say to men bold enough to reject freedom? Cyrus’s bold spirit turned to ice at the sight of them. He chose to keep his distance, observing from within the shadows of a ceiling grate.
Bale grinned within his mask of hair. Curious lad. “Boy, if you wish to gawk at us, that is your business, but do so in the light.” The other slaves turned their heads in confusion as Bale laughed. “You call yourselves gladiators, with such poor instincts? If this boy was an enemy, you three would be dead.”
His comrades were as embarrassed as the boy, who could barely muster the courage to move. Bale called out once more, “Relax, boy, you have no need to fear us. No harm will befall you upon my watch, you have my word.”
Cyrus’s every step towards their cages was measured. “Apologies for the rudeness, my name is Cyrus, and I serve the royal family of Isiris.” Until caution no longer seemed necessary. “The others won’t say it, but I admire you a great deal. Thank you for saving us.”
Bale approached the bars, his breath reeking of hot wine. “Do you take me for a fool, boy?”
The young slave hesitated. How does he know?
Bale rattled the iron that locked him. “I asked you a question, Boy!”
Cyrus fell back onto the damp floor, but it loosened his tongue. “No!” he answered.
“You are more dishonest than you appear,” Bale mocked as he cooled his tone. “I am not so easily deceived by pretty words. Not anymore.” He took another sip from his barrel of wine. “If you have something honest to say, be a man and say it. Lies are not welcome here, even if they come from frightened children.”
The young slave’s fear was swallowed whole by pride. “I may be a child, but I am not afraid!”
Bale laughed, “That is more like it.” Amused by his bold tone, he asked, “But if it is not fear that guides you, then what is it? I say it once more. Speak honestly.”
Cyrus’s nerves were tight and his palms moist, but once the first word broke. “My master offered any reward of your choosing.” His soul spoke true like a reflection in the purest piece of glass. “Why do you still wear chains?”
The gladiator raised a curious brow inside the wall of blue hair. “I already told your master my reasons. I know you were there, so you should already—”
Cyrus clutched at the bars of iron that separated them, his eyes as clear as green could be. “You said no lies! I also want the truth . . . I need the truth.”
Chapter 6: Lost Eyes
The Shadow unsheathed his blade, sniffing the air as bloodstained twigs scattered around him. Fire? He raised his guard and tracked the trail of wet blood through the scent of roasted meat. The traces of red began to wane, but the burning embers were finally in sight. What a shame Sebastian. I’ll be killing another because of you. Skulking in the darkness, his face twisted with a lustful grin.
There Sebastian was, resting near the open flame with his head wrapped in bandages. Another sat beside him on a fallen log, dressed in a suit of chainmail and red linen, rubbing his hands together against the fire’s warm glow. Before the Shadow took another step, the wanderer called out to him, “Your bloodlust betrays you. Come into the light.”
The Shadow paused. Impossible! he thought with a fierce frown, stepping out of the darkness to see the olive-skinned wanderer. That’s soldier’s armor. “Hand the boy to me, and I’ll spare your life, vagrant.”
Below curls of dark hair, his chiseled cheeks brimmed with light within the fire’s glow. “What will you do with him?” he asked.
The Shadow’s sword arm twitched against his hip. “My business is mine. I’ll not ask again,” the Shadow claimed as he drew his blade.
Finally, the wanderer rose, taking is place in front of the sleeping boy. “The perfume of a woman’s blood surrounds your blade, and you seek this child’s life. Is your honor so cheap?”
Insults transformed the Shadow into a man with nerves pulsing along his forehead. He aimed his blade at the wanderer’s throat. “Save the lecture for maggots.”
“Not here,” the wanderer said, lifting his sheathed blade from the dirt. “I do not wish to wake the boy.”
They walked in step towards a clearing within the trees until the Shadow would walk no further. “Enough,” he commanded. “Before you die, state your name. I’ll bury it along with your corpse.”
The wanderer’s breath was steady. “Zephyrus Lenalo.”
For a moment, the Shadow froze, stiff as aged bark. “Did you think you’d frighten me?” He asked, though the tremor in his voice did not go unnoticed. “Zephyrus, God of Wind, is the mightiest of the famed Sword Saints. You expect me to believe a man without equal throughout all the four kingdoms lives amongst trees like a beggar.” The wanderer said nothing so the Shadow continued, “You know of the Wind. Then you must know Nero Dessari as well.” The wanderer remained silent. “Fool, I am the Hazy Blade, swifter than any man’s sight.”
Finally, the wanderer responded, “A Shadow with a famous name?” He asked, shaking his head. “You must be the first.”
Nero sliced the air clean, aiming the tip of his blade at the wanderer’s throat. “Insolent dog! You use a name that is beyond you and dare to spit on mine. Draw your sword, beggar!” Still, the wanderer refused. “Then Die.” Nero leaped forward with a furious assault. His combination of slashes and thrusts danced within the darkness like wisps of steel light. Yet the wanderer swayed his head from side to side, evading each strike by a hair’s breadth.
The Shadow continued his charge, but he could not force his opponent to unclip his scabbard. Nero paused for a moment. “I must admit you have some skill.” His ragged breath calmed with every word. “But it seems your only skill is running, coward.”
The wanderer raised a furled brow. “Your words appear sharper than your blade, woman killer. No need to hold back, show me how dangerous a hazy blade can be.”
“Big words for a coward?” replied Nero. “Consider yourself the most honored beggar to ever live. I’ll show you the terror that countless others have faced. You can share your tale of ignorance when you see them within the bosom of the Earthly Mother.”
The Hazy Blade coiled atop his knees, cool night air filling his lungs as he unleashed his fury. His arm appeared a whip, blurring the blade’s original form into shades of ash gray as it twisted and lashed out like a snapping cobra. He swung down across his opponent’s body, and as the wanderer stepped back, Nero transitioned his first slash into a sharp counterthrust aimed at his opponent’s throat. The sound of splinters concluded the exchange. Impossible! Nero could not believe his eyes. He stopped every attack with nothing but his damn sheath? The wanderer brought a second hand to the clip of his scabbard as Nero realized, Shit, I’m stuck. Nero pulled with all his might, but his hazy blade was lodged deep within the belly of a nearby oak.
As the sweat oozed from his frantic fingers, the wanderer spoke. “I have fought many swordsmen who claimed speed as their ally; many who boasted that their blade was faster than all others. Most men do not live up to the titles they hold, but among my opponents were three who deserved such praise.”
Nero’s heart beat faster with every word. Damn tree.
“One was a former western Saint from your capital. I assume you know the name, Jorden Heat-Cleaver. His blade was faster than all but two I have ev
er faced, and you have no doubt heard, he now rests within the Earthly Mother.”
Nero’s heart beat even faster. That was nearly ten years ago. He killed Jorden? Lies! I won’t believe it.
“The second fastest was the first Ghost of Isiris, although to simply call him fast would be an insult. Hesitation was death, and thankfully, I yet live. Few knew his name, but I will not disgrace him by sharing it with you.”
Nero’s heart pounded like a stampede of oxen. The Ghost of Isiris is an old tale told to scare the boys who have yet to become Shadows. More lies. They must be.
“The swiftest blade I ever faced was Jakar Saraya who wielded two. He is the Storm, patron Saint of the East. Sight was a weakness and speed no longer deserved the name. When I compare your blade to theirs, it is like comparing a child to a god.”
Nero finally freed his sword from oak, staggering back atop shaky feet. The wanderer held his sheath beside his hip, all weight shifted to his hind leg. As they stared at one another, the wanderer noticed the slightest tremor in Nero’s black eyes while his were as unwavering as steel. A leaf fell from the punctured oak. Before it hit the dirt, there was a flash, but absent was the clang of clashing steel.
The olive-skinned wanderer was the first to speak. “My blade was not swift enough to blind, but I doubt your eyes could follow its path.”
Nero’s face was pale and his eyes faint as he asked once more, “Who are you? Why do I feel the wind so clearly?” The wanderer would not answer a second time, but Nero remembered, finally grasping the weight of his ignorance. Blood trickled down his tunic like tears of joy. Clinging to what little life he had left, he uttered, “It was an honor to die by your hands.” The Shadow scattered to dust, his mind broken long before his body’s swift descent.