by Sohan Ahmad
“Thank you,” Cyrus nodded as the Devil Horns bellowed one last time that day to conclude the games. Throngs of Darakans spilled from the Labyrinth onto the streets like a river into the ocean. Cyrus returned with the Mazir to his estate as hours slipped into dusk and the sun-scorched morning gave way to a frigid evening. Watch over my soul, Mother. Protect it from the darkness I seek. The boy prayed, gazing upon the few specks of starlight that kept the black sky at bay. I can’t find a heaven on earth, so I’ll make one in the pits.
One month passed as the three hundred days of western summer reached their end. The West frightened spring and laughed at autumn, but a brief and intense winter would soon follow. Cyrus maintained his resolve, waiting patiently until finally, the subtle thud of opportunity knocked. “To celebrate the Summer Terminus and to honor the one-year anniversary of Bale’s reign as champion, a great tournament will be held in the Labyrinth,” Dakar announced.
As the breath of winter slowly chilled the light of day into the black of night, massive stone monuments of Bale’s victory over the former devil king, Sabretooth Gozra, were erected to surround the colossal coliseum. Thousands upon thousands from throughout the Radink Alliance arrived at the capital on the promised day as merchants and traders of every sort filled the alleys and street corners. The city buzzed with the six dialects of the Alliance. Cured meats, inferno peppers, and shriveled fruits danced across the bumps of salivating tongues as exotic roses, which bloomed only within the fires of the great desserts, perfumed the air with their intoxicating aromas. Lanistas from every corner of Colossea strolled toward the grandiose arena, whispering promises to city nobles in hopes of securing patronage in the games.
Most notable of all, however, was that the Six gathered in one place for the first time in years. An entrance was designated for each of the city states: Zirque, Taurus, Dorosa, Bovaria, Karnasis, and Darak. The Mazirs lorded over their respective territories, but Westerners were a rowdy breed. When the Father’s bells rang, the scattered mass of Westerners flooded the Labyrinth as a wave. The trampling claimed hundreds of lives before a blade ever saw the light of day. And yet there were no tears for the fallen, for survival was the only price of admission.
The Summer Terminus was the greatest spectacle in all the four kingdoms, its pageantry matched only by its savagery. In the pits sat the Devil’s Court, each member atop their respective thrones: King, Queen, Prince, Knight, and Executioner. The position of Jester remained unclaimed, so Voldo’s headless corpse slumped loosely on his seat as streams of hellfire shot from the sands to enclose the demons within an amber cage.
Each throne was crafted with the finest gem from its champion’s state: amethyst for Zirque, sapphire for Taurus, topaz for Dorosa, jade for Bovaria, and onyx for Karnasis. Meanwhile, the capital’s perch shone like a thousand rubies, befitting a blood god.
Drummers surrounded the perimeter, beating to the screams and howls of nearly one hundred thousand as the Devil Horns bellowed their dark rhythms, adding further to the palpable bloodlust. Acrobats thrilled the crowd, leaping across the ring of flame. Dancers seduced the men and women with their erotic contortions, drawing out their most carnal desires. Beast masters rode atop their wild mammoths, lions, and stallions in death-defying patterns throughout the pit. The spectacle continued for hours, fanning the throng’s fire until the Father finally emerged.
Karda rose from his bronze-and-ruby-horned throne atop the apex of the Labyrinth, stepping to the very edge of his heavenly tower as fierce winds swirled around him. “Silence!” the Father roared at his clamoring children, so loud that it cleaved the sea of clouds. “Winter beckons, but before the white returns, we shall scorch the earth with a searing storm of blood!” Waves of vociferous thunder burst up like volcanic ash as he raised Moon Eater, his twin-bladed ax, toward the champions. “Kings of hell, lord Tyrant yearns for battle. Feed the War God until he chokes on flesh and steel!” Karda and his flock chanted the appellation of chaos divine until the Devil Horns thundered once more.
Just below the war chief’s vantage, a sickly man approached the inner ledge with an amethyst-colored flag. His withered head seemed devoid of all but a few strands of thinning hair while a crooked spine stood within blotchy brown skin and a silk robe of pale violet. “People of Zirque, Mazir Ra requires a demon. Our savage Father offers fresh meat to fill his ranks,” the ragged man stated, removing a piece of fabric from his garb. “Who shall wear my Jester’s crown?” he shouted as a gust of wind released the leather mask toward the sands.
Lord Ra was the youngest of Karda’s bastards and frailest among the Six, but as he waved his flag high, bursts of violet light shot forth into the sky, illuminating the sands in its purple hue. Soon thereafter, the pits emptied and several gates opened. Disoriented slaves, armed with all manner of blades and bludgeons, entered from the tunnels. The first lifted the Jester’s mask from the ground as the Mazir declared, “Ra sees too many devils.” A rusted edge of metal wedged deep into the back of the holder’s skull as Voldo’s former crown returned to the dirt. “Zirque has need of but one.”
Beyond the crimson chaos swirling in the pits, Dakar and Cyrus slipped away to venture deep within the catacombs. Dust crumbled down from the ceiling, and blood trickled through its cracks as the tunnels shivered from the violence above. With each step, the light of their torches flickered in fear of the darkness surrounding them.
They traversed the hallways serenaded by the sweaty moans of doomed souls who leered from between bars of iron. The inner catacombs were like the rings of hell, leading them further from morality with each step. Light that once flickered wavered feverishly, screaming in terror before being swallowed into the abyss.
“I am frightened,” whispered the young slave.
“Stay close, Cyrus,” Dakar warned.
Then, out of the black, a door of light creaked open. “Your clumsy footsteps disturb my peace,” the voice from within called out. The pair’s steps trembled into the unknown gateway, but instead of the lust and violence that awaited above, they found carefully arranged hives of scrolls that contained literature and history from throughout the four kingdoms. “What business does Karda’s bastard have with the king of demons?” Asked the man, one eye gleaming from behind a long mane of blue, tinted gray. In his right hand, a feathered pen dripped with fresh ink, gracefully gliding over two scraps of parchment. “Speak of be gone!”
Cyrus appeared from within Dakar’s quivering silhouette. “Mazir Dakar has none,” he said, gazing through the wall of hair, “but I do.”
“You hide well,” Bale said, stopping his pen stroke upon hearing the boy’s voice. “Step into the light, child of shadows, and say what you mean.”
“Your brothers can rest in peace,” Cyrus said, exposing himself to the glow of a dozen lanterns. “The Betrayer has returned to the Earthly Mother!”
Who is this Betrayer? Dakar wondered, still a shaking shield in front of the boy.
Bale’s hands froze, releasing the feathered quill to brush away the silver and blue strands that obstructed sight. “Dakar, leave this child with me and return to your people.”
“I will not leave without the boy,” the Mazir replied, gritting his chattering teeth. “He is under my protection.”
Rising from his bed of embroidered cushions, the king of demons cast aside the small wooden table at his feet. “You reek of fear!” Within a blink of an eye, Dakar was lifted off his feet. “You can’t even protect yourself,” Bale whispered into the Mazir’s ear with hands wrapped around his throat.
“Stop it Bale!” Cyrus cried out, tugging on the champion’s sleeve of ebon linen. “He’s my friend too.”
“Gratitude for the child,” Bale groaned, releasing his ravenous grip, finger by finger. “But Cyrus will stay with me. Now, vanish and never return to the halls of hell.”
“Lord Bale, you ask the impossible,” Dakar replied, his throat still throbbing against his voice. “Death lingers in every breath you take. An innocent li
ke him does not belong here.”
The champion’s fingers clenched against his palm as Cyrus placed a hand on his reddening knuckles. “Mazir, you have given more than I deserve to have,” he said, staring at the unseen scars that were etched into his hands. “But I still smell the blood on my fingers. Lord Death loves me as much as I hate him, I see that now. There’s no other place where I can belong.”
“Brave boy,” Dakar replied, shedding a tear as he knelt to embrace Cyrus. “One day you shall understand that nothing true can be gained from killing. However, since I could not provide the home you seek, I will pray to the heavens for freedom and to your mother for forgiveness.” The Mazir kissed Cyrus on the forehead. “Do not fail him Bale,” he warned Bale before fading back into the darkness of the pit cells.
“Damn the gods, but I pray for your mother’s forgiveness as well,” the champion said, seeing an all too familiar dark shimmer in the boy’s eyes. “I never told you she reminded me of my own.” He handed Cyrus a seekar, sharing a moment of silence as pillows of smoke perfumed the chamber, both hoping that the hot clouds would carry their heartfelt thoughts through the ceiling and into the stars above.
The king of demons seemed human once again, a great burden lifting from his shoulders with their reunion. “Come and relax, little brother,” he said, collapsing onto his garden of plush and feathered comforts. “My home is yours,” Bale said, presenting Cyrus with a platter of pungent cheeses, flaky breads, and purple grapes.
He can change so easily from killer to man. Cyrus wondered as he took a seat beside his old friend. “Apologies, my stomach feels uneasy here.” I need to learn. “I never expected such a soft cage for a mountain wolf.”
“It has been too long since I have heard the old names,” Bale replied, nearly spitting out his wine in laughter. “With no pack to call home, I have discarded fangs for horns.” He tossed the platter of treats aside and confessed, “If shackles are my fate, I may as well dress them with feathers and silks.”
“Should I refer to you as King Bale then?” Cyrus said with a half-mocking chuckle.
“Do as you please,” the fancy devil answered, spitting a grape seed to the floor. “Names and titles hold no meaning to the damned.” The blue strands that pulled back, returned to shroud his face as he leaned forward. “Speaking of titles. Are you certain the Betrayer feeds the worms? He shared my irritating talent for survival.”
Silence overtook the boy. “Trust the tremble in my hands if you can’t trust my words,” Cyrus answered, his bones still shivering to the old wounds of his memory.
Did I look like that the first time I ended a life? Bale wondered, combing through his own past. I hardly remember. “Fool,” he scolded, “your stupidity must have dumbfounded the reaper. Why risk your life for mine?”
Cyrus lifted his head, his eyes so clear they reflected the tragedies that had befallen him since their parting. “I didn’t do it for you.”
Our defiled mothers die, and we live on, covered in blood. Bale sat still, listening as the boy’s words bore through the wall of minted smoke between them. The gods are cruel to make another walk my path.
“Enough, Cyrus,” he said. “You deserve an apology, but you’ll hear none.” Then and there, the champion inscribed a new chapter into his legacy. “Your first lesson, boy: None deserve to live, but all shall die.” He placed his hand, hardened like stone, upon the boy’s shoulder. “Become strong, and if Lord Death still finds you a fool, you’ll enjoy what little time is granted to you.”
“My father told me that slaves were power, but I still don’t understand,” Cyrus said, clutching the champion’s hand with his. “Please tell me! What strength can a slave have?”
Bale pulled his hand free, turning his back to Cyrus. “A slave can do nothing.” He stared at callouses older than the boy and scars that never seemed to heal. “A man, however, can achieve miracles if he battles each day like it was his last.”
Forgive me, mother of Cyrus. Bale clenched his fists tight and struck the boy’s gut. Cyrus collapsed to his knees, choking on the air that remained trapped in his lungs. With eyes ablaze, he gazed up at Bale, who laughed. “Good to see your soul’s not as frail as your body.” The king of demons swaggered past him, yanking him by the collar toward a lantern with no light. “As a reward for burying the Betrayer, I’ll forge you into a hand of death, though you may not enjoy my method,” Bale warned, turning the empty lantern’s handle until a cellar revealed itself.
Chapter 18: The Devil’s Court
Above ground, the battle royal for the Jester’s seat concluded as an unnamed gladiator remained standing, surrounded by a sea of blood. A mask of iron enclosed his face, concealing the color of his eyes behind its shade. He was as tall as two men yet slender like an acrobat. Many armaments lay shattered near his feet while a blackened dire mace, the child of a cudgel and quarterstaff, rested firmly in his grip. “Blood Hammer!” shouted the masses as two sentries arrived to drag the collapsed gladiator toward his new home in the Jester’s quarters.
Beneath the Father’s throne, another man approached the edge while a swarm of slaves tended to the sands, removing corpses and their waste. Tallest of Karda’s bastards, Mazir Gar of Taurus resembled a man-sized vulture, with his shoulders arched back and high like wings. Golden rings swallowed his neck, stretching it so he could look down on his people. Gar could not be bothered to carry his own banner; his personal dwarf waved it in his stead. Blue, like a sapphire’s light, it signaled for the Executioner, and out of the depths of the catacombs emerged a monster with the eyes of a man.
The creature was as large as a mounted horseman, with skin as black as tar. Heavy breaths seeped from the nostrils of his bovine headdress. His hands appeared as magma-forged rock, powerful enough to wield an obsidian battle ax as broad as he was. Little more than a loincloth covered Malachai and it drove the female observers into a lust that made the men beside them shrivel.
From within the opposing gate entered three men: a thief, a murderer, and a deserter. “Keep your lives for five minutes inside the cage,” Gar offered these criminals, slated for the ax, “and your sins shall be forgiven.” Massive walls of iron bars rose from below the sands, forming the stage for their public trial.
The deserter was the first argue his case, armed with a short spear and shield as his defense. A coward by nature, the deserter imagined he stood on the tongue of a vicious beast, surrounded by fangs that could snap at any moment. Across from him, Malachai stood back, grinding his ax against the bars to conduct a symphony of horror. He inched toward the prisoner, dragging his blade in the sand as slow, heavy breaths escaped his wide nostrils. “I don’t want to die!” the deserter cried, discarding his defense to pull at iron bars instead. “Please!” he begged. “I won’t run again, I promise.” Before long, the monster’s broad blade of black released. Sadly, only the deserter’s head had fled the cage as two slaves dragged the remains of his corpse to the refuse pile, streaking the sand red for the next contestant to see.
The murderer’s mind had been touched from birth. “Demons all around me. You won’t take me to the Pits, I’ll kill you all.” Men, women, and children appeared the same, but unfortunately for him, Malachai was the only demon that was real. The murderer attacked with a butcher’s sharpest edge in each hand, but thick hairs knotted atop the Executioner’s leathery skin acted as chain mail to snap the blades in half. Few understood Malachai’s foreign grunts, but when his nostrils twitched at the smell of his own blood, translation was unnecessary. The murderer’s eyes no longer saw demons. They saw only the black tips of thumb skin until they no longer saw anything at all. Malachai tossed the mangled carcass over the iron cage, sliding his tongue across the blood on his lips for all to see.
Finally, the hooded thief remained; he was little older than Cyrus. A dagger was offered, yet he declined. Instead, he skulked about the inner walls of iron on the tips of his toes, coating himself in the armor of silence. His heart beat with the stillness of s
ummer air and his breaths were like whispers, concealed within the vibrations of dust around them.
But Malachai would not stay idle forever. With each step, his giant ax lashed out side to side, nearly grazing the bars that surrounded them. His blade hungered, but it could not eat. The thief was too agile, moving between the sweeping obsidian edge with a swan’s grace as the dance ensued until a feather was taken.
Searing hot blood escaped from a graze on the young thief’s arm, wafting into thick, black nostrils that sniffed like eyes blinked. “I see now,” Malachai growled what few words he knew in the common tongue.
“Father,” the thief whispered, his eyes frozen shut by the sight of Malachai’s stampede. Why did you have to go to war? He wondered, waiting for the giant ax to take him.
“Congratulations!” Mazir Gar shouted. When the thief opened his eyes, cold lips of bloodied obsidian kissed the tips of his lashes. “You have survived and earned release, young peasant,” Gar announced.
Malachai’s nostrils swallowed the boy’s scent. “I remember,” he groaned before retreating to his dungeon home within the catacombs.
“Father,” the thief sighed. “I did not die,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. I need you to do the same. From within the cheering masses, the faint sparkle of crimson eyes reminded him of the hell he just survived. I must return home before Mother discovers I’m gone.
Once the thief had gone, the pit cleared once more, and the tournament continued to feed the bloodthirsty hordes. Mazir Rag of Dorosa stood the height and width of two barrels, summoning Siegfried, the demon knight. A captain within the alliance’s heavy armor battalion, he stood nearly as tall as Malachai when clad in his suite of scorched iron. “Come at me all together!” he taunted the twenty-five slave warriors that faced him. “Are you calves or BULLS?” Siegfried asked, discarding his six-foot-long tower shield and pole-axe to the sands. “Now, come at me all together before I change my mind!” he shouted, his arms wide open for embrace.