by Sohan Ahmad
The first brave slave charged as the others followed behind. “Right there. A bit more to the left,” Siegfried mocked. “Yes, that’s the spot.” Once their metal had scratched the demon knight’s itch, he swatted them like flies, two at a time until the brave slave was left. “You were the only bull within the herd,” the demon knight said, inching closer to the first slave with his metal hand raised high. As the hand descended, the first slave lifted his weapon, but there was no impact. “Worry not little brother, I do not kill bulls,” Siegfried advised, his metal hand placed softly on the first slave’s shoulder.
After the voices of thousands had bellowed and calmed, out came Mazir Gara of Bovaria and Mazir Ragga of Karnasis, the only twins of Karda’s litter. They were mirror images, men of average height with squared shoulders and proud postures. Gara’s skin was fair like milk while Ragga’s caramel skin closely resembled the Father. Their champions, however, were as similar as lava and water.
Bovaria’s devil prince, Syoza Khan, was a retired squad captain from the infamous Black Haze, Karda’s most elite collection of mercenaries. Dakar had just returned to his place alongside his bastard brothers to see the devil prince remove the famed black helmet of his old order, revealing a long tail of faded blue. Eastern traitors age better than I was lead to believe. Dakar thought, staring down into the pit. Slit in the middle like the shape of a sword, the helmet left room only for the eyes to see and the nose to breathe.
“All these years and western air still tastes sweeter than home,” Syoza announced to the masses. Though his beard had rusted gray in the decades since, his prowess with the rapier and dagger had not. “Seems we’re in short supply of fresh bodies today,” Syoza sighed as archers took aim at his head. The devil prince dawned his helmet, piercing a trio of incoming arrows directly through the center. Six arrows fired next, doubling with each volley until one hundred arrows and the men that fired them lay punctured around his feet. “Karda, your archers have gotten soft!” the devil prince mocked as the Karnasis champion emerged. “Come little sister, it’s your turn to die. You’ve lived long enough.”
“If you were a real man, you would have killed me twenty years ago and taken my birthright to Mother’s seat on the Dragon Council,” retorted Zenya Khan, the queen of the damned. “Instead, you cower behind my husband’s protection. But Karda will bore of you soon and when he does, I will bring your head back home, older brother. I promise you.”
“Not if he bores of you first,” Syoza mumbled, departing with his pride pierced like the arrows on the sand.
A legend in the pits, Zenya was the only warrior among Karda’s wives, an exotic caramel beauty, sinfully curved like the silver blade on her spear. Fierce as she was seductive, she reserved her attention only for the boldest and strongest of men. Though few could live up to Karda’s standard, a pack of twenty western soldiers would do their best. “Take me my Queen,” each shouted, forgetting that she was their target.
Lust drove them mad, turning the men against each other. “Words mean nothing. Show me your worth!” their queen yelled from her demon throne, licking her lips as nineteen fell at her whim.
One man remained, bloodied to exhaustion. “My Queen,” he said, collapsing to both knees in front of her. Throwing weapon and shield aside, he kissed the sand beneath her feet. “I am yours.”
She stepped down from her seat with a seductive swagger, lifting his chin from the sand. Zenya gazed into his eyes like a cobra luring its prey. “Pathetic,” the demon queen mocked, “little men are so boring.” Walking across his back as if he were a rug made of flesh, she strutted, unsatisfied, into the tunnels as the throng cackled at the victor’s defeat.
To commemorate the court’s feats and signal the coming of their king, the following hour would be consumed with dance and visual acts of wonder. Soon, darkness would conquer the sky as the twilight hours faded and Zenya returned to the only man who had ever earned her affection. Kneeling beside Karda’s throne, she nestled her head on his lap like a pet.
Mazir Dakar approached the inner ledge with his banner in tow. Gods, let this day end swiftly, I can stomach no more. However, there was one last demon to introduce. “Lord Summer, you have feasted well this day, but we have one final meal to offer. King of demons, punish these northern infidels in the name of the Father.”
The black sky burned red with the light of Darak’s treasured rubies. Four captured captains and one notorious general from the Chronosian border guard were thrust into the pits, unharmed and well armed as the shackles on their wrists and ankles were released. Bale ascended from the catacombs with a battered young slave collapsed over his shoulder, donning his signature emerald armor, painted in the shining scarlet of Darak’s favored stone. Before entering the pits, he planted Cyrus against the column of stone nearest the iron gate. “When you open your eyes, watch closely. See how strong a slave can become.”
Too close to his Father, Dakar concealed his true feelings. Animal, if anything happens to the boy, I will. . . But it was too late for such fears. What am I saying? I am to blame for leaving Cyrus in that devil’s care. Gods, I beg of you, please watch over him and shield him from my disgrace.
A hundred thousand voices echoed from the dungeons to the crown of the Labyrinth. Cyrus revived to the pulsating sand beneath his feet and the quivering stone columns behind his head. His vision blurred as if seeing the world for the first time. Only one object appeared sharp enough to distinguish. Bale? Is this a dream? he wondered until the pain returned to his aching bones, his strained eyes realizing that it was not.
There were five men lined up as a phalanx, pressing their formation toward the shiny man in the distance. Each blurry blink painted a bleeding canvas of combat where five moved and struck as one. I’ve seen Archonis use the same patterns before; these soldiers are well trained. Cyrus knew. How will you win, my friend? he pondered, though Bale’s image remained pristine as he danced the dragon’s dance. Fluid and fierce, his silver-tipped steel appeared as a snake, devouring the four enemy captains as if they were field mice. Unbelievable.
At long last, Bale stood face to face with a veteran of war, General Maximillian Lambert, known on the fields as Grizzled Spear. However, this was not war. He stood fast in his protective posture, deflecting the Demon King’s whipping bites with a large shield of rounded bronze. Maximillian approached slowly to corner his target as traditional strategy would dictate. “This is no battlefield, General., Bale warned, spitting on such narrow-minded measures.
He circled his prey with speed, the likes of which Cyrus had never seen, spinning the seasoned general’s eyes in disarray. Bale slowed just enough for Gray Spear to thrust deep into a mirage, but the true Demon King appeared at his back, severing the tendons in his knees and shoulders. As Maximillian crumbled, Bale wrapped his steel snake around the general’s wrinkled, leathery neck and pressed his foot into the small of the old warrior’s back.
“Damn you devil,” Gray Spear grunted, helplessly clawing at the metal cord as it slowly drained him of breath.
“Your resistance is worthy of respect,” Bale said as the general’s struggle weakened with every second. “But your face will plunge into the dirt just like all the others.” And so it did.
Cyrus stared in awe, his heart beating so fast that it seemed the world had slowed to a crawl. He could no longer hear the thousands of roaring voices or see the spectacle erupting within the Labyrinth. Bale released his steel snake and retreated toward his chambers, unmoved by the songs of praise showered upon him. He walked with a measured calm, passing his young friend with a silence that spoke volumes. “Follow me,” it said, and Cyrus did just that, dragging weary legs in pursuit of a beacon within the abyss.
Chapter 19: Bound by Pride
Months before Cyrus chose his teacher in the west, Marcus was forced to study from many. How is Brother doing? he wondered as Ramses summoned him to the courtyard. Will Father tell me today if I ask it as my gift?
“Come Marcus, I have a
surprise to mark your thirteenth year,” Ramses announced. “I know it is something that you have wanted for some time.”
Can it be? “What is it Father?” the prince asked upon hurried feet.
“From the merchants to the farmers to the hunters, they all rave about how much you’ve learned in such a short time.” Ramses placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Marcus had grown into a lean young man, standing nearly his father’s height. “Even amongst the wise and seasoned members of my council, your voice carries weight,” the Cardinal said, waving his Paladin forward.
Archonis? Marcus wondered, his pounding heart slowing to catch its breath. Does he know where my brother is?
“It is one of the greatest honors of my life, Prince Marcus,” Archonis said, presenting a case, painted in the patterns of his order. “Please open it, My Prince.”
Marcus ran his fingers along the velvet surface like the cover of his favorite book. The cold touch of metal latches begged him to open it. “Well, what do you think?” his father asked.
“It’s wonderful,” Marcus replied, lifting a jeweled blade from within the case. Squeezing the curved, snakeskin grip felt like a dream in his hands as he sliced through the air, killing all thoughts of his slave brother in the process. His smile shined wide underneath strawberry strands that ripened into a deep auburn red like the sun rising from the sea.
Before that moment, his days had bulged from the blue sun to the black moon as the most elite Isirian tutors flocked to the Silent Cathedral to teach the young Snake how to become a Viper. “You are finally ready, my son,” Ramses advised. “I leave the rest to Archonis.”
“Your Holiness,” the Paladin saluted. “Raise your blade, My Prince,” he said, unsheathing his own.
“Like this?” Marcus asked, lifting it with two hands, the blade reflecting his steady eyes.
“Not quite,” the Paladin responded. “That is the northern way.” He angled his body to the side with one hand behind his back and the other aiming his steel like an outstretched hand. “Our way is to control, both yourself and your enemy,” Archonis said, thrusting without warning. The prince turned his blade wide to absorb the attack, but a turn of the Paladin’s wrist erased his guard. “Courageous of you to stand and defend, but now you are dead,” Archonis warned, tapping the tip of his blade against the prince’s chest.
“I wasn’t ready,” Marcus barked with pouted lips. “If I know you’re going to attack, I can stop it. Do it again.”
“The enemy will never warn you,” Archonis sighed, sweeping the boy off his feet. “But still, you must be ready,” he said, helping Marcus back to his stance. “Again.”
Marcus dusted off his shame, taking the southern stance. “You’re not my enemy,” he reminded his father’s oldest friend. “I’m coming,” he warned, thrusting his jeweled blade at the Paladin’s heart. Archonis parried, but the prince did not waiver. His thwarted thrust twisted into a slash that was blocked as well so he released his steel gift of thirteen.
“My Prince, your hand should never leave your blade,” Archonis scolded before losing sight of him.
“I didn’t,” Marcus announced, emerging with a dagger tapping the Paladin’s back. “Now you’re dead.”
Incredible. Nearby, Ramses did his best to conceal a father’s pride. He is already better than I ever was.
“I yield,” Archonis professed, “I see you’ve been studying more than maps and trade.”
“The enemy will never warn you,” Marcus reminded.
“For someone as studied as you, I am certain you know that dagger will not pierce my armor,” Archonis retorted.
“As I said, you’re not my enemy,” Marcus reminded once more, retrieving his discarded blade.
“My Prince, you will not learn such lessons from me,” the Paladin cautioned. “You are Elijah’s blood. Your enemy should see your eyes when they fall. Leave the backstabbing to the Shadows.”
First, we have to make our enemies fall. Marcus believed, though his words said otherwise, “Yes, Archonis. Please, let’s continue. I want to keep training until I can see your eyes.” And so, they did until Marcus welcomed his fourteenth year.
My Prince, you have much yet to learn. The Paladin had learned as teacher. But there is little more that I can teach. Another year, perhaps two, and you will be my equal.
Ramses, however, had no desire to wait for that moment. The crown brings more consequence than power, the kind that slits the throats of dreaming kings. Soon, Marcus would be old enough to wield power as a man. If he is to rewrite the tattered history forced upon our ancestors by the hated Snake Eater, then it is time for them to finally meet.
A mere nightfall after Marcus celebrated his fourteenth year, father took son for a short ride through the Viper’s Tail. The royal caravan consisted of a trio of cherry oak wagons, trimmed in silver, with two riders and four stout horses to each. Five men of the Serpent’s Cross guarded the front and rear, dressed in red and silver mail for all to see. “Keep your eyes open,” the Paladin commanded atop the central carriage where Ramses and his son sat.
“Has it always been like this?” Marcus asked his father, staring at cows and their masters, so famished their bones poked through skin.
“It has been this way for centuries,” Ramses answered. “But you will be the one to change all of this. I see it as do they.”
The farmers gazed with squinted eyes through glare and haze, hoping to catch a glimpse of their nation’s hope. However, Marcus trembled at the thought. Am I worthy of their pride? He asked himself, blinded by the unyielding light of Isirian faith.
It is not an easy thing to look into the eyes of a hungry crowd and smile, Ramses understood, noticing his son’s hesitation. But still, you must for their sake. “Stop the wagon.” The King of Hardship stepped out alone into the blurred sunlight, commanding the scarlet sentinels to keep their distance as he addressed his heir. “Fear does not exist solely in the field of swords and spears. The crown grants you their grains and beef, but you must win their love.”
“Father, wait! You can’t go by yourself,” Marcus whispered as loud as his breath would allow. Archonis heard, but he and his men stood back as ordered.
“Elijah’s blood should wait for no one, my son,” Ramses advised. That is what your mother would tell me whenever I was afraid. In her absence, he did his best to both mother and father, but he no longer had an equal to protect him against his faults. Nevertheless, the change returned to him the luster of his once youthful, vanilla skin. The beard on his jaw grew wild and free, more crimson than ash. And his crown of snakes felt lighter than it ever had, as did his feet.
Ramses approached the peasant crowd with a godlike glow, appearing thrice as large as he truly was. Man, woman, and child fell to their knees in worship as if he was father of all creation. Even cows and pigs lowered their gaze in awe. “On your feet, my children,” he commanded without commanding. “I am the one who should kneel. You deserve better than I have been able to provide. I hear her tears each night in my dreams as the Goddess weeps for your sacrifice, but she has promised the coming of a new day.”
Ramses embraced the wrinkled, weary hands of each loyal cropper and grazer who toiled on that moist morning, lifting the spirits and edges of malnourished lips. Do they love him or his lies? Marcus wondered, observing with the greatest of care from inside the carriage. No, it’s more than that. The truth will not feed them or keep them warm at night. I suppose false hope is better to swallow than nothing at all, but my people don’t need to pray for food. The new day will be here soon, I swear it.
As his heart swelled with reverence, a shifting stalk of wheat caught his eye. Within the huddled mass, he saw the edge of a worn gray cowl swaying through the crowd like a mirage. A Shadow? He thought as instinct launched him from the wagon. Did I imagine it? he wondered, staring and searching through a hundred stems of golden grain until a child released him from his trance.
“Is My Prince hungry?” a young girl, no taller than
his waist, asked, tugging on his sleeve of scarlet snakeskin. “I have apple.”
“Child!” the girl’s mother yelled out, grabbing her by the wrist. “My Prince, I beg you to forgive. She too young, hasn’t learned our ways. I punish her, I promise.”
Goddess! Marcus gasped upon seeing the child’s pale cheeks burned near to a crisp as bruised callouses throbbed along her tiny fingers. Clumps of soil grew from beneath bloody fingernails, staining the insect-eaten potato sack that covered her. The fruit in her hands was as poorly fed as she was, if not more so. “Thank you for the apple,” he said, kneeling down to look upon the child as an equal. “I’m the one who should ask for forgiveness,” he confessed, wiping away the earth from her cheeks before embracing her like a sister.
The child stood helpless with limp arms as Ramses and the others witnessed the exchange. “Our Prince,” they murmured.
“Elijah reborn!” the others shouted.
My son! Ramses acknowledged.
As he and Marcus prepared to return to their expedition, the Isirian flock raised their arms in unison with the royal salute across their hearts and bid them farewell. “Thank you, Father,” the prince said as they trailed down the Viper’s Tail. “I needed to see that.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Ramses warned with a stroke of his beard. “But there is still much to see.”
A short while later, the caravan broke from the smooth dirt of the royal road into a fog of leaf and wood, emerging in front of a small meadow of dark grass, taller than most men. Sight was poor within the green fortress, but a stream of smoke rose from the center, smelling of roasted corn. “We continue on foot,” Ramses ordered as they disembarked toward the lure of sweet vapor.