“All right,” he nodded. “We will try. But we have to hurry.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Arena was past the massive doors and down another long, sloping tunnel. When we came to it, I was astounded by its sheer size.
It looked like a crater dug underground. It was a circular space surrounded by rows upon rows of old, wooden benches. I stared in wonder at how many people must be able to fit in those seats. Thousands. Tens of thousands.
Blackstone led our team of horses around while I sat in the back of the wagon. I hated feeling so useless, but riding was much faster for me than walking.
The barrels surrounded me. We took a path that wound below the structure of the Arena. Blackstone said he knew about it from his time here. It was a maintenance path, running underneath the enormous structure. Down there, I could see all the planks of wood that made up the Arena’s base.
He knew the six spots where he wanted to plant the explosives. We rode around, circling the outer rim. Once every forty planks, Blackstone would stop and deposit a barrel against a massive vertical pillar. He bound it tight with a heavy rope, and we continued on.
In time, all six barrels were in position. By some stroke of luck, we did not come across another person during our entire escapade. Blackstone had me keep watch, armed with a new set of throwing knives. He told me to kill on sight.
I suspected it was just his way of making me feel useful. He undoubtedly planned the route beforehand so that we wouldn’t encounter anyone.
At some point, I heard whimpering below us. I looked at the ledge where the floor met the wall, and saw small air ducts leaving little gaps in the wood.
“The slavers keep the children even deeper,” Blackstone said when he noticed me looking. “They’re left in separate pens before the fights. I lived it.”
A shiver ran down my spine. If not for that miraculous rescue, I would have died down there long ago.
An uncomfortable thought occurred to me. “Tonight,” I said, “if all goes according to plan… what happens to the fighters?”
Blackstone did not look at me when he answered. “They will burn.”
I sputtered. “What?”
“We cannot save the ones already taken. Their fate has been decided. All we can do is save others from a similar existence.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
He sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. But even if we could save them, Dagan—and we cannot—where would they go? What would happen to them after? They would die on the streets. They are nearly feral. Their humanity has been stripped from them. They will not survive.”
“They will have a chance!” I said. I remembered the scared little boy I had woken up next to in the cart. “By leaving them, you condemn them to death!”
“Such is the way of the world. They would have died without us. What difference does it make if they die because of us?”
“It makes a difference,” I stated. I could not verbalize how, but I knew it did.
“There is nothing more we can do.” Something about Blackstone’s tone told me the conversation was over.
I brooded in silence as Blackstone turned the wagon back up. I was dimly aware of my leg. I was more worried about the fighters.
Blackstone said we couldn’t save them. I didn’t doubt that was the truth. But I still thought that we should at least try.
On our way up, Blackstone stopped by the two bodies I had left. He cleaned up some of the blood and arranged them in a position to make it look like their death was the result of a brawl gone bad.
“Not the most elegant solution,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”
I grunted my agreement. I was still bitter about leaving the slaves.
You see, back then, I had childish notions of honor and justice in my mind. I had seen little of the world. My moral compass had not yet been corrupted by the bitter truths of life.
Here are those truths as I know them now:
Life is hard. Life is unfair. There is no such thing as justice. To chase after it in the vain hope of attaining some metaphysical glory or feeling of self-righteousness is a fool’s errand. Things will always be bleak and cold in this world. Do not try to change that. It would be as fruitless as trying to change when the sun rises.
The weak do not survive. The strong always win. Some of those caught in the middle plod along, living off whatever scraps they might find. But it is a thin existence. When you are young you believe you can change that.
You cannot.
I have told you once before that my story will teach you the folly of being a hero. That was my life for many years. I know better, now, just the same as Blackstone knew back then.
He was a good teacher. Do not fault him for not instilling the merciless nature of the world into me at the time. He knew I would have to make my own mistakes to learn.
The first mistake I made came later that night. It cost me dearly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We’d gotten back to Blackstone’s home, and he brought me the antidote. It was a dark blue liquid in a tiny vial half the width of my pinkie.
On his request, I waited until after he’d stitched up the wound before taking it. I’d also changed out of my blood-soaked clothes.
I swallowed the potion. Blackstone told me to lie down in anticipation of the pain. To show him I was strong, I remained standing.
I waited for a few minutes. Nothing happened. I was about to suggest that maybe he’d gotten the wrong vial, when an avalanche of pain and agony crashed into me.
I staggered to the wall. The world turned white. My entire leg felt like it was on fire. No. It was more than that. It was the feeling you might experience if you were dipped into a pot of boiling water. The pain was not just isolated to my leg. It consumed my entire body.
Using every ounce of strength I had, I collected that pain and pushed it into the deepest corner of my mind. I fought as it throbbed and tried to break free. It wanted to overwhelm me.
I gritted my teeth and willed it down.
My vision returned. The sequence felt like it had lasted seconds, but when I returned to myself, I felt my shirt drenched in sweat. It must have been minutes.
I pushed off the wall. The pain wasn’t entirely gone—I could still feel a dull throb in my leg—but I had to leave that if I wanted to retain any control over the limb.
I walked toward Blackstone, who was watching me with dark, hooded eyes. My first few steps were uneven, but as I got closer, they levelled out.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked. His voice was grave.
I looked at him. “What?”
“The Flame of Souls. It is a powerful mental trick. Who taught you?”
I looked at him without comprehension. “Nobody taught me.”
“It takes many years of practice to achieve what you just did, Dagan. I have not told you about it. I will repeat myself only once. Who. Taught. You?”
I shook my head. “Nobody taught me. It’s just something I… knew.”
His eyes focused on me. “Since when? For how long? Why have you not used it before?”
“In Three-Grin’s dungeons,” I said. I thought of Alicia. “Before I could speak. I didn’t know it was something special. It was just something I did.”
“And since then?” Blackstone grilled. “Have you used it since?”
“No,” I said. “It was just a way of dealing with pain. I haven’t had to. I don’t even think I could, before I got stabbed today.”
“Come here, Dagan.” Blackstone motioned me closer. “Sit down. Let me tell you something.”
I climbed up next to him.
“The Flame of Souls is not just a way of dealing with pain. It is so much more than that. It is a way of controlling your sleeping mind. It takes years—decades—of practice to achieve what you just did.
“It is a remarkable talent. It allows you to unlock the full potential of what’s in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “Mo
st people aren’t even aware they have a sleeping mind. But it’s the most important part of you. It houses your instincts. It gives birth to your feelings. It controls the thousands of different processes that keep you alive. The ones you don’t think about, like breathing. It works in the background to form new ideas and solve problems. It is most active when you sleep.
“You know the saying, ‘sleep on it’? It has a double meaning. When you close your eyes to rest, your conscious mind is suppressed. It takes a step back and allows the sleeping mind to come forward. That is why you dream. That is why sleep is so important. It seals new memories. It strengthens old ones. It helps you learn the things you practiced that day.
“When you sleep on a problem, you allow that part of you to function unabated. The sleeping mind does not compete. It churns away in the background, and floats to the surface only when you rest.
“Everyone’s mind is capable of astounding feats. Most of those—intuition, common sense, problem solving, self-discovery—come from the sleeping mind. It is also where your reservoir of magic exists.”
Blackstone exhaled. “If magic still remained in our world in full force, I believe you would have had the potential to become the greatest sorcerer of our time. If you stumbled upon the Flame of Souls by yourself, when you were no more than a babe... well, it’s fascinating to think of the things you could have achieved if you were born in a different age.”
He glanced at me. “Don’t let that go to your head. The Flame of Souls is an impressive achievement. But it is also dangerous. It grants you access to the parts of your mind that are usually locked off. Things like breathing. Your heartbeat. Pain tolerance.
“I am warning you of the dangers now, Dagan. Do you remember the rings I drew once? I would have spoken to you about the Flame only after you have reached the fifth level. Even then, it would have likely been too early. But I know that you already show great promise.
“If you have control over such functions of your body, you can easily abuse them. Do you want to feign death? Enter the Flame of Souls and stop your heart while an enemy checks your pulse. Want to hold your breath under water? Enter the Flame of Souls and delay your need to breathe.
“But it is only a mental thing, Dagan. Your brain still needs blood. Your lungs still need air. Through the Flame of Souls, you control the process of achieving those things, but you cannot change your physical need for them.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? You must be very careful. The Flame of Souls allows you unparalleled control over your body. You can dull the senses in your arm and dip it into boiling oil. Will you feel pain? No. Will you hand be ruined? Yes.”
I understood the dangers. They were the same ones I suspected when Blackstone started to speak. “Are you saying I shouldn’t use it, then?” I asked. “Ever?”
Blackstone shook his head. “No. It is a gift. To deny it would be madness. Just be aware that while the Flame of Souls might make you feel invincible, you are still as human as the rest of us.”
“I will,” I nodded.
“Good,” Blackstone replied. He flashed a grin. “But with this new revelation, I am confident that we can achieve everything we want tonight.”
Chapter Thirty
Blackstone told me the rest of the plan on our way there.
The Arena was divided into three levels. The spectator suites were on the upper ring. The richest and most revered patrons had the privilege of watching from there. Three-Grin, along with the other slavers, would be the guests of honor tonight.
The second level was comprised of all the benches I had seen circling the fighting ground. There, some twenty-odd-thousand people would sit and cheer.
The third and final level made up the pens where the fighters were kept. Blackstone and I had planted explosives there earlier.
Hours before the fight, bets would start to pour in. The odds of each fighter were posted on a board outside. It was organized by the less-than-reputable bankers of the city.
You would think that an event of this size would draw the attention of Hallengard’s rulers at some point. You’d be right. It had. However, the organizers of the Arena had established a kind of uneasy allegiance with the ruling class that let the Arena function.
The fights satisfied the people’s thirst for blood. They prevented the lower and middle class from growing bored and stirring up real trouble. The children who served as fighters were nobodies. They had no homes, no families, no mothers or fathers to care for them. They were raised only to fight.
In return for turning a blind eye, the city’s rulers received very generous donations after each fight—sometimes, as much as half of total earnings. Enough money poured in for the organizers to afford such a hefty tax.
The bets closed half an hour before the first fight. All the money collected would be transported to a secure storage room on the highest level. It would be tallied, and a portion of it would be divvied up in anticipation of the night’s winners. The rest of it filled the pockets of all those involved in the fighting ring.
Blackstone had his sights on that storage room.
The plan was simple: Start a fire in the upper levels that would spread through the rest of the Arena. Break into the storage room in the ensuing commotion. Get out before the barrels beneath the Arena blew.
I would serve as a decoy. The slavers were allowed a special place, separate from the rest of the crowd. Anybody could claim to be a slaver if they provided a child as sacrifice. Three-Grin and the other three simply had a special position because they were the best.
Blackstone would enter me into the fights. I was a little old, but he said if I acted meek and kept my head down, we shouldn’t have any trouble overcoming that. It would grant him access to the slaver’s spectator platform. He would sneak to the highest level from there.
My job was to light the barrels we’d planted at the proper time. The fire Blackstone would start should reach the lower levels and cause the barrels to blow eventually, but we didn’t want to leave that to chance.
Blackstone outfitted a crude rope around my neck to serve as a leash. He held the other end. That is how we made our way through the streets that night.
As we got closer to the Hells, the crowds thickened. Anybody could tell there was something special going on tonight.
We passed the building where I saw the cart deliver the children, then turned down a side alley. I looked over my shoulder and saw the stream of people passing the entrance on the main street. The crowd was loud and lively. The smell of alcohol permeated the air.
“Remember,” Blackstone reminded me under his breath, “you’re deaf, mute, and dumb.”
I nodded in reply, starting the act early.
“And keep your head down like I said.”
I lowered my eyes until I could see nothing but the dirt on my boots.
Blackstone banged his fist against a decrepit wooden door. After a few seconds, a sliding eyehole came open. A man regarded us from inside.
“What do you want?” he asked in a strangely squeaky voice.
Blackstone tugged on my leash, and I stumbled forward. “This pissling’s been nothin’ but trouble for me,” he said, in another of his peasant accents. “He’s lazy. He don’t work. He can’t speak, and he’s dumb as rocks.” Blackstone hit me upside the head to demonstrate. I feigned a whimper. “Meek, too. Won’t life a finger against a soul.”
The man behind the door chuckled. “And you want me to take him off your hands. That what you’re saying?”
“He’s not the best fighter,” Blackstone conceded, “but he can be one of the early sacrifices t’get the crowd goin’. What d’ya say?”
“Let me take a look at him,” the man answered. The viewer slid closed. I heard a scraping sound from inside. After a few seconds, the door opened.
The man who emerged stood halfway to Blackstone’s chest.
He was an imp. I had to smooth my features forcibly lest I be caught staring. I’d never seen a little pers
on before.
He waddled up to me and took my chin in his hand. I shied away, remembering Blackstone’s reminder about meekness. His grip tightened, and he forced my eyes to his.
I tried to look frightened.
“How old is he?” the imp ask.
“Don’t know,” Blackstone said. “I found ‘im when he was halfway grown, and had ‘im for three years.”
“Hmph.” The imp stuck his finger in my mouth. He peered at my teeth.
“Still got some of his baby molars,” he said.
“I reckon he’d be about seven, maybe eight,” Blackstone pointed out.
“Nah.” The imp shook his head. “Look at his face. His features are maturing.” He took hold of my chin again and turned it toward Blackstone. “He’s got to be at least ten. Maybe as old as twelve.”
My heart sank in my chest. If I was too old, they wouldn’t allow me in.
“I don’t expect a premium for ‘im,” Blackstone said. “Jus’ a few dimes would be enough.”
The imp barked a laugh. “You want dimes for this runt? He better shit gold to be worth that much.”
Blackstone tugged on the leash and yanked me toward him. “Too bad. I’d heard the Arena was lookin’ for extra fighters tonight.” He pulled me after him as he started to walk away. “I can still sell him as a galley slave and get more than that,” he muttered under his breath.
“Wait, wait, hold on, get back here,” the imp said. “I didn’t say I don’t want him. Just that your price is too high.”
Blackstone crossed his arms. “And what would you offer?”
“One dime,” the imp said.
Blackstone turned and began down the alley.
“Okay, okay, wait! I’ll give you two,” the imp corrected. “Two dimes for the brat. You’ve got the look of an educated man about you. Y’know the kid’s over age. I’ll give you two dimes, and no more.”
“Two and a third,” Blackstone said.
The imp grumbled. “Two dimes and a silver penny. I won’t go higher than that.”
Blackstone stuck his hand out. “My friend,” he said, “you’ve got yourself a deal.”
A Thirst for Vengeance (The Ashes Saga, Volume 1) Page 16