by Michael Karr
Unlike how most people treated him since losing his hand, Jonobar expressed confidence in Rolander. That confidence bolstered Rolander now as moved closer to the city below.
Despite the warm weather, Rolander wore his jacket. Not because he felt cold, though. So he could hide his arm within its folds.
Soon he would have a new hand. Just two days before, the new curriculum from Strybrn had arrived. Since then, Rolander had done little else but study it. He took all his meals in his bedchamber—sometimes never touching the food—and slept only when his eyes refused to stay open any longer. Even now he would be studying and working had he not promised to grant Professor Jonobar’s request. Part of him wished he’d not agreed to help his tutor smuggle the contraband into the castle. Even if it was only tea leaves, they were illegal. How could he disappoint his tutor—the man who gave him real hope of regaining his hand?
Rolander quickened his pace, not wanting to be out longer than necessary. He’d left the castle with permission from Krom, under the pretense that he wished to purchase a birthday gift for Skylar’s mother. Inside, he smarted at the thought of this lie. Mostly because he felt like he ought to get her a present. What would he buy for here? He didn’t have any ideas, or time. He would have to think of something later. Most of all because Krom might ask what he bought for her.
He shook his head, trying to clear it of such uncomfortable thoughts.
The old stone road, worn smooth by a century of travel, led him down the hill atop where the mighty castle-fortress sat. His mind wandered back to those days of antiquity, before the empire even knew of other planets, before man could travel across the universe, before man could build a mechanical hand. Still, no man had accomplished the later. He would be the first. He and Jonobar—together.
These thoughts of the old world turned his mind toward Haladras. His faraway home-planet always felt too archaic for his liking. The harsh climate brought out the survival instinct in people, rather than the instinct to build and create. He didn’t belong on Haladras. He didn’t truly belong on this planet, either. Not outside the castle anyway, away from his mechanics…and Jonobar.
Soon the city engulfed him, and his anxiety heightened. Tall shining buildings rose on either side of him, like walls of mirrors hemming in the stream of activity on the main road. Rolander carefully weaved his way through the bustling side street, as numberless transports raced by from either direction. At times, Rolander felt as if the crowd were carrying him against his will, like a log caught in a river’s current. He felt, too, that he could drown in that crowd, trampled underfoot and never noticed—never missed.
Eventually, he pushed his way through the crowd and turned down one of side streets. This one, though crowded, was not an arterial route. Fewer people clogged the way, and he found it easier to breathe. So, he went on, slowly navigating his way from one street to the next, until he came to the old industrial district of the city.
Once he saw it, Rolander wished to return to the crowded streets he’d just come from. Here, though the streets didn’t teem with life, the little life it did have reeked of coarseness and poverty. After passing several men who didn’t look fit to be trusted, he felt grateful that he had come during the light of day. Every person he passed—he could feel their eyes trained on him. He sped up his pace.
Passing warehouses, factories, steel mills, scrapyards, vacant lots, he finally came to the street he was looking for. He turned down it and headed west, in the complete opposite direction of the castle. This narrow street showed fewer signs of life than the other. A few rag-covered vagabonds, too hungry to even beg, sat along the street periphery. These Rolander skirted by quickly. He saw no other sign of life as he made his way further along the street. Yet, he felt less secure here than on the previous street, with the men who looked like they could snap his neck with a mere slap on the back.
At last, he came to the dispatch unit. He pressed open the metal door with a square porthole and entered.
He found himself in an empty storefront. Nothing but a counter, a tiled floor that had likely never been mopped, and yellowed walls.
Rolander approached the counter timidly. A single, windowless door was on the wall behind the counter. There was no sign of anyone. No sign that this was anything but a vacant business space. Timidly, he called out, but his voice barely reached his own ears. He tried again, louder. Then a third time. Judging the place to be unoccupied, he turned to leave and check the address again. Even before he completed the turn, the door behind the counter burst open.
“What is it!” demanded a man with a hard stare and crooked nose.
Rolander swallowed.
“Well!” said the man with more impatience. “Why are you in my store?”
Rolander flushed. He hated being intimidated by others. Just because he was small didn’t mean he was insignificant.
“I’m here to collect a parcel,” he stammered out.
The man eyed Rolander suspiciously.
“What parcel?”
“It’s intended for Laris Jonobar—he sent me in his stead. I’m his pupil.”
The name sparked something in the man’s eyes. He eased his threatening posture slightly.
“Be right back,” said the man, as he turned and shoved open the door from which he’d appeared just a moment before.
Alone once more, Rolander tried to find something interesting to study. A notice posted on the wall, some curious artifact, a dispatch unit license? He found nothing. After several minutes the man returned carrying a wooden crate, little larger than a footlocker. Placing the crate on the counter, the man said, “Here it is. Just need you to sign this receipt.”
He produced a stylus and parchment
Rolander winced inside. Since losing his hand, the one thing he loathed doing was writing—especially in front of others. He took the stylus with his left hand and steadied the parchment with his nub.
Even as he struggled to scrawl out a signature, he could feel the man staring at his missing hand. The thought made his face grow hotter.
When he finished signing the receipt, the man took the stylus and parchment and slid the crate toward Rolander.
“Yours to take,” he said.
Then, he added, “Are you sure you can manage that?”
Rolander leaned forward, hooked his left arm, then wedged the crate between the crook of his elbow.
“I’ll be fine,” said Rolander curtly.
Then he turned and walked out of the dispatch unit, glad to be rid of the place.
As he walked back down the street, back the way he’d come, his previous feelings of uncertainty returned. Now, with Jonobar’s parcel in arm, he felt even more vulnerable.
How am I going to get through that crowd on the main avenue?
He passed the beggars. Hoping they wouldn’t try to steal the crate, he skirted them widely.
He was midway to the busier section of that industrial borough, when a gang of five boys materialized from an alleyway. They barred Rolander’s way.
“Where’re going, Spots?” said one of the boys, who looked only a year or two older than Rolander.
The other three boys laughed at this reference to Rolander’s freckles. All four of the boys were dressed little better than the beggars down the street. Except these were adorned with an odd assortment of paraphernalia. Iron wristbands, long rows of earrings, grotesque-looking tattoos, layers of belts, and—the items that Rolander readily fixed on—daggers.
Despite the fact that Rolander despised being mocked for his freckles, he ignored the comment. His only thought was to distance himself from these hoodlums. Veering right, he attempted to walk around the little gang. The gang member closest to him sidestepped, and stopped directly in front of him.
“We didn’t say you could leave, Spots,” said the boy, crossing his arms.
Rolander looked frantically at the faces of the other boys. Each looked equally committed to blocking him. He con
templated trying to run. Unless he dropped the crate, there was no chance of him outrunning anyone who possessed even the mildest athletic ability. Maybe they would let him just turn and walk back the other way. He hastily turned, but before he could take his first step, the first—the one who looked like the gang leader—slid around and stopped in front of him.
“You’re not afraid of us—are ya, Spots?” he said.
The rest of the gang laughed.
“We don’t want to hurt nobody,” he went on. “Just give us the box.”
Rolander whirled back around, like a sheep surrounded by wolves.
“Let me go,” he stammered.
One of the younger-looking boys mimicked Rolander’s quavering voice.
“Just give us the crate,” said another.
Rolander tightened his arm on the crate and shielded the front of it with his other arm.
“Look!” cried the leader, “he ain't got no hand. We should call him Nubby.”
The gang of boys erupted with laughter and took up chanting the new nickname. Then they started taking quick jabs at the crate, teasing him. Rolander knew they were only toying with him. If they wanted the crate, they could easily take it from it. And it was only a matter of time before they tired of their game and did exactly that. What could he do?
He contemplated calling out for help. But who would hear him? Except for the beggars, the street was deserted.
Suddenly, there was a shout from down the street. Rolander whirled around. The clerk from the dispatch unit was charging straight toward them, a large metal pipe in his hand, raised in the air like a sword.
“Get away from him, you vermin!” he shouted.
Like a pack of frightened rats, the gang of boys scurried away, disappearing into whatever hole they had come from.
The man from the dispatch unit came up to Rolander, who was staring at him with wide eyes.
“Don’t just stand there, boy,” he said. “Run. Get out of this place.”
Without pausing to thank the man, Rolander turned and did as he was bid. Not until he had put the industrial district of the city far behind him, did he finally stop running.
* * *
Krell Domocrov. The Princess Shahra Hira Minka’s betrothed.Son of Kratin Domocrov, a notorious warlord, whose power was second only to that of the empress’.
The match had been made a few years back. For her mother, the empress, the maneuver was political. An attempt to mitigate a serious threat to her rule. For Kratin and his son, it was a move fueled by a thirst for power.
The political system among her people was a tenuous one. He mother only maintained her power by force of arms. On Gorgoroth, power was not given. It was won with blood. The entire planet was divided into twelve factions, including a few colonies. A warlord governs each faction—sometimes more. These factions pay tribute to the empress. They do so because the empress controls the greatest army, and she would not hesitate to send it to crush any faction who fails to pay tribute to her. Tributes of grain, livestock, textiles, gold, and even slaves. The empress uses the tribute almost entirely for the purpose of sustaining and growing her army. And so, she maintains the upper hand.
Every half-century, or so, some of the warlords cease warring amongst themselves over tariffs and land, and combine their forces to rise up against the empress. Such happened to the Shahra’s grandmother. Scarcely had the victorious warlords killed the empress and took control of the capital, than they commenced warring amongst themselves again. For each warlord craved the throne for himself. By the time one of the warlords claimed victory over the rest, his forces were so depleted that what remained of the empress’ army and generals rallied and destroyed the rebel warlords.
After that, General Rekkin Karíknof placed Shahra’s own mother on the throne. So, at the vulnerable age of ten, the Empress Roshetta Corvêna Minka began her reign. General Karíknof served as her regent. He could have taken the throne for himself. No one could have stopped him. His own fierce loyalty to the Minka bloodline would not allow it, though. To this day General Karíknof serves as Chief General to the empress. He is older than he was when he served the princess’ grandmother at the age of twenty-six, but no less capable.
The princess’ betrothal was designed to prevent such an uprising of the factions. The galvanized force of these two great houses would be virtually undefeatable. None of the factions would dare to come against them. Even with the combined strength of all the remaining factions, they would still be too weak—much too weak. Ostensibly, that was the reason for the match. The princess knew the true reason was to prevent Kratin Domocrov himself from rising against the empress.
Even this alliance would not ensure the empress control of the throne. Kratin was not a man to be trusted, in or out of wedlock. The empress understood this risk. But this was no game of cat and mouse. Neither the princess nor her mother could be pounced upon unawares. These were women who understood treachery. As far as the princess was concerned, she was marrying the enemy in order to keep him in check. No marriage of love awaited her in just a few short weeks.
The princess bit her lip to stifle the cry of pain smoldering in her mouth. If it did not hurt her so much to move, she would have turned and slapped her serving wench.
“Curse you, Icca,” she growled. “Can you not go any faster?”
The truth was, she wanted the girl to be gentler. A truth she would never admit aloud. Three days had passed since she conquered the Hishrim Gauntlet. Yet the wounds on her back from the flaming tongues felt as fresh as if she had been whipped that morning. With each adjustment of the bodice which Icca was fitting on her, a jolt of white-hot pain flared across her back. Gladly would she have stayed wrapped in nothing but bandages, convalescing through meditation and rest. That was not an option. Krell and his father would arrive within the hour. The princess would be expected to greet her future husband and father-in-law at court upon their arrival. Furthermore, she must do it without showing any sign of pain or weakness. Not that she would ever give those two snakes that satisfaction.
“I wish I could rid myself of you, Icca,” she said bitterly. “You can thank my mother that I haven’t. For some odd reason, she insists on keeping you. I can’t see why. A more incompetent wench I never met.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Icca, weakly.
Within a half-hour, the princess stood in the throne room, waiting for her beloved. Her mother sat next to her, perched like a bird of prey on her iron throne rising high above the stone floor.
This is the start, thought Shahra. Her betrothed’s arrival marked the commencement of the nuptial ceremonies. After this, he would not leave again until they were wed. Though, today did not mark the formal commencement of those ceremonies. That would come in a few days, when they performed the Mutual Sacrifice. Today was merely a precursor.
The princess despised waiting; standing there with her back stinging with pain. All for what? To please the man who would likely try to assassinate her and steal her throne?
With a moan, the great wooden doors of the throne room slowly swung open. A herald announced the arrival of the “honorable Count Kratin Domocrov and his son Captain Krell Domocrov.” The herald drew himself aside. Behind him, two tall and commanding figures strode forward, followed by a retinue of warriors, all arrayed as if for battle.
The grim procession continued onward until Kratin and his son halted at the foot of the throne. In unison, father and son bowed on one knee whilst drawing their swords with the hilts toward the empress. A token of their devotion to the empress—their swords were her swords.
The princess scoffed inside at this mocking show of loyalty. Both men would love nothing more than to drive those swords into her mother’s heart.
Kratin’s retinue mimicked the bow. One of them, no doubt, would serve as the tool to perform the evil deed. Then all rose.
Krell turned, caught the princess in his dangerous gaze and nodded slowly. The princess recipro
cated the gesture, and took an appraising stare at her future husband. Not for the first time. She knew well his dark hair, cropped just above his shoulders. His equally dark eyes and brows. His well-defined jawline and cleft chin. The pale line of a scar across his left cheek. Many women would kill their own sister to marry such a man. Shahra was not so easily impressed.
“Welcome, Count Domocrov,” said the empress with little warmth. “To you and your son.”
“We are honored by your magnanimity, Your Highness,” replied Kratin coldly. “It brings us pleasure to see you in good health.”
What a liar. He would prefer to see her lying stiff and cold on her deathbed.
“My daughter has passed the second Trial, the Hishram Gauntlet.”
Without even looking at the princess, Kratin replied, “Our congratulations to her. Let us hope—for the sake of this union—that her valor does not fail her in the remaining Trials.”
There was a tension, an intonation in Kratin’s voice.
“You have no need to fear,” replied the empress sharply. “Neither her valor nor her strength shall falter. Rest assured of that, Count Domocrov.”
Kratin nodded his head in acceptance. Not humbly, or nervously, as most men do before the empress, but with a hint of arrogance. That same unshakable arrogance which accompanied everything Kratin did. The kind of arrogance which not even the empress of the Tor nation could squelch. Then again, one does not become the most feared and powerful warlord in all Gorgoroth without arrogance.
“And what of your plans, Your Highness?”
A subtle emphasis in Kratin’s voice when he uttered the word plan made the princess believe he spoke of something other than the Trials or the marriage ceremony. Indeed, the empress seemed to understand a deeper meaning too. For she signaled to the captain of the guard, who immediately began ordering everyone out of the throne room. Kratin signaled to his own retinue to follow the orders.
When the great wooden doors boomed as the guards closed them in, the only ones who remained in that stone hall were the princess, her mother, the Domocrovs, and Rizain Du Kava.