Death Mark

by Robert J. Schwalb

  Loren had few occasions to leave the arena during his time in the City of Spires. To the north, he could see the great cliff towering in the sky, a brown wall fissured and pitted with deep caves marking the city’s northern border. Between it and the arena, spires reached up from the sprawl like a forest, each one stretching for the cliff top but not quite equaling its height. Even with all the towers’ splendor, Loren could not help but notice the Naggaramakam, the great city within the city, the sorcerer-king’s demesne hidden behind steep walls whose dizzying heights could not quite conceal the structures or the great trees rising above them.

  The messenger cleared his throat and scowled. “Impressive, is it not?”

  “It is,” said Loren.

  “You put any thought of going there out of your mind. There are wonders inside, magic, and women so beautiful, to see them is to see your death. I have never been inside them. The great Shadow King permits no one he himself does not invite. Come along, gladiator. We must not keep the master waiting.”

  Loren followed and after a few moments became lost. The man made too many turns down too many tight, cramped streets. Tiny shops, grocers, apothecaries, carpenters, and glassblowers flew by. Strange faces peered at them as they walked, some threatening, others inviting, all alien and unnerving. There were humans among them but plenty of other races, some with malformed features, extra eyes and limbs, odd coloration, and some with bestial aspects. Here and there, Loren spied other peoples, dwarves but also halflings, short stature and youthful features suggesting they might be children if not for their cold eyes and confident postures. Tareks, all muscle and dark threats, loomed in the shadows. Mul enforcers dressed in riotous livery shouldered through the crowds. Loren thought he even saw one of the thri-kreen folk, but it was a glimpse, nothing more than a shadow cast on a wall.

  When they left the Western District, the messenger said, “It is not far now. This is Cliffside. Most of the great merchant houses make their homes in the Sages’ District, but House Shom is special. The other houses have many fine places, gardens and the like, but none compare to House Shom’s holdings.” They rushed down the streets, and when they turned a corner, Loren saw the man was correct. The sun hung low on the horizon, but it was light enough to see the compound was indeed massive. Stone walls stretched out along the road for as far as Loren could see. It was crowded with buildings, domes, and other structures inside.

  “There are many ways into the estate, but the Dragonfly Gate is safest for visitors,” said the messenger, gesturing to a broad portal. Double doors of stout agafari wood blocked the entry. They were plain, aside from two bronze rings set in each face. Such metal demonstrated the house’s power and wealth. Two guards, brutish half-giants, stood in front of the doors. They wore carapace armor, making them look like hulking insects. Each guard held a pike long enough to skewer an inix. They wore eyeless helmets with the Shom dragonfly just above where the eyeholes should have been. The guards wasted no time dragging the doors open when the pair approached.

  The messenger bobbed his head and hurried through. Loren followed and found himself in a garden. Wild greenery choked the place. Trees, shrubs, flowers, and more covered everything but a small cobbled path. Loren could hear splashing water from somewhere ahead. He slowed his pace to take in the sights. Here and there, nude statues in suggestive positions hinted more than commerce went on there. The stone path meandered beneath palm trees, flowers in every hue imaginable punctuated by ferns, creepers, and decorative bushes. All was rich, alive, and beautiful. There was something else. A smell, a foulness not unlike rotting meat, hung in the air. Loren’s hand fell to his belt, reaching for a sword no longer there. The messenger paused a dozen paces ahead and gestured for him to hurry.

  Loren felt eyes on him. He kept walking, though he scanned his surroundings. The deeper into the garden he walked, the more buildings he could see. Peaked roofs marking graves, perhaps, or small shrines dedicated to honored ancestors. Slender towers reached up and cast long shadows.

  “My, my, I see father’s taste remains exquisite,” said a voice. A young woman stepped out from behind a gnarled tree. Swollen, spiny fruit hung from its knotted branches. Loren felt his heart skip. Her silk dress concealed what was necessary and revealed creamy white skin and soft curves. Her blue eyes crawled up his body. A lock of long black hair fell free. She ignored it. Her red-stained lips parted to reveal her pink tongue resting on white teeth. She reminded him of the kirre, not just for her slow, graceful movements as she approached him, but also for the predatory glint he spotted in her eyes.

  Loren realized he was alone. His escort had gone on ahead. He looked around for him. When he turned back, the woman stood at his side. Loren could smell cinnamon in her hair, could feel her hot breath on his face.

  He stepped back.

  “Bashful? That’s a surprise.”

  Loren said nothing and held his ground.

  “Not even going to ask who I am?” she purred.

  Loren felt himself become aroused by her presence, yet she troubled him. He distrusted those of high station. They were all a self-serving lot.

  “Mute? Or am I speaking too fast for you?” she smiled.

  “I am expected.”

  “Yes, yes, by my father. I am his daughter. He will forgive the delay if I ask nice. I am Temmnya Shom.” She ran a finger along the edge of the bandage on his arm. She tugged hard at the last, sending a spike of pain as the stitches pulled.

  He moved into her touch to ease the pain. “Then what do you want?”

  “I have ideas. None of them are good ones. That has never stopped me before.” She stepped closer. He felt unsettled.

  A polite cough interrupted their conversation. Temmnya frowned. Loren turned.

  “Spying on me again, Mordis? I was just escorting this brave champion to Father.”

  Mordis wasn’t much older than Loren. He was a man accustomed to the easy life. Soft hands, smooth features, and trimmed hair all marked him as a merchant or, perhaps, a noble. He was thin with a narrow face. A short, oiled beard covered his chin. The soft mauve robe made him look feminine, a perception aided by the red sash tied around his waist. Three dragonflies in flight stood out from the sash’s end.

  “Of course you were, mistress. I came to ensure you did not frighten our guest.” To Loren he made the slightest bow. “You are, of course, Loren, slayer of Pogren, champion of the Shadow Arena. I am Farlahn Mordis. I work for Giovvo Shom. I am certain you are confused as to why you are here, and I assure you all will be explained soon. If you will follow me?”

  Loren glanced at Temmnya. She had lost interest in him, and she searched the foliage. She said, “Ger, to me.”

  A lizard about half his height answered and emerged from the undergrowth, all razor claws and sharp teeth, orange eyes stealing the last rays of light. They followed Loren and Mordis as they continued along the twisting path.

  No one said anything as they walked. The sun disappeared behind the walls, and the garden grew dark. The air was cool, a welcome relief from the day spent fighting. Loren was accustomed to fighting, not to conversation’s subtleties. He thought about battle. In combat, he knew what to do: fight or die. It was straightforward and simple. In the fancy gardens, he felt out of his element, lost, and uncertain. What did such people want? What was the girl after?

  All concerns fled his mind when he rounded the last corner, coming to an open courtyard. Torches burned along the perimeter, scorching low branches. Two fountains sprayed colored water. The mist made the cooling air chill. In the center of the plaza sat the fattest man Loren had ever seen. He was a great, naked mound of flesh. Veined and warty rolls spilled everywhere, hanging in folds from his arms and chest, and it all kept him modest despite his nudity. Wine dried on his pale flesh, while drippings and grease clotted in pools of red fluid. Loren guessed he was Giovvo Shom.

  Four men stood to one side. Loren’s arrival had interrupted a conversation, and they watched, their kohl-lined eyes glit
tering in the firelight. They wore yellow robes, and their swarthy skin and black beards glistened with oil.

  The vast man shifted his bulk and raised his eyes to take in Loren. At his side and whispering in his ear was the man Loren met at the infirmary.

  Mordis bowed and said, “Master Shom, I present to you Loren of Tyr.”

  Loren never mentioned he was from Tyr.

  The robed men whispered to each other behind raised hands. They each had long black nails. Loren spied anger, maybe loathing, in their expressions.

  The fat man shoved away the man who paid for Loren’s recovery and leaned forward. Puddles on his breasts spilled and ran in rivers down his bulk. “You have kept me waiting, slave.”

  “Oh, Father,” said Temmnya as she flounced on a cushion by his side, “he is blameless. I delayed him in the garden.”

  “I am no slave,” said Loren.

  The yellow attendants gasped. Temmnya smiled. Mordis showed nothing.

  “Of course,” murmured Giovvo, “of course. But in a way, we are all slaves to something, are we not?”

  The fat man leaned back. He raised his hand, and two naked young women came forward bearing food and drink on wooden platters. Two more appeared. One offered a bowl of wine to Loren.

  “Be at ease, Loren. You are among friends here,” said Shom.

  Loren nodded at the slave attending him. Dark bruises marred her tanned skin. Her eyes were dead, lifeless. She fixed her mouth in a tight smile. She lingered then backed away.

  Shom drained the cup, wine leaking from the corners of his mouth, running down his chest. He threw the cup away. “We have been watching your progress in the arena, friend Loren, watching with great interest. I have always enjoyed the games and, as my emptied coffers can attest, am a great benefactor to them.”

  He paused. Loren wondered if the man expected gratitude or something else.

  “I have taken an interest in your achievements. I, and with no reservations I might add, am impressed.”

  Another pause. Another deep, rattling breath.

  “I am certain you know you are in rare company, having won your freedom from the fighting pits?”

  Loren nodded.

  “Why, I can think of three before you. Their names escape me. It is a tragedy, though.”

  Loren must have looked confused since Temmnya, at his side, explained, “They all died,” offered Temmnya at his side.

  Mordis spoke to the courtiers in a voice too low for Loren to hear.

  “Yes, Daughter, they all died. Loren, why do you think these brave warriors met such tragic ends after gaining their freedom? After they found so much success as slaves?”

  “I can’t say,” said Loren.

  “Protection,” said Shom. He lifted his arms with great effort to fold his fingers together across his belly. “Yes, protection. You see, Loren, you are a gifted warrior, a peerless example of the gladiatorial arts. All your talent, your strength, your cunning avail you little now. You know the arena, but little else. What would you do if you didn’t fight?”

  Loren felt his anger rising. He won his freedom with blood and sweat. He might not know what he was going to do, but he earned his chance to find out.

  “Loren, our liege, the Shadow King, does not permit his slaves to gain their freedom. It sets a bad example. The reason why so few escape the pits is not because there’s a dearth of talent. It is because the arena masters sabotage anyone who comes too close to the prize. The Shadow King does not want rivals to his fame or affection, even if the people want otherwise.”

  “What are you saying?” snapped Loren.

  “I wish to reveal my part in your good fortune, friend Loren. You see, it was I who ensured your survival. I shepherded you from the crude pits. I let you to find true glory. And at no little cost, I might add.”

  “You want thanks?”

  “No, Loren, not thanks. I want recompense.”

  “I’m no slave,” said Loren, as much to drive the point home as to reassure himself.

  “True, but you have a debt, and as a merchant, I find it best to repay those debts.”

  “I could kill you, fat man,” Loren snarled.

  Temmnya giggled. Her beast hunkered near the ground.

  “You wonder what happened to those who came before you?” Shom smiled. He showed no fear, but he waved his own threat away. “Loren, Loren, Loren, you are too valuable to discard. We have invested too much in you to throw it all away. Listen to my proposal.”

  “Why should I? I’ll die before you put a collar on me again.”

  “Did I say anything about a collar? You ask why. Because, Loren. Because you have an injured friend in the arena infirmary. Because he will die. Because you will be tortured and maybe you will die. And then you will serve me in death. Loren, we offer you a chance to live, to savor your hard-won freedom with honest employment in an occupation to which you are suited. It is your choice, friend Loren, but make it quick. Serve me, and live. Refuse me, and I’ll take everything you care about away.”

  Loren felt Temmnya watching him. He would not be a slave again. He would rather die than face the collar again. But could he choose for Aeris? Could he refuse and consign his one friend to death? Loren nodded.

  “The task is simple, a few months in my employ,” said Shom.

  “Fine. What is it? What do you want from me?” said Loren.

  “I want you to protect my daughter.”

  They had been on the road for almost three weeks since leaving Fort Inix. Alaeda Stel was accustomed to travel through the desert, experienced in surviving the rigors and evading the vicious predators haunting the wastes, yet she was tired and had little left in her to keep pushing onward. She and Phytos moved through Silver Spring Oasis’s gates, having paid an exorbitant fee; she could not be bothered to dicker down the price to something reasonable. They were free to camp inside the outpost’s walls.

  Alaeda and Phytos had parted with their entourage at a tiny outpost halfway to the oasis. There, she paid them, thanked them, and sent them on their way. She no longer needed armed guards for what lay ahead. Her contact at the outpost was clear she and Phytos were to meet another agent to receive instructions. What those instructions would entail, Alaeda could not even guess.

  As they rode their steeds along the wide, dusty road, she did her best to ignore the elf traders hawking their wares. Alaeda had known enough elves not to trust them. A shifty race, they were vagabonds and nomads, stealing and defrauding everywhere they went. Without a doubt, they had suffered from the sorcerer-kings, faced annihilation in the ancient wars most did not even remember, and yet rather than exacting vengeance against the tyrants who oppressed them, the elves made do by making everyone else miserable.

  One pushy trader shoved cheap glass jewelry in her face. He jabbered at her in the musical tongue of the elves, saying something about fine workmanship and precious stones. He was tall and gaunt with angular features and greasy hair. His yellow robe had faded almost to white. She pushed past him without comment.

  Doubt about House Stel’s plans had been crowding out her confidence. She knew what she had to do. She knew what she wanted. Yet it felt strange using a rival merchant house to create a distraction. House Vordon had controlled iron exports from Tyr for generations and got quite rich doing so. House Stel wanted the iron trade, and even though Urik would defeat Tyr, so long as House Vordon stayed clear of the fighting, Urik would have little reason to take the export rights from the merchant house. Thus the plan. Brigands would hit House Vordon’s caravans so hard they would be in shambles by the time King Hamanu walked through Tyr’s Caravan Gate. House Stel, which had enjoyed a relationship with Urik’s self-styled Lion of the Desert, would swoop in and take over the operation.

  Alaeda had heard disturbing rumors out of Tyr. Vordon’s own soldiers policed the city’s streets both to protect their own interests and to ensure they maintained good standing with the new king. So long as Vordon remained in the city, the house had first cl
aim on the ore. Even if the impossible happened and Tyr won, Vordon’s close relationship with the new king made it almost impossible for Stel to get their hands on the iron. So in a Tyr victory, Stel would have to weaken and diminish Vordon so much that Tithian would have no other choice but to hand the rights to a different house. Stel would need to keep its hands clean. House Shom could take the fall instead.

  It seemed her house was hedging its bets in the upcoming war so Stel would emerge better off no matter who won. The problem was House Shom. She did not trust them, and she did not see why she had to go to them in the first place when they could just hire slave tribes to do the work for them. They had done so before with great success against the elf tribes around Urik. So why not?

  She would do as instructed, though. She could think of no other way to improve her standing. Obedience was why she traveled all the way to Jebea Shom a few months back and why she then bargained with Mordis at Fort Inix. And that was why she and Phytos were at the Silver Spring Oasis, a hotbed of intrigue if ever there was one. As comfortable as she was on the road and in such places, Alaeda missed her home, Urik. It was clean, neat, and House Stel had both respect and influence. She hadn’t been there in months, and she wondered if she would ever see it again.

  The sun vanished behind the Ringing Mountains, a dark line marking the world’s western edge. Lanterns arranged along the encampment’s walls came to life, shining green, blue, and red light. They almost gave the oasis a festive quality. The elves began to sing, lamenting the end of a new day and greeting the new moons as they claimed their place in the night sky.

  Silver Spring was small, not much more than a square compound with room enough for a bazaar, a scattering of small tents used by the Silver Hands tribe, and of course the oasis for which the outpost was named. The elves living there were unusual. Elves were nomads. They ranged the desert wastes, drifting here and there, slipping into a city where they could peddle “found” wares and slip away before their victims realized they had been ripped off.