The king signaled for quiet.
“You would risk the great machines to avenge a few lost goats?” Thal’tos demanded, his temper getting the better of him.
Kro’tos glowered at him. “Anyway, Thal’tos, we will draw on the opinion of your senior,” and Kro’tos emphasized the word with relish.” Kro’tos looked down the line of chairs to the wizened old scientist who sat at the end. U’Clee had nodded off. A soldier stepped forward to nudge him. U’Clee startled awake and asked what was wrong.
“What’s your opinion of using the war machines that Tol’zen requests?” Kro’tos asked him loudly and slowly.
U’Clee shrugged. “What’s your opinion, oh King?” he said. “That’s what matters.”
Thal’tos made a disgusted sound. Kro’tos slapped his meaty hands together. “That settles it. He stood up and held his hands for silence.
“This is my will,” he thundered, “That Lord Tol’zen, son of Tol’karion, shall be the marshal of the north for the campaign against the sky pirates. War engines, authorities, and powers are made subject to him for the duration.”
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” the crowd roared.
The king sat down heavily. “Return to your seat, Thal’tos,” he said to the scientist, who stalked off.
“As for you,” Kro’tos fixed his gaze on the serdar, Dam’ian, who flinched visibly. “Don’t worry about your troops. I’ll have reassurance for you in just a bit that whatever men we give Lord Tol’zen will be more than up to the task.”
“Thank you, oh King,” said Dam’ian, as he started to back away.
“Stay right where you are,” Kro’tos said, and the other saurian froze in place. Kro’tos turned back to Tol’zen. “I asked you want you wanted for a reward, and you asked to be burdened with another task. So I ask again, what reward would you have?”
Tol’zen shrugged. It seemed nonchalant, but Pashera could see by the rippling of his neck muscles that he was simmering with tension. “I gathered this slave in the jungle,” he indicated Pashera with a wave of his free hand. “She is wild and willful and cunning and violent. And if I hand her over to your charge, she will disgrace me. I request, oh king, that I keep her for a while longer while I personally supervise her breaking and training.”
The king tilted his head, crossed his arms across his big belly, and looked at Tol’zen and Pashera like a bird examining a couple of worms. “All new slaves must pass into the House of Obedience. That is the law,” he said.
“Yes, but she’s too smart for the House of Obedience,” Tol’zen said. “She will escape and cause mischief. And that will reflect badly on me.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Kro’tos said. “And you are sure she won’t trick you?”
“Not a second time, my king.”
Kro’tos laughed, a malicious noise that sent chills up Pashera’s spine. “Well, I bet that’s a good story. You’ll have to tell me over dinner. But fine. Keep her for now, if that pleases you, until you make her a useful slave. However …”
And here, the king paused for dramatic effect.
“I asked you what you wanted for a reward and you took on a great task. I asked you again, and you set yourself another task, breaking this slave.”
The king turned his face up to the crowd and raised his voice: “Give me a brigade of saurians like Tol’zen, and I would restore the glory days of our ancestors in a tri-moon span!”
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” the crowd hooted approvingly.
Again Kro’tos looked at Tol’zen. “I ask you a third time, Tol’zen, what reward will you have?”
Tol’zen sighed, and paused for a while, as if thinking. Finally, he said: “Complete use of the Sumsentia for 10 days. And complete aid of the Cogitorium in doing so.”
Kro’tos looked shocked. Then something occurred to him, and he laughed maliciously. “So anyone who wants something from our stored information – be they soldier, merchant, researcher or farmer – will have to go through you. And pay your price?”
Tol’zen nodded.
Kro’tos laughed again. “I’m glad to see you finally start acting sensible. But take the Sumsentia for a moon so you can really shake the merchants down.”
“A MOON?!” Thal’tos shouted in outrage from the gallery. His reedy voice was unmistakable even raised in fury.
Kro’tos turned like an angry bear. “Shut up, you!” he roared at the gallery. “Or I’ll make it for a tri-moon!”
Saurians on all the benches hooted with laughter.
“Worthless academics,” Kro’tos muttered, perhaps to himself, but loud enough for Pashera to hear. “Their precious science has no real value at all.”
Then he seemed to come back to himself. He looked at Dam’ian, still rooted miserably to the spot where Kro’tos had left him. Sweat poured visibly down the serdar’s face.
Kro’tos smiled that cruel smile again. He signaled to his blonde human slave, who sprang to her feet and jumped to his side. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. She nodded, smiled gleefully, and ran to get something.
“Dam’ian, you worry about a battle with the sky pirates,” Kro’tos said. “But you shouldn’t. Surely, you can spare couple companies of men. Perhaps even a full brigade?”
“Yes, yes, my king,” Dam’ian stammered nervously. “It shall be done.”
“And that shall be more than enough,” Kro’tos said. “Once the sky pirates feel the fury of our newest weapon.” With that, the blonde slave reappeared, cradling a metal tube in her arms. It was heavy. She leaned back and strained as she staggered forward to Kro’tos. He picked it up from her easily. However, Pashera noticed that even Kro’tos used two hands.
“This is our newest wonder weapon,” Kro’tos said maliciously. “Equipped with these, a brigade of saurians will march to easy triumph over the sky pirates.”
Dam’ian licked his lips nervously. Sweat ran down his face. A murmur ran through the crowd.
“Would you like to see it demonstrated, Serdar Dam’ian?” Kro’tos asked.
“Please, my king!” Dam’ian begged. Behind him, there was a burst of activity as saurians on the benches behind him scrambled out of the way.
Pashera tried to flee, too. But Tol’zen’s hand clamped more firmly on her arm, and she could not break free. She looked at him desperately, but he just looked at her and shook his head “no.”
Pashera’s eyes lit on the impaled corpse by the throne, which she had seen when she first entered the room. It was still there, forgotten in all the chaos. How many people did this mad king kill in a day?
Kro’tos heaved his bulk up from the throne again. His arms cradled the tubular weapon, the fingers of one giant hand resting on a handle that projected from one side of the tube.
“Serdar Dam’ian, you have argued against dealing forcibly with the sky pirates time and again,” Kro’tos said, addressing the pitiful being in front of him. Dam’ian skittered left, then right. But when he approached the bench, many arms reached out to push him back in front of the throne. The scramble on the benches became chaos as saurians fled from the perceived firing zone of the wonder weapon.
“That was bad advice,” Kro’tos continued in a chastising tone. “You were also the loudest of those telling me that Tol’zen’s expedition to follow the holy beasts would end in his destruction. Again, you were wrong,” Kro’tos stepped forward and pointed one end of the tube at Dam’ian.
“Please!” Dam’ian begged.
“Serdar Dam’ian,” Kro’tos said. “You are incompetent, but I forgive you. For you can still be useful.”
And with that, Kro’tos smiled wickedly. His hand moved to the control on the weapon. Dam’ian cried out in panic, a last plea for mercy. A blinding blue beam shot out of the tube, engulfing Dam’ian. The air crackled, and there was a smell like burning hair.
Dam’ian couldn’t escape. Instead, he was trapped in the light of the beam, his body flashing like a negative image of itself.
The beam only flashed for a second. It wa
s enough to sear an image on Pashera’s eyes. The room was silent for a second. Then great shouts went up – screams of fear and roars of approval all mixed together.
It took a couple seconds for Pashera’s vision to clear. When she could see again, Dam’ian was no more. His body had turned into what looked like mud. It slowly spread out into a puddle. The only recognizable thing left of him was his two bird feet, standing in place as if still supporting him. Blood spurted out of the stumps, then stopped. The orphaned toes twitched, then were still.
The flood of “mud” spread out, nearly reaching Tol’zen’s feet, but he did not budge. Behind where Dam’ian had been standing, a section of the empty stone benches crumbled into dust.
“Now THAT!” Kro’tos exclaimed triumphantly. “THAT is a weapon.” He raised the tube in the air.
The crowd roared its approval. “Hoo-hoo-hoo!”
When the sound calmed down, Kro’tos turned to Tol’zen. “My nephew Kro’brin will lead the army now,” he said. “Kro’brin, where are you, you young pup? Hail Kro’brin, Serdar of Guadalquivir!”
The crowd took up the shout. “Hail Kro’brin, Serdar of Guadalquivir! Hail Kro’brin, Serdar of Guadalquivir!”
A saurian stepped/was pushed forward. Pashera was only recently acquainted with the race, but even she could tell he was trying to hide his nervousness.
“Hail Kro’brin, Serdar of Guadalquivir!”
When the shouting died down, Kro’tos waved his hand for silence again.
“We have a hero freshly returned to us, and he has taken on yet another great task,” Kro’tos proclaimed to the room. “A useless fool is dead, and my far more capable nephew is in his place.”
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” exclaimed the crowd.
Kro’tos waved for more silence. “It is not the full moon, but it is time for a celebration. We have earned it. Secure your slave, but make sure she can see,” he said pointedly to Tol’zen. “You don’t want her to miss her first Pakaian!”
“Hoo-hoo-HOO!” the crowd bellowed.
And Pashera nearly cried out, for Tol’zen’s fist had tightened on her arm like a vice at the mention of the word.
“Pakaian!” the crowd roared. “Pakaian, Pakaian, PAKAIAN!”
“Secure your slave,” Kro’tos told Tol’zen again. “In the cages.”
Tol’zen led Pashera to one side where man-sized metal cages stood in a row. He opened the door to one, and put her inside. Pashera wanted to flee as soon as he released his iron grip, but she had nowhere to go but into the cage. She turned back to face Tol’zen just as he slammed the cage door shut and bolted it. He grabbed her left wrist and put it through a cloth loop on one upper corner of the cage, then did the same with her right wrist. She was held fast against the bars, unable to pull away.
“What’s happening?” she asked Tol’zen.
“Nothing good,” he said. “If you’re smart, you won’t watch.”
He turned to go away, then hesitated and turned back. “Please don’t judge my people by this,” he whispered sadly. “We are better than this. We are The Remnant of something much greater.”
And then he went to join Kro’tos, taking a seat near the throne. Kro’brin, the newly promoted nephew, took a seat beside Tol’zen. The emerald-clad saurian female that had met them in the hallway – Tol’zen had addressed her as “Queen” -- came to take a seat on the other side of Kro’tos. Other male and female saurians filled in the remaining chairs, by some order of hierarchy that Pashera couldn’t fathom.
Saurian guards brought a half-dozen women into the hall, to the stone circle. None of them came willingly. A metal chain linked them all in a line, with each woman’s wrists secured in turn to the chain.
There were a motley assortment of humans. One was very pale, even more so than the slave Kro’tos kept by his side. This one wept and cried. Next to her was a woman with skin as black as midnight. She was a head taller than Pashera, big-boned, well-muscled and large-breasted. Her head was topped with a glorious shock of kinky black hair. Her face was a picture of grim fury.
Next came two women with skin a bit darker than Pashera’s, and kinky hair. They wept and sobbed. Then a woman with fire-red hair – which was a color so strange that Pashera did a double-take –with freckled skin and pale pink nipples. She was in a panic. Finally, a pale-skinned woman with dark features. Her hair was raven-black, her dark eyes darted around nervously. She didn’t cry out like the others, though, and seemed to be trying to calm the red-haired woman down.
The very pale woman was chained closest to Pashera. She cried out now, in the language of the saurians. “Oh gods, oh gods above!” she wept. “Spare me, spare your Tulweeni.”
The black woman beside her grimaced and spit on the ground. “Pray to the devils,” she grumbled. “The gods have given us over.”
The black woman looked at Pashera, suddenly aware of her. “Who the hells are you?”
“I am Pashera,” she said. “I’m from a valley to the north.”
“Welcome to hell on Earth,” the black woman said bitterly.
This only made the pale woman weep more.
Each woman was, in turn, was detached from the long chain, and taken before Kro’tos, where they were lined up again, two warriors holding each captive by the arms. Two of the masked priests appeared beside Kro’tos, the horns on their masks making them appear most alien. One of the priests was accompanied by a floating globe like the one that circled the guard at the giant gate. The globe detached itself from the priest’s orbit and circled each woman in turn.
The priests muttered to each other and Kro’tos; what they said, Pashera couldn’t hear. One priest put his long fingers up inside each woman’s skirt. The women in turn each squealed or cried out, or in the case of the black woman, hissed and said nothing more.
Slowly the women were returned to the chain. All except the pale woman. When she realized she was alone before the king, she gave a truly wretched cry, and tried to pull away from the guards.
Other saurians came into the stone circle, heaving as they pushed a large stone into place. Its top was flat except for a thin raised stone rib or bench that ran across it. The pale woman was stripped and then dragged, kicking and screaming, over to the stone, and secured on the top of the stone, spread-eagle, face-down. Her hips rode over the bench, thrusting her buttocks up in the air. Her knees were pulled forward and lashed to rings on the stone. Now her buttocks and sex were open to the world.
Her face was wild with panic, and she twisted her head to look at the other women imploringly. The only noise that came out of her mouth was a keening of pure fear.
“You can survive this!” the pale woman with dark features shouted. “You will survive Tulweeni.”
“No, she won’t,” the black woman said angrily. “They picked her because she won’t.”
“Shut up!” the pale, dark-featured woman shouted back at her. “You don’t know!”
“Pakaian, PAKAIAN!” the crowd roared. “PAKAIAN!”
A sound came from the doorway that Tol’zen and Pashera had entered just minutes before. An animal sound. A leatherback sound.
“They wouldn’t,” Pashera said aloud to no one.
A group of priests in three-horn masks guided one of the leatherbacks into the arena. It was the size of the ones Pashera had met in the swamp, what seemed like a lifetime ago.
This one had gay and colorful decorations running along its sides. Its horns were studded with gems and wrapped with metal. Its beady eyes took in the crowd balefully. It saw the woman on the stone altar and picked up speed. Pashera could see its sexual organ extend and protrude. It was thicker than a man’s forearm, and half again as long.
The black woman caught Pashera’s eyes. “Don’t watch,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Pashera shut her eyes. She heard the leatherback heave itself up on the stone, while the crowd went wild. The beast grunted. The woman’s keening cries turned into a scream. She screamed loudly and pitifully
. Through her closed eyes, Pashera prayed fervently to the Devouring God just to please, please, make the woman stop screaming.
“PAKAIAN!” the crowd roared rhythmically. “Pakaian, Pakaian, PAKAIAN!”
The woman’s screaming stopped, suddenly and mercifully. Still, the crowd chanted. Finally, the leatherback roared, and the crowd went wild.
Then there was a stomping sound as the leatherback dismounted the stone altar. Pashera risked opening an eye. She saw the blonde woman stretched across the stone staring at her, a look of horror frozen on her face, her eyes mad and yet dimming.
That look on that face would stick with Pashera for a long, long time.
Priests led the leatherback away to the enthusiastic shouts of the crowd. Kro’tos lurched to his feet and applauded. The entire room exploded in applause. But Pashera could see Tol’zen’s applause was only half-hearted. Others in the crowd, especially the scholars, also seemed to lack enthusiasm. But it was more than made up for by the wild exaltations of the majority.
Priests came forward and inspected the woman, then gave each other negative shakes of the head. One of them signaled for a warrior, who stepped forward, undid the blonde woman’s restraints, and dragged her off unceremoniously by one heel. Her head bumped on the stone and the floor with thickening thumps.
Not that the dead woman felt any of it.
“They’ll take her to the Devouring God now,” the black woman said to the others. Tears streamed down her face.
“What?” Pashera said. “The Devouring God? Here? But he is the god of MY people.” It had not occurred to her that these evil creatures that called themselves The Remnant could worship the same god as she did, even though they had built their city at the foot of the mountain he called his home.
“The Devouring God is the only true god of this place,” the black woman said. “The others are empty ceremony.”
“Don’t say that so loud,” one of the other women hissed. “Do you want to end up like Tulweeni?”
Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1) Page 11