by Alan Baxter
The Autarch stepped away and the Guard looked Alex and Haydon up and down. He pointed at Alex. ‘You’ve got an athlete’s body, so we better show that off.’ He nodded to another Guard and between them they stood Alex, cut the bonds at his wrists and stripped off his clothing to leave him standing in only his jeans. His firm, muscled fighter’s body gleamed with sweat from the closeness of the room and the adrenaline that was starting to course through him. The shadows highlighted his musculature. They crouched and used a sharp knife to cut away the legs of Alex’s jeans just above the knee. ‘That looks better. You look more barbaric now. And you’re dressed just right if you decide to Hulk-out. Can you do that, human, huh?’ His fellow Guards rumbled laughter and even the Autarch smiled as he leaned against the doorway to watch.
The Guard threw Alex rolled up strips of linen. ‘I’m guessing you know how to wrap like a boxer?’
Alex ignored the question, began winding the strips tightly about his wrist and palm, through the gaps between his fingers and over his knuckles. While death might be just moments away, this at least felt like something normal. He pined for the days when he would prepare for a fight in the underground clubs in Sydney, London, Rio and a dozen other cities. Clubs and towns where he was a champion, the best, unbeaten for years.
While the Guard turned his attention to Haydon, lamenting the man’s portly, useless physique, Alex scanned the Autarch. The magic that had him fettered bothered him as much in its application as its effect. It was bad enough that his powers had been stripped away, but it almost bothered him more the casual way that entrapment remained. And it wasn’t so much that his skills had been taken, but smothered somehow. Dampened. But the Autarch did nothing to maintain it. It was simply there, wrapping him up like a strait-jacket. The Darak stone was a part of him, its magic impossible to quench. Surely the same could be said of his own innate abilities. It was as much a part of him as his blood or the air he breathed. It could not be taken away any more than those things could. So what kind of glamour or enchantment was the Autarch using to keep Alex and his power separated?
Alex let his consciousness open up, as he would whenever he studied the shades around a person normally. Something that was as natural to him as opening his eyes had become empty and pointless under the Autarch’s spell, like a deaf person straining to hear. But he remembered the process and went through the motions. He let his mind relax, tried to feel the influence of the Darak. Flickers and flutters of something triggered through him, but they were like flames trying to ignite in a vacuum, sputtering and instantly dying. Every time he tried to push his awareness outside himself, it was quenched.
His eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. He changed his focus, used his awareness to see his own shades, feel the essence inside his body. There his arcane energies were still manifest, like they had never gone away. Internally, he felt the shards of the Darak beating almost impatiently, hammering against his being. He willed himself warmer and his body heated. He pushed the water in his body back and forth and his control of the elements was as dextrous as it ever had been, his muscles pulsing with his thought. He relaxed his mind, let the wave of nausea that playing with his metabolism had triggered pass. He took long, deep breaths, thinking hard. If he maintained any amount of control, he could use that.
‘Preparing for the bout?’
The words jolted Alex from his concentration and the Guard’s face right before his own was a shock. Annoyed, Alex shot his head forward and cracked the Guard hard in the bridge of the nose with the hardest part of his skull, just above the forehead. The Guard staggered back, crying out, hands flying up to cup his scarlet-flooded face. With a roar the Guard surged forward again and the Autarch’s voice boomed out.
‘Leave him!’
Alex looked around and saw the Autarch grinning. Haydon had been kitted out with a hard leather chestpiece, similar to the ones worn by the Guard, and he held a short sword and shield like they were live snakes, his face a mask of horror.
‘Leave him to the pits,’ the Autarch said, his voice quieter though still amused. ‘They’ll get their comeuppance against the farald. Let’s go.’
Reluctantly, the Guards filed out, the blood-soaked one with the broken nose casting a hate-filled glance back over his shoulder as he went. Only two Guards remained. The Autarch followed the last of the others and stopped before closing the door. ‘Keep that attitude up, human,’ he said to Alex. ‘You’ll give us a good show before you die.’
‘What’s a farald?’ Alex asked.
The Autarch laughed. ‘You’ll see. Briefly.’ He shut the door without pausing for another word.
The remaining two Guards stepped forward, levelled swords at Alex and Haydon’s throats. ‘If you make a move, we kill you now,’ one said. ‘So I suggest you sit tight and take your chances out there when the time comes.’ He gestured with his head to the other side of the room, where a heavy wooden door stood closed.
Alex chose not to respond. He closed his eyes and concentrated again on the magic inside himself. He pushed against the shell that seemed to be cloaked through his very skin, smothering his ability to externalise his power. It was like a flexible bubble that moved within the confines of his flesh and held his energy in. It really was the magical equivalent of a strait-jacket, trapping his talents just as the jacket trapped a person’s arms against their body.
He slipped his mind around every part of himself. He remembered a show where rogue magicians explained how to escape from a strait-jacket and most of the trick was in flexing the body and grabbing handfuls of canvas while the jacket was being tightened in order to have slack once the magician relaxed. That was not an option with the Autarch’s enchantment, but the principle was sound. If he could find areas of the glamour where there might be slack and work against them, perhaps he could find a way out.
A moment’s anger passed through his mind as he thought of all the time he had sat fuming in a cell in the Tower when he could have been working this out. But there was no time for personal recriminations now. He probed with his mind, pressed against all the places he felt the Autarch’s magic the most. Following those paths, he tracked the places where the entrapment was weakest and uneven. The fettering was patchy, the fields of the magic drawn together in places where Alex was strongest. He felt the Autrach’s influence most around his chest, where the Darak pulsed its strength in time with his heartbeat as it always did. As Alex traced that magic away from the centre of his own power, so the Autarch’s magic weakened too. A slight smile tugged at his lips as he pushed against the glamour from the inside and felt it stretch and flex. His magic, while trapped, was as strong as ever. Not knowing how long he might have until they were ushered into the arena of battle, or what they might face out there, Alex worked hard and fast, pressed his will into the trap that smothered him and slowly forced cracks into the arcane prison.
Silhouette walked with Claude, Lily and a quickly growing group of like-minded friends. It was a surprise how many people Lily was able to reach quite quickly, collaborators in the resistance of Obsidian, all excited by the events everyone was talking about. They came from differing sects, differing philosophies, but all agreed on one thing: the hierarchy did not have their best interests at heart and one day a reckoning would come. It took only a moment for Lily to show them the faces beneath the helms and for Silhouette and Claude to assure them that they were friends of the so-called demon and minds were quickly made up. The time for caution and subterfuge had passed.
Silhouette was sorry for the population on so many levels, but a pride was beginning to outweigh the sorrow. It had taken very little for them to step up. The smallest hint of undeniable truth in the form of outsiders and the various factions of resistance swarmed together, moved to face the authority that had kept them trapped for generations. She wondered if she led them to their deaths.
Was it truly possible for a people so oppressed to really stand up against a power like the hierarchy and prevail? She had pu
t the question to Lily and Lily’s answer was beautifully simple. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘We stand against them, that’s all that matters.’
But Lily’s ideology, while admirable, was flawed. What if this uprising was not successful and the resistance wiped out? The remaining populace of Obsidian would still be under the yoke of the hierarchy and would doubtless be oppressed even further to prevent anything like it happening again. What they did today could potentially make Obsidian an even worse place. Gritting her teeth, Silhouette resolved to not let that happen. They had to succeed here in some way. Even if Alex was already dead, or she had to watch him die in the pits, she would do everything she could to help this resistance movement overthrow the hierarchy.
They moved through an ever-thickening crowd, the excitement buzzing around them like a physical presence. Snatches of conversation she caught betrayed the anticipation of the lowen. An impromptu blood games was unprecedented, said some. Nonsense, said others, it had just been a long time since a demon dared to step foot in Obsidian. Tales were told of grandparents and the things they had seen, legends of the Hollow Lord were shared, some scoffed at, some awe-inspiring. Regardless, one common thread united them all. Something big was happening in Obsidian and no one wanted to miss it.
‘We can use this energy,’ Lily said, smiling, one hand resting absently on her swollen abdomen.
‘You think?’
‘Definitely. Whatever this excitement is for doesn’t matter. There’s energy here in this crowd and if we can turn it in our favour we could see great things happen today. This way.’
She turned sharply aside down a side street. Claude, Silhouette and more than a dozen resistance sympathisers moved with them. A collection of abandoned stalls stood quiet outside a house and a small man stood in the doorway, bent and wrinkled with age.
‘What’s this?’ the old man asked, his eyes suspicious. ‘Why have I been told to wait?’
Lily smiled, took his hands in hers. ‘Grandfather, it’s me.’
‘I know it’s ye, foolish girl. Why do ye bring Guard to my home? Why can’t I go and see these games?’
Lily gestured Silhouette and Claude forward. ‘I sent a runner to hold ye,’ Lily said, ‘because ye need to see this firsthand. These people are from outside.’
The old man’s eyes narrowed further, his beetling brow all but obscuring his vision entirely. ‘What?’
Silhouette and Claude pulled off the helms. ‘It’s true,’ Silhouette said. ‘We come from another place. Obsidian is just a tiny, removed part of existence. A world bigger and more populated than you could imagine exists. What your Priests call Ascension is actually the real world. This place is a prison.’
The old man nodded, sat heavily on a low wall in front of his house. ‘Ya accents mark ye different from the outset. What kind of speech is that?’
‘Just one of many, sir.’
The old man looked to Lily. ‘So I did live to see it. Thank you, child. But I’m too damned old to do anything about it now.’
Lily crouched, took her grandfather’s hands. ‘No, ye’re not. Ye’re about the oldest person in Obsidian. Ye’ve managed to be about the most subversive and the most subservient and the hierarchy have ignored ye for years, to their detriment.’
‘That’s because I keep my head down and light the fire in others. I lit the flame of revolution in ya pretty heart, didn’t I?’
Lily smiled, nodded. ‘And now it’s time. Few people are more respected in Obsidian than the very old and ye’re one of the oldest, Grandfather! If ye stand with us and call the people to rally and rise up, more will listen.’
The old man looked around the gathered crowd. ‘And ye plan to use these games to start a riot, do ye?’
Silhouette moved forward. ‘Sir, if I may?’
‘Call me Narth.’
‘Narth. The Autarch has my …’ She paused. Friend? Beloved? She shrugged. ‘The Autarch has my husband and means to kill him in the games to make an example. The hierarchy plans to quell this uprising before it begins by proving their power over him. Whether he dies or not in the pits, and I have to hope he won’t, it’s the perfect opportunity to show that there are more dissenters in Obsidian than one so-called rogue demon.’
Narth frowned and shook his head. ‘I’d picked up the rumours that something was afoot in Obsidian. Strange comings and goings. I have visions, ye know. Always have. I’ve seen ya man in my dreams.’
‘Visions?’
‘I see more than people realise. I’ve been expecting this day for some time.’
Silhouette was not sure how much to believe of this old timer’s talk of visions and dreams, but he held authority among the lowen and perhaps that was why. ‘This is why you pass on your fire to others, rather than risk yourself?’
‘Aye. If I’m caught, my visions are of use to no one.’
‘Then you know how important today is.’
The old man smiled, nodded. ‘Ye realise this games isn’t just to make an example of ya husband, right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Autarch will know there are more of ye out there. He’ll have tortured it out of ya man if nothing else. This games is as much to draw ye out as it is to kill him.’
Silhouette nodded. ‘I know. And we have to take the risk and walk into his trap. But there really aren’t that many Kin … I mean, hierarchy, here in Obsidian. Not compared to the number of lowen. The place only works because there are so few.’
‘Works?’
‘It’s too hard to explain. But trust me, there are not so many in the hierarchy as they would have you believe. Sure, they are far, far stronger than any lowen. Certainly many will die today when they defy the rulers. But would you rather things stay as they are, now you know for certain that your suspicions were right all along?’
Grunts and murmurs of agreement rippled around the group and the old man nodded, stood up. ‘Aye, I know. We may all die today, but perhaps it’s time, eh?’
A cheer rose up from the group and Narth moved away from his house, strode purposefully towards the street full of revelling lowen headed for the games. The others fell in quickly behind, the group suddenly several times its previous number. ‘Come on then. It’s a shame it took so long for this day to come. I wonder how far my old voice will carry.’
Claude stepped forward. ‘Actually, I might have a little trick to help you with that.’
Silhouette smiled at him. ‘That’s good. I’m glad you’re helping.’
Claude rounded on her. ‘Don’t think to get all fucking lovey-dovey with me. I have to help because there’s no way out for me otherwise and I won’t give up without a fight. But your man owes me some fucking answers, and if he dies I’ll be coming after you for them.’ The anger in his eyes burned.
Silhouette nodded. She could hardly blame him for his fury, even if he was fool enough to have simply dived in behind them. ‘You’ll have answers.’
‘Yeah?’ Claude sneered. ‘How about now?’
‘Now’s not the time.’ She quickly moved through the crowd, away from his searing gaze, before he could ask any more questions.
22
Alex concentrated hard, refused to let any kind of elation interrupt his thoughts. The process was painstaking and incredibly difficult, like untangling knotted fishing line with one hand, but he was slowly forcing cracks in the binding and his own shades began to emerge. His vision, his ability to see the planes of magic, to read magesign, had always been stronger than anyone else he had met and it served him well again. He saw the structure of the Autarch’s spell, the architecture of the enchantment, and he could corrupt its surfaces and angles, bit by meticulous bit.
He sensed that time was short. Muffled roaring of a distant crowd leaked into the dark, torchfire-lit room and he knew that could only mean the show was starting soon. Haydon kept trying to talk, to whine and cajole. Alex simply ignored him, kept his eyes closed, continued to worry at the Autarch’s trap like a rat gna
wing through a sack to get at the grain inside. Only Alex was trying to gnaw his way out.
The Darak pulsed with an eldritch heat. He was surprised it wasn’t lighting the room around him, but refused to open his eyes and check in case it was. From Haydon’s whining and the lack of attention from the Guard, he could only assume this battle was entirely internal. To the others he must appear as though he simply meditated. Or perhaps slept. Years of meditation, of chi gung training and physical excellence, had certainly given him the skills to concentrate. With this focus and the power of the magic inside him, he knew he could shake off this shackling spell if he only had enough time.
He gathered energy from the Darak and pushed it against the weaker bonds of the spell, like an escapologist shifting one shoulder against the sleeve of the strait-jacket. He pushed and pulled, shifted his attention back and forth, and smiled slightly as the fissures in the Autarch’s spell grew. He imagined himself a bodybuilder, on stage for a competition, taking a deep breath before flexing up a storm, forcing his body into bulbous muscular expansion. Only Alex did it with his mind and pressed against the shell in which he was trapped. It swelled slightly away from him. He gathered the Darak’s power again and pressured every weak seam he could find, forced those weaknesses to become gaps. He flexed his mind and once more the trapping shield ballooned out, slightly more each time.
Sweat broke on Alex’s brow and his mind felt as though it would burst. A headache pulsed with blinding sharpness at his temples. He ignored it, pressed again, flexed again, felt the shield swell.
‘Get ’em up and moving. Show time.’
The Guard’s voice nearly cracked Alex’s concentration and a wave of panic washed through him as he almost lost his grip. The Autarch’s magic threatened to snap shut again like a clam shell at the vibration of danger. Alex ground his teeth, refused to give in.
He gasped in a breath and drew every bit of power in his body into one luminous ball of energy and threw it outwards, slammed it against the invisible bonds on his mind and being. His internal strength blistered against the Autarch’s and fissures like lightning crackled all around him. He opened his eyes and realised these were shades and powers only he could see. Haydon and the Guard looked at him askance, their expressions concerned and suspicious.