“When I was a protector I used a spear,” Miri said.
Adaste nodded. “A spear is good. You can use your speed and keep your opponents away by virtue of your longer reach. But you must remember to train in other weapons, for there will be times that a pit fighter will be forced to have others choose a weapon for her.”
Unlike the other slaves, the fighters were well fed on a diet of roasted meat and algae stews in order to maintain their athleticism. Miri had learned that the city had numerous colonies of burrowing rets, which served as a ready source of meat. These little furry creatures would emit loud squeaks when caught, and their fur made excellent clothing material as well. Rets posed a great problem for the gardeners of the otus plant, for these subterranean animals feasted on garbage and otus alike without being detected until they came out to the surface. Specialized teams of ret killers with their canis pets made a lucrative living throughout all areas of the city.
Miri made a loud burp as she downed her second bowl of stew before tearing into another piece of roasted ret. The eating hall was reserved for the fighters in training, and it was one of the few places where they were left to fend for themselves. Miri barely had anything to eat when she was working down by the sewers, so the hearty portions of food were a welcomed change. She was contemplating to go back for a third bowl when she sensed a small group of people standing behind her.
There were three of them. The ample diet had made them plump, but she could still see the rippling muscles underneath the defensive layers of fat. The one in the middle stood slightly ahead of the other two, and he was unquestionably their leader. There were a number of scars strewn over his broad, bare chest and he was missing several teeth, for he had undoubtedly taken a blow to the mouth at one point in his profession.
“So it seems that we have a new whore in our stable, and it looks like the Watchers had their fun before we did,” the man in front said. “Those bruises have misshapen you, but I can still see that you have some beauty left. What is your name, slut?”
Miri ignored him as she kept on eating.
The man started getting angry. “You dare ignore me?”
The one to his right had a nervous disposition. It was clear he hung around the others for protection. “I think we better leave her be, Korbius. She does not seem interested.”
“No,” Korbius hissed. “You, woman. Turn around and face me.”
Miri knew that it would come to this sooner or later. She placed the tiny ret carcass back into her clay plate, turned around and stared at him blankly. “Were you addressing me?”
“Of course I am,” Korbius said. “I am the best pit fighter in this stable and I expect you to be aware of it. I have killed nineteen men, and crippled near two dozen in the last two cycles, so you better give me some respect, whore.”
Miri’s face was a mask of stone. Trouble was brewing and her body was beginning to tense up. While slaves may have been forbidden in attacking their superiors, there was no law against defending themselves against other thralls. “I am eating and I do not like to be bothered. If you wish to speak to me, then we may converse in the morrow, for I shall be going to sleep after this meal.”
Korbius face was flushed. “Do not take that condescending tone with me, you fire-haired harlot. As the greatest fighter in this stable I can demand to lay with whoever I want. And tonight I am choosing you, so let us go forth to my quarters, and I promise you I shall be gentle, owing to your injuries.”
Miri stood up in a flash. Since her right foot was already in position, she made a flatfooted kick to the man’s kneecap, which got him down to one knee. Leaning over him, her hands were quickly balled into fists and she punched him several times in the face, using the first two knuckles to aim squarely at the bridge of his nose. Within a matter of seconds, Korbius was lying on his back, blood seeping from his broken nostrils, out senseless. Miri took her used plate from the table, walked past the astonished pair and strode into the kitchen, leaving her used helpings for the slaves to clean up.
Making her way along the sides of the hall while the others stared at her in stunned silence, Miri walked into the corridor leading to the sleeping cells. She had made her presence felt, and there would no longer be any torment for her when it came to the other fighters. Adaste the healer had seen the whole incident as she stood by the entryway of the kitchen. She gave Miri an admirable wink when their eyes met.
Chapter 4
By the time Falx and his men arrived at the derelict part of the necropolis, a small group of Magi were already there. The City Watch had a reputation for always arriving late when the crime had already been committed, and all that was left to do was to dispose of the bodies. Falx had been appointed as commander of the Watchers over thirty cycles ago and considered it a thankless profession. Nevertheless he was paid well, and it was better than what most people had. Being a Watcher also carried authority, for they were enforcers of the law, and were allowed to kill anyone deemed unimportant enough that there were no inquiries afterwards. Ordinary citizens and especially slaves always made way for them, for their bronze badges and customary red cloaks radiated fear and respect.
The noontide rays shining above them were harsh, and the lack of shade only made things worse. Falx kept the hood of his cloak down, and the bald spot at the top of his head was tanned like brown leather. Still, he preferred having a little sunburn rather than sweat his fluids out, for he believed that his blood and perspiration were the most precious things in life. He signaled his men to fan out as he approached the three Magi who were standing beside the two empty wagons, staring down at the nearby corpses. At the very moment that he got to within ten paces of them, the tallest of the Vis users turned in his direction and threw the hood off of his own cloak, revealing who it was.
Falx instantly recognized him as he momentarily stopped in mid stride before quickly recovering. He stood a few feet away and raised his hand in the universal gesture of peace. “Lord Nylius, this is a surprise to see the Lord Executor here. Hail and good morrow to you.”
“And a good morrow to you, Lord Falx. I am equally surprised that the commander of the Watchers has come to this desolate part of our great city,” Nylius said. He was a foot taller than his counterpart, and much more youthful. With close-cropped black hair and a pale complexion, Nylius would have been considered handsome, save for the facial tattoos around his eyelids and mouth, which were now quite common among the members of the Magi Order these days. Combined with his black cloak and the sheathed pair of arming swords on either side of his waistline, he was considered to be the most intimidating man in the entire city. There had been rumors among the people that he had hunted down two renegade Magi and killed them both when they tried to ambush him. No one it seemed could stand up to the Lord Executor, and many believed it was a foregone conclusion that he would eventually succeed the Grand Magus when the old man’s frail health finally gave out.
“If it was only a murder or two, I would likely not have bothered,” Falx said. “But when a prominent slave merchant happens to scream and demands to know why one of his best freight-masters was killed- along with eight hired hands, in what was supposed to be an abandoned part of the city, then I really have no choice but to see for myself. What I find surprising is that the future leader of the Magi Order has sought fit to grace this scene with his presence.”
Nylius looked down and pointed to what looked to be a body lying underneath a black cloak. “A Magus was killed. When one of our own is murdered, then it becomes my business.”
Falx crouched down as he lifted the cloak. The body had been putrefying for two days, and the burrowing rets and worms were having their fill. The stench was atrocious, but he was already used to such things. “Why was a Magus escorting this caravan?”
“That is our business,” Nylius said tersely.
Falx stood up and strode by the empty wagon. Eight mercenaries and a Magus made formidable chaperones. The cargo had to be something valuable. The slave merchan
t who owned these wagons didn’t know what they contained, for he told Falx that it was not his way to inquire as to what his clients hired him out for. The Watcher commander ran his hand along the sides of the wagon, noticing several prominent new holes on them. He had no doubt they were caused by bone arrows. “What kind of goods were on these wagons?”
“That is also our business,” Nylius said. He knew that Falx was under the direct influence of House Aranida, for they were the primary sponsors of the Watch, and it was apparent to everyone that the leader of the City Watch would be reporting this incident back to them. The Magi had always held the Watchers in utter contempt, but the latter ones had the advantage in numbers, which evened things out. During the early days of the city, both the Watchers and Magi were designed to act as balancing forces in case one faction got too powerful. Since then, the Magi turned inwards and assumed a stance of political neutrality, while the great houses began to splinter the unity of the City Watch in order to place themselves in an ever increasing influence over the daily affairs of Lethe.
Falx looked into the yellowish eyes of the Lord Executor. “If you want our help, then we need to share information. Otherwise we may never solve this mystery.”
“Knowing what the wagons contained is unimportant,” Nylius said. “What I want you to do is to have your men scour the back alleys and slums of this hellhole that we call a city, and get me some names. I want the sewer scum who did this.”
Falx sighed. “How can you expect me or my men to question anyone if we do not know what was stolen?”
Nylius crossed his arms. “I think we already know who did this. All we have to do is find him.”
Falx snorted. “Are you referring to the bandit they call Grimgrin? Good luck on that. My men have been looking for him for many cycles now, and not one single trail has ever revealed itself. Some of my men even think he is but a myth, a story that people tell one another in order to frighten the children and keep everyone locked behind their obsidian doors at night.”
Nylius was getting impatient. If he wanted their help then he would have to divulge the nature of the goods that the wagons carried, and then the game would be up. He couldn’t allow that to happen, there had to be another way. “If the Order was to … say, offer a substantial reward to know the whereabouts of this raider they call Grimgrin, would it help?”
“It would depend on how much gold pieces would be offered,” Falx said. “I must ask you, why would you believe that Grimgrin would do this? Does a mere robber actually have enough skill to kill one of your Magi?”
Deep in the back of his mind, Nylius had a feeling that he knew who this Grimgrin was, but he had to be sure. “It is possible that he might have a gang with him, for the goods carried by the wagon were heavy.”
Falx walked over and looked down at the broken stone wheel beside the lead vehicle. “Since no one raised the alarm for two days, then they must have had some time to take the cargo off somewhere.” He moved forward a few paces and looked down at the dusty trail. “I do not see any recent wagon tracks, so they must have taken these valuables by hand. There are numerous footprints here, and they go off in wildly different directions. Even with a hundred men, I would be hard-pressed to track all this down.”
“I have heard reports that this Grimgrin has a gang of fellow raiders that are completely devoted to him,” Nylius said.
Falx shrugged. “Anything is possible when it comes to rumors. Grimgrin is but an alias for his true name, one that we have yet to know of. This Magus of yours was an accomplished fighter, I presume?”
Nylius nodded. “He was.”
“Then must I also assume that if this Grimgrin did kill him, then perhaps this bandit may also be Magus himself?”
“Magi are not invulnerable against ordinary men,” Nylius said. “An ambush, or even an attack using numerical superiority can bring one of us down if we are not careful.”
Falx gestured at the bodies lying on the ground. “If your man did face a large group of enemies, then it seems he did not defend himself very well. Other than his own and of his men, there does not seem to be other blood drops on the dust that I can tell.”
“Perhaps this Grimgrin may not even be a man,” Nylius said.
“What do you mean?”
“An experienced Striga is more than a match against my Magi,” Nylius said. “And I have heard recent rumors of a powerful Striga that came in from the old gate. When I made a formal inquiry about this a few moons ago, the Watch said nothing.”
“You know as well as I do that the only Strigas left in the city are the house matriarchs, and any daughters they have who have been blessed by the god Vis,” Falx said. “As to the rumors of the Striga from the wastes … all I can say is that if such an incident did indeed happen, then our healers dealt with it and stripped her of the power. The Watchers follow the law and that is the ritual.”
“Which brings me to my next question,” Nylius said. “Could one of the matriarchs be behind this attack?”
Falx crossed his arms. The only reason why the Lord Executor would even bring it up was perhaps the cargo that had been stolen must have been of such great value that a matriarch would be willing to risk such a confrontation. “An absurd accusation. Why would any of the matriarchs want to involve themselves in this robbery? Just how valuable are these goods that you seek to be returned to you?”
Nylius didn’t answer him.
Falx rolled his eyes in frustration. “As I have said, unless you tell me what kind of goods was on this caravan, then all these reflections are useless.”
One of the Watchers called out to them. Falx and Nylius turned and walked over to an old tomb less than a hundred yards away. Two Watchers stood guard over what looked to be a recent corpse of a youth lying on a stone slab. The vermin had eaten away most of the flesh, but they could see that the cadaver was laid out in a formal position, the arms carefully folded across the torso. Near the side of the tomb was another body, but it was sprawled on its back and looked to have died at around the same time.
Nylius narrowed his eyes. It was evident that this deceased young man was a member of the gang that robbed the caravan, for one of the fallen mercenaries was on the ground beside him. Someone had taken the time to arrange the corpse in respectable tribute for the dead. His frustration boiling over, Nylius gestured with his right hand and the corpse of the youth suddenly floated up in midair, squirming maggots falling off of it. The two Watchers retreated, their mouths open in shock.
Falx took a step back, his face was aghast. “What are you doing?”
Nylius grimaced as he clenched his gauntleted fist. The hovering corpse suddenly exploded with a loud bang. Tiny pieces of rotting flesh, worms and bones flew out in all directions. The Lord Executor used his mindforce to deflect any putrid bits that had discharged in his direction. Falx and the other Watchers used their arms to shield themselves, but still had to wipe away pieces of the foul carcass from their own clothing.
Falx’s face was contorted in both anger and disgust as he flapped his cloak to clear off any of the rancid pieces of the dead that still clung to it. He wanted to draw out his blade and kill this maniac, but he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. “Was there a reason why you did that, other than for your own twisted amusement?”
Nylius leaned over the top of the tomb. There was a bone dagger lying on the stone slab, it had evidently been left behind by the allies of that deceased youth. The Lord Executor picked it up and examined it. At the hilt, near the bottom edge of the grip was a carved symbol. He recognized the glyph, for the many taverns in the market district had such marks to differentiate themselves from the other like-minded places in the area. All he had to do now was to find this particular establishment, and deploy some hirelings to seek out this bandit they all called Grimgrin.
Later that day, Nylius strode past the massive obsidian entryway that led into the temple of Vis. He walked through the deserted great hall, the forty foot tall stone columns casting long sha
dows along the marble flooring. He strode up to the gargantuan altar that contained the giant bronze statue of the god Vis. The patron god of both the Magi and Strigas was nearly thirty feet tall as it stood lifelessly in the alcove, its arms outstretched as if to gesture the use of its own powers. The head of the god was turned slightly to the side, so that both its faces could be seen in profile. Each face was different, for it represented both the feminine and the masculine side of its power. An old Magus was kneeling along the lower steps with folded hands, deep in prayer. He noticed Nylius moving past him and gave a curt bow, but the Lord Executor ignored him as he rounded the base of the altar and entered an adjoining corridor.
The walk to the private chambers of the Grand Magus took a few more minutes, for the temple compound was huge. Nylius passed through multiple anterooms and passageways before finally going up the stone steps that led to the one of the adjoining towers. A solitary guard was stationed by the door and quickly stood the moment he saw Nylius coming up into the landing. The sentry bowed in respect before unlocking the bolt to the golden door and swung it open. The Lord Executor took out a leather cup from the folds of his cloak and stepped inside.
The chamber interior was a large garden, with brown, fermented soil and a glass roof that filtered the sunlight into scintillating beams of silver and gold down onto the grove of pink otus plants. Nylius placed the leather cup over his nose and mouth and fastened the strap in place. The flowers of this particular strain emitted spores and the last thing he wanted to do was to inhale them in. With his breathing now a muffled wheeze, the Lord Executor made his way over to the far side of the garden, where an old man lay sitting on the ground.
No one knew the exact age of Grand Magus Jetan, for everyone in the Order had been born long after he was elevated to that lofty title. His eyes were glassy due to the cataracts, while his wrinkled skin hung loosely over his tired, ancient bones. The old man’s cadaverous face was pigmented with brown spots and he had already lost all his teeth and hair. The black robe covering his frail body was filthy, his bony hands and bare feet were caked with dirt. He sensed a presence and looked up, staring at the hazy form towering above him. “W-who is it?”
City of Delusions (The Dying World Book 2) Page 6