by Jason Howard
But the injuries were a secondary concern. Zac would be lucky if he even lived through the harrowing three years Apollo was offering him. Being a fighter was a hard life, but being a fighter on contract, especially the kind of contract a zell would have to sign, was a whole different story.
Zac would take his chances with the crossbow.
Zac dove at Apollo, arms outstretched.
Predictably, Apollo pulled the trigger. But Zac hadn’t jumped right at him, he had tucked into a roll. He nearly avoided the bolt with the acrobatic maneuver, but still felt the bite as the bolt sliced into his shoulder.
Zac screamed at the fiery pain, felt the metal sticking through his trapezius muscle, poking out of the back of his shoulder. He finished the somersault and came to a crouch at Apollo’s feet.
Zac grabbed one of Apollo’s legs as the man loaded another bolt in his crossbow. Apollo tried to backpedal, but Zac surged forward pulling Apollo’s leg tight to his chest, then putting his head on Apollo’s stomach and using the trapped leg as a fulcrum to bring him crashing to the ground.
Apollo pulled a knife out of a sheath at his hip.
Zac was already starting to feel woozy as the poison heated his blood. Sweat beaded on his forehead and nausea gripped his stomach. He started to cramp up. Soon he would be in convulsions.
But Zac had been through terrible pain before. As a slave, he’d experienced horrible food poisoning from the brackish water and questionable scraps of meat his masters had fed him. He’d been forced to work through that gastric distress, spending long, hot days working with a cramped stomach. Most men would have been passing out, but Zac just fought harder.
Still, Apollo was a strong man. As they thrashed and wrestled, he managed to flip Zac over. He knelt above Zac, ready to plunge the knife down into him. He wore a triumphant grin as his blade gleamed above Zac, promising death.
Zac saw Apollo’s crossbow on the floor. Just within reach was the bolt he’d attempted to load. Zac reached, fingers stretching—and seized the bolt.
“That was a dumb move, Zell—”
Zac plunged it into Apollo’s chest. It wasn’t a deep enough wound to reach the man’s heart, but it had broken the skin so it was deep enough for the poison to do its work. Apollo’s eyes widened.
Zac smiled.
Apollo rose, running to the back of the shop.
Zac tried to stand, but his legs wobbled and dumped him back to the ground. He crawled, sharp flares of agony screamed through him with every movement. His vision was blurring, Apollo became swaying double-images. Apollo was reaching for something, he’d opened a cabinet.
But Apollo’s hands were trembling. He groaned and whimpered as the pain took him.
Zac threw a languid arm forward, pulled himself toward Apollo’s legs. He couldn’t even lift his head to look up at what Apollo was doing anymore.
There was a clatter of glass, then Apollo fell to his knees. A slurping noise. Zac struggled to focus his vision. Apollo was licking something off the ground. Like a dog. In his near-death delirium, Zac started giggling. Apollo looked so stupid. What was he doing?
The answer floated to Zac and sobered him. There was glass on the ground. Apollo had taken a vial out of that cabinet, but had dropped it. The liquid on the ground he was slurping up was salvation. Zac focused all of his will on crawling, on resisting the paralysis that was oozing into his muscles. There was nothing else in the world for him besides that single puddle of hope. Death that was darkening his vision and imploring him to give up, to just slump, relax, and let it all end.
***
Cera knew she was approaching Lockridge. She rode hard down the forest trail that led to the town. When she saw the town, illuminated by moonlight, she veered off the trail. When she was thoroughly hidden in the trees and far from the trail she dismounted her horse, Hessia, which she had been feeding energy with a spell. She’d had a hunch that this would be one of Zac’s stops as he made his escape. It made sense—he needed supplies before he could really get out of the area, and Lockridge was the only place that broke the woods for many, many miles. She assumed he was there to work for or steal the supplies he needed.
Her suppositions had turned out to be accurate. As she’d approached Lockridge she’d picked up his trail without spellwork. Here in town the spell she had used at the river would surely fail. She would be overwhelmed by the many people and their criss-crossing paths of existence. If she tried the spell in a town like this she would probably end up unconscious and wake up days later with a terrible headache. If she tried the spell in a large city the overwhelming feedback would probably kill her.
But she knew he was here somewhere because she had tracked him to the town the old fashioned way, by finding broken saplings, faint tracks, and fibers of clothing snared in thornbushes. She took pride in the fact that she could use magic but didn’t rely on it utterly, like most mages.
Cera took a deep breath, enjoying how her nerves tingled with the anticipation of the hunt. This was her favorite part, where she finally made contact with the target after days of careful searching and tracking. Also, there could be no room for mistakes now, nothing that tipped the target off. She had to be fast and efficient about finding him.
She had been to Lockridge once before. She reached far back into her memory, trying to recall details about the town. A detail of the geography came to mind. North of the town there was a wooded hill. A hill that overlooked everything. She had remembered being impressed at how they had built homes up the side of that slope, canting the foundations.
A few minutes later she was at the crest of that hill, comfortably nestled in a crook of a tree branch. She stared down at the town from that high vantage. Lockridge slept, but soon enough it would be sunrise. Zac was bedding down somewhere in the small town but he would have to show his face at some point. She would be waiting.
And he would never see her coming. She steeled herself, taking a deep breath before she began channeling a spell. She shut her eyes and saw a vision of a coruscating sheet of fire, like a smooth piece of steel reflecting the sun on a hot day.
Sounds melded and became a roar, even the feel of the air was overwhelming, she felt like insects were crawling across her, thousands of tiny insects, some of them biting. A light breeze felt like a walloping tidal wave, she expected to be swept in the air, spun like she was in the whirl of a hurricane.
And then the sensory overload subsided. She breathed heavily for a while, composing herself. A breeze cooled the sweat on her burning face as she stared down at the moonlit town. The spell was a more advanced version of the night eye spell she had channelled earlier. All her senses were heightened. She could hear every movement in the small town and recognize scents as well as a timber wolf. Her view of the town was perfect, but still, if chasing bounties had taught her anything, it was that she should never take any chances.
***
Zac woke up feeling like he’d drank about ten bottles of the cheap whiskey. He was laying facedown in the puddle of antidote. It smelled like rancid meat, and clung to his face like syrup. When he sat up the pain in his shoulder throbbed. With some effort, he stood. He saw Apollo sleeping soundly, a puddle of drool under his mouth. Zac bound him, then rifled through his cabinet for a salve to clean his wound out with. Blood sluiced out when he removed the bolt. He quickly stuffed it with ointment and wrapped a bandage around it.
He smiled as he helped himself to Apollo’s shop. He took Razriel, as well as the self-repairing leather and plate armor. It was so light that Zac wondered what alloy the metal plates were. He glanced at Apollo, who was still incapacitated.
Zac kicked him on the way by, then rooted through the shop looking for money. He found a heavy lockbox, but the keys on Apollo’s belt didn’t open it. The keys were probably hidden somewhere. Zac didn’t want to spend much longer than he had too. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious and he was keenly aware that someone could come knocking at any moment. Zac took the few handfuls of c
oins Apollo had in the drawer for making change, stuffed them in a pouch which he cinched to his belt.
He paused at the counter, noticing a poster. He read it thoroughly. King Lanthos was holding his annual First Blood Tournament in the capital city, Sal-Zerone. It was called First Blood because it took place on the first day of each New Year.
In the city he would be unnoticeable, blending in amongst the huge variety of people. He decided that when he got to Sal Zerone he would enter the First Blood Tournament advertised on the poster. He could make a name for himself and pick his own fights instead of getting taken advantage of and ran ragged. And he could keep all the money.
He glanced at the poster one last time. Above the text there was a picture of King Lanthos, wearing a serious expression, staring back at him. There was steel in those eyes. Zac had a momentary vision of Lanthos declaring him the Champion of Ascadell, a vaunted position. He laughed at how ridiculous the proposition was. If he took that honor he’d be the first zell in history to do so. Still, what did he have to lose? If he failed, then he would try something else. But if he did well in the tournament he’d bring pride to his people, who had for so long had the pride beaten out of them. And he’d also get a lot of coin too.
“Why not,” Zac said. Apollo himself had been impressed with his fighting abilities. Perhaps Lanthos would be too.
On the way out of Apollo’s shop he stopped in front of a wooden mannequin. He’d noticed it before when he was browsing, but hadn’t examined it. It wore a circlet made from a silvery alloy with two emeralds, two sapphires, and a ruby embedded in it. It held a dagger and a buckler shield was clipped to its forearm, both made from a silvery alloy. The buckler was encrusted with emeralds, sapphires, and rubies, as was the hilt of the dagger.
Zac took the set and also stole a leather backpack to carry them in. He decided he would sell them when he got to the city. The merchants there were wealthier and this set looked extremely valuable.
Outside, Zac saw that night had fallen. The cool night air felt like freedom. It soothed not just his hot skin and his sweaty brow, but also his mind. He let go of the stress of his harrowing experience. In his new armor, no one would recognize him as a slave. He had enough money to get him to Sal-Zerone where he could start a new life as a fighter. That start could give him the opportunity to learn a trade, or to become wealthy and famous as a fighter. A road full of possibilities stretched before him.
“Hey,” a female voice said, startling him.
Zac whirled. He hadn’t heard her coming. He recognized her then, from the wanted poster on the lamppost.
She was . . . his memory whirred back to the poster. His voice was caught in his throat and he could only mutter, “Is your name Cera?”
Cera’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I saw a picture of you on a wanted poster . . . ”
His palms were sweating as they edged closer to the hilts of Razriel.
He smiled. “You have beautiful eyes. Unforgettable.”
She said nothing.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he forced himself not to look at the twin shortswords sheathed at her hip. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you. If you do the same for me then we’re square.”
His arms had inched closer to his weapons, his fingertips finally grazing the hilts—she would never be able to draw before him now. Maybe she didn’t mean him any harm then, or maybe she was just overconfident.
“Really?” she asked. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’m not a big fan of Ascadellian laws. Long story. Maybe we should talk about it over a drink some time.”
She smiled.
With unnerving speed, Cera’s hand cut through the moonlight. Zac tried tried to pull his weapons out to defend himself—but it was too late—her palm was flat on his chest when she cast the spell. He hadn’t expected magic.
There was a pulse of warm light that shimmered across him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
Sometimes just wakin’ up is too much
When the gods poured out your only cup
When your best just wasn’t good enough
When your love is gone and dawn’s a bust
Chains ‘round your soul, rough with rust
When memories are enemies that crush and cut
Sometimes just wakin’ up is too much
–A verse from a Raezellian field song, author unknown
Zac woke up the next day to the twittering of birds and a view of tree branches limned in sunlight. He tried to sit up—and was reminded of the many aches and pains in his body from the fight the night before.
That’s when he noticed that his wrists and ankles were bound tightly with rope. He tried to psychically call out to Althos for help—but there was only dead silence. He was probably too far for Althos to receive the call.
“No,” Zac tried to yell, but it only came out as a choked whisper. “No, no, no. Why is this happening to me?”
His last words rasped out, they sounded inhuman. The despair made it feel like something heavy was crushing his chest, like there were stones clogging his throat, bulging against his windpipe. A terrible weariness filled him. All he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep forever. Never wake up.
Cera came in, concerned by the strange gasping sounds she’d heard. She looked into his eyes and checked his pulse.
“Are you okay?”
“Leave me alone, frix.”
She ignored this, and checked his forehead for fever.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you’re not damaged goods.”
“Who are you working for . . .” Zac trailed off, then gasped an indecipherable word.
She leaned closer. “Zac?”
He spit into her face when she leaned in. It was a good slimy one too.
He laughed. “You fell for it just like your boss.”
She punched him—hard—in the body. He gasped, eyes widening. He slowly doubled over and wrapped his arms around his stomach, struggling to breathe. He relaxed when the pain waned.
He laughed as he watched her wiping the spit and phlegm away, enjoying every moment of it.
Cera unwrapped some jerky and offered it to him.
He ate it out of her hand. He considered biting her fingers, but decided not to push his luck.
“Where’s your black armor?” he asked.
She squinted in confusion.
“All the others had black armor on.”
“I’m not one of Roen’s Raiders, I’m a bounty hunter,” she said.
“So you’re under contract to bring me back?”
She nodded.
“Can I pay you to get out of this?”
“You don’t have the money for that. I already checked your pack. And even if you had the money, I can’t take it, I’m bound by contract.”
“Contract? Let me tell you something about the person that gave you that contract. He would come by sometimes and talk to the supervisor so he could buy female slaves. He would rape and kill them. One of them escaped and got back to Detren. She was cut, bleeding everywhere, near death. And that had just been part of the fun. Did you see Detren?”
She nodded, eyes wide.
“Well that’s because she got back to camp, and he came looking for her. The guards lied to him, and he got angry. So he decided to slaughter the whole town.”
She said nothing, only shook her head and looked away. Zac waited.
Finally, she said, “That’s horrible.”
“Will you help me? Will you let me free? Or will you stay good to your word for that raping murderer?”
“I . . . I can’t go back on the contract. It would . . . it’s too big of a risk,” she said, but the words tasted sour.
Zac sighed, then chuckled. “You’re so gullible.”
She cocked an eyebrow.
He said, “That was all a lie. Detren never even had any female slaves. All I really is know about Roen is that he murdered e
veryone in Detren. But you knew that already, right?”
She nodded.
“I figured adding rape to your boss’s list of sins might make you think twice about obeying him. I was wrong. You did believe me though, you stupid, gullible, frix.”
Zac laughed again, and kept laughing for a while.
“Why are you laughing like that?”
“Because of how ridiculous this all is. You would laugh too. I was free for only a few days. I thought the gods were giving me a chance to really live. But it was just their little joke. It’s all a joke!”
His laughter scared her a little. She started walking away.
Between laughs he said, “I was free. Free. Do you even understand what you took from me?”
She was disgusted with him, but also herself.
As she walked, she noticed how beautiful the woods looked, the rising sun filtering through the treetops. So beautiful—the greenery seemed to glow, the leaves so full of life. The soft screeling of songbeetles sussurated through the air. She could hear a stream’s cool burbling. She looked up and saw an eagle effortlessly gliding atop a thermal, banking slightly.
And, woven into all this was Zac’s pathetic laughter. His laughter of resignation and despair. It was more horrible, because it sounded almost genuinely happy, like giving up on everything was such a relief to him, like the tiny bit of hope he had tasted, the tiny bit of freedom, had scared him enormously, and now he was safe in despair. His voice was singsong and as beautiful as the glowing forest engulfing her.
She hated it all right then, all the forest’s beauty. How could the world pretend to be so beautiful?
Chapter Twelve
The Arcane Academy of Ascadell
The most distinguished, oldest, and most well known school of its kind, sometimes referred to as The Three A’s. It has stood in the capital city of Ascadell for over three centuries. Also, potent enchantments, potions, and magical inventions are sought here. The machinations of government, security, military, economy, and even crime are wound tightly to the place by unseen threads. It is a bastion of knowledge and a vast wellspring of secrets, mysteries, and power.